Providing a voice for the voiceless. Poets, artists, writers…sound off! Grinding through the dumpster fire that can be life…possibly get published
The serpent
of unbelief
in the hearts
of sinners
apostles
of the faith
on Mount Sinai
holy commandments
in the dust
of the past
the light
a new dawn
in the shadow
of the cross.
Nightfall
of the gods
in the arms
of destiny
darkness
of centuries
prayers
of believers
in the womb
the last
days
of paradise
Bloody tears
on the faces
of believers
prayers
from heaven
in secret chambers
of the last Christians
at dusk
of Judgment day.
i watch television
interviews with bandits
bent on destroying the last
vestige of democracy under
the guise of saving democracy
saving amerika, make amerika
great again
i watch neighbors, brothers,
sisters, people from the grocery
stores and pharmacy, from
diners on Main Street,
gas stations and repair shops,
from high white
towers of corporate indifference
to the shallow graves of those
recently departed, i watch
them rise up in a delusion
empowered by the defiant,
incited by the defeated.
all i feel is rage
as i watch the television,
as amerika falls to its knees,
as the sword of fascism begins to fall.
i think of 1923 germany, the first coup
of a madman but not the last,
a fuse lit that our desperate lips
cannot blow out.
i think of Kristallnacht,
and stalin, mao, and pol pot.
death to democracy, death
to amerika,
and i never thought the first
shot would come from
neighbors, brothers, sisters,
all the people around me,
near me.
they say this is to save amerika,
to save democracy,
similar songs of freedom
rang out in confederacy in
the 1850s. acts of sedition then
and now.
and over these last few months,
last few years, no one dare
dream that civil war would
return to amerika.
but will anyone notice, will anyone
tear away from social media, mental
masturbation, the ongoing stupefaction
of under educated masses?
i am not elite
i am not better than you
i am not smarter
i am not anything more
than a simple man tired
of vilification for simple
beliefs.
i will no longer stand down
and wait for the halls of freedom
to be painted red.
i’m here, i’m ready.
come get some
and a preacher stands outside
the backdoor of his parish church
screaming at God without a thought
to passersby and the juxtaposition
actions may represent, questioning faith writ large
blood
if the fascist stooges that trampled
the Capitol lawn and the gilded halls
of pain and glory had been any other color
than white, the steps of freedom would run red
and bodies would stack up to the second floor.
this sadness is an ancient creature
A year of plague,
A year of fire storms,
of the deaths of clever
friends and brothers,
of being a refugee,
of watching confused citizens,
watching the angry mob swarm.
pestilence and famine
draw differences so sharp
inequalities come glaring
into life and death relief
the mob is here to bargain
do you care
what you believe?
Nineteen fifty-nine, before the bricked-up
storefronts of today’s Rebecca Avenue,
cousin Willie and I were fighting
with all the fierceness twelve year olds
muster when they’re faced with losing position
at the table. All the tables. On the street.
We broke the shoemaker’s plate glass window.
Willie pushed me through it with one great heave
and I grabbed, took him with me into the store,
onto the floor.
Mr. Ingomar was startled, and angry,
on the phone to the police instantly.
Cops are humorless and frightened most
all the time, ‘cept when they’re humorless
and facing pre-teen boys that one day
will be men they’ll have to stand against,
maybe, so they present how menacing they can be.
The steely-eyed one coming into Bjorn’s
that day was stern and threatened destruction.
But no one touched anybody else.
Well, Willie kept throwing jabs
all the way through the lectures
and the only knee involved was
the one I nailed Willie’s butt
with on the walk back home
to face our parents’ wrath.
2020’s Disease
Wilkinsburg, city of churches,
a suburb of Pittsburgh,
ravaged by Polio,
the summer disease.
Frightened parents,
Doctor Salk’s vaccine.
Every child at Johnson’s
School was marched past
Nurse Smiley to Doctor
white coat and his instruments.
All the fathers exhaled,
moms went back to jarring condiments.
The deaths were talked of constantly,
newspaper pics of iron lungs in rows.
The battle of the century was won
but foot soldiers left on crutches
were all children on their own.
Now another epidemic tornados
through the countryside unfettered.
The viral casualties invisibilities, all that can be shown.
The Republicans are showing their support
for smashing the American Republic in favor of
a fascist cult leader. They’re sick of democracy.
It hasn’t gotten them anywhere in the last 40 years.
Fuck democracy that means a cruel oligarchy
makes all the rules and gets all the money.
The senate of Rome eventually became the
rubber stamp of dictatorship and an empire
was born .. is that an argument for tyranny?
That’s what the Republican senators and congressmen
are waiting for .. other fascists to impose
a tyrant on their people. Whoever it is,
it has their consent. It’s a sad day, a stern test.
They will kill their miseries with AR-15s
aimed at election workers just doing a job.
No sir, there was no tricky software flipping votes.
No sir, we never once saw Elvis stuffing ballots in his coat.
Well, it’s not really an obligation…I still have free will, after all…don’t I…that’s a tricky inquiry isn’t it? Being electromagnetically spastically animated bones and meat on an interconnected bio-sphere to further propagate the zany super-cosmic string that is life with existential multi-planed vibrations so the universe doesn’t flatline.
I shouldn’t be writing this, I should be completing my story for the DEATH BY PUNK anthology due out in April but…I’m not.
For some reason, I believe some people actually follow this page and may even be fans of DFP and/or *gasp may even want to have their work showcased somehow, some way, somewhen… and here we are or rather here I am spitfiring whatever comes to mind…so let’s start with a week in review.
VOICES FROM THE FIRE….what of it? Tinkered a bit with it due to lack of art and prose. Not a big deal. VOICES will every so often return to the regular format when enough prose and art pieces return.
Originally it was to be: one poet, one prose writer and artist once a week. I’ve now gone to several poets in which I try to lump together in an oddly thematic way and attempt to tie it together at the end of the week with a visual coda by an artist associated with DFP.
So there ya’ go VOICES FROM THE FIRE… a little light on prose and art. You can check the “about” page on here to see how and what to submit and definitely where.
Gets collected in a massive year end anthology…however it’s not even March yet and it already over 100 pages, if we get over 300 pages, expect a slimmer second volume toward the end of the year. It’s organic process, as I try to run a press, write my own shit and work full time.
So if things seem a tad frenetic, they are but hopefully the end result will be something worth reading and looking through…I don’t know, it could all be empty faith that eventually makes look like I’m full of shit and that’s okay too if you think Dumpster Fire Press is projectile vomiting flaming garbage.
Secondly, wow…DEATH BY PUNK is shaping up to a stellar anthology…the response has been overwhelming and if anyone is still interested in contributing punk and/or death themed counter culture work of the visual, poetic and varied literary sort….
YOU HAVE UNTIL MARCH 1, 2021
clockworkoomphstudios@gmail.com
Finally, DFP’s March release will be the second edition of John Compton’s book POEMS: trainride elsewhere…
Also…this April for Poetry Month expect 3-4 releases along with an announcement regarding the next Dumpster Fire Press anthology…
It might be fun or I might go insane, who knows…
I’m drinking with Edgar
while Baudelaire claws
the turf and howls outside.
Poe is a lot drunker than
he should be…a cheap date,
a ‘lightweight’ even.
“You know that Lowell
wrote that I am only two-
fifth’s genius?”, he stutters.
“So fucking what!”, I reply,
Look what you did to that
guy out there!”.
“Yes”, yells Baudelaire, from
the lawn, “A rotten influence”,
and calls for another round.
Juxtapose
The sun sneaked
out this day,
I imagine to
please the masses.
Most think all
is well with
the stark sunlight,
Makes some others
want to hide…
to hibernate even.
Cold and rain
can be conquered,
either by wardrobe
or by shelter,
but there is
only so much
one can do
to beat heat.
Some would rather
risk heat exhaustion
and skin cancer
than chapped lips
and cold feet.
Crazy events are
coming of age.
Icebergs are melting…
tornados, quakes, and
other phenomenon are
striking in the
most diverse places.
New England area
grows colder while
the West burns.
Not looking forward
to summer coming.
All has changed.
Without Mourners
A discarded
child’s toy
in an
overgrown
field.
It was
once loved
and embraced
for security.
It once
provided
what was
not supplied
by humans.
It now
lays abandon
exposed to
all elements.
Not a
fit ending
for something
once precious.
It perishes
without mourners.
organ to organ
don’t laugh at their joke?
the customer gets mad.
don’t ask follow-up questions to their life story?
the customer gets mad.
serve everyone in the queue
who is before them
before them?
the customer gets mad.
the customer is never not mad.
one wonders if being right all the time
is worth it.
one wonders how people will cope
when confronted with a genuine problem,
like cancer of the spleen or assault.
one wonders how I’ll cope,
when I realise I’ve wasted my life
pandering to everyone else’s narcissism
for minimum wage.
I’m only paid to scan groceries! I’ll wail
as the mad customer
assaults me
in my cancerous spleen
until it’s
as swollen with sickness
as theirs.
double cunt
o cunt with a 50-pound note
why do you always buy something for under a pound,
like chewing gum or a bottle of water?
o cunt with a 50
how can you stand there unapologetic
while we call for a supervisor
to open the safe out back
and bring out armfuls of coin bags
to give to you?
cunt with a 50
you do realise we’re going to be low on change
for the rest of the shift now?
and we’re going to get endless shit about it all day?
cunt with a 50, why do you need all that change?
cunt with a 50, where did you get that 50?
and why can’t you put it in the bank?
what you up to, cunt with a 50
that means you can’t use banks?
cunt with a 50,
this is why
you’re not just
a cunt with a 50
but also
just
a
cunt.
shit happens
sir, I tell him, you can’t return these shorts.
not with all these …
stains.
I’m not having this! he warns. I’m gonna get my mum!
and storms out …
it’s pretty sad
to have a grown man
with a shitty arse
threaten you with his mum.
sadder still
when he keeps his word:
look out the window:
she’s already marching across the car park towards us,
her special boy scurrying behind her,
smiling …
he’s not too special to have car keys.
he’s not too special to wear a wedding ring.
he’s not so special
he can’t stand outside your local polling station
telling you to how to vote.
no
he’s just special enough
to crap his pants
and get his mother to fight his battles,
when he isn’t
driving or voting or breeding
and I stand at the counter
waiting for them both,
the shit-stained shorts beside me
and not much else.
I tell her the price and she says:
no! they’re on offer!
she jabs a finger at her biscuits.
two for one!
well, they’re obviously not, I say.
otherwise they would have scanned through as that.
well then someone’s put the wrong sticker out on the shelf!
she reckons. that’s not MY fault! but you still HAVE to honor it!
trading standards! TRADING STANDARDS!
I ring the bell for help.
another worker comes over.
I ask him to check the price label on the biscuits.
he runs off.
we wait …
the biscuits are in aisle 14,
so we wait for some time …
can’t somebody else jump on to serve?
someone in the queue says.
no, I say. there’s only me and my colleague,
and he’s busy checking the price of the biscuits
for this lady.
everyone tuts and mutters.
we wait …
the worker comes back:
them biscuits aren’t on offer, he says.
yes they are! she says. you’re lying! go get the sticker!
so off he goes again …
it’s disgraceful, this is! she says.
wasting my time like this! and these people’s time!
she talks to the queue: aren’t they?
the queue nods: they’re on her side.
we wait …
my colleague comes back, wheezing.
here, he hands her the shelf sticker. see?
no! she blinks at it. no no no!
you’re LYING! you could have got this from anywhere!
you’re just trying to embarrass me in front of all these people!
she asks the queue: aren’t they?
the queue nods and nods: they’re still on her side.
take me to biscuits, she says. I’ll PROVE it!
and off she goes, dragging my colleague with her …
we wait …
can’t you serve us while they’re doing that?
someone in the queue says.
I could, I shrug. but then I’d have to cancel her transaction.
so? they say.
so I thought you were all on her side? I ask.
what’s that gotta do with it? someone asks.
are you gonna tell her she has to join the back of the queue
when she comes back?
and you know what someone says? they say:
we won’t BE here when she gets back!
yeah, exactly, I say. it’ll be a whole new queue
and I’LL have to tell her to join the back of it!
that’s YOUR problem! someone says.
we don’t work here, YOU do!
I think I’m beginning to understand,
I say
and walk off.
the biscuits weren’t on offer
but you already knew that.
everyone did:
me
my colleague
the queue
maybe even the mad woman
and I had half a roll-up left
which I lit up
and it lit up
and I toked
and.
I’d Like To Say…
I tell him nicely
a couple of times—
not into dudes
but he persists
sends me shots
of his mouth
wide open
tongue out
please let me
he says
you won’t be disappointed
he’ll even meet me
at a gloryhole
pay me a hundred
to let him do it
I imagine it—
myself as a whore
I should be a whore
after all
but no…
I’m not doing that
I’m not there yet
finally I quit answering
altogether
and pull the ad
cuz tonight’s evidently
not the night I’ll find
what I’m looking for
just like every night
that came before
and I’d like to say
I don’t understand
his brand of desperation
as I turn out the light
and lie here
not sleeping
and later
as I jerk off and cum
down the throat
of my stupid
insatiable
dreams
Days Of Our Lives
sometimes I wonder
how much it’s all
just an act—
monkey see
monkey do
too much TV
too many movies
and we become a race
of soap opera stars
wailing over problems
we secretly wouldn’t
give a shit about
if only ordinary life
didn’t bore us
so damn much
I think that’s part
of Dexter’s appeal—
an examination of the soul
of a psychopath
who learned to fake
every emotion
to blend into society
we identify
with his “dark passenger”
because maybe
we’re all a bit more
conscienceless
than we’d care
to admit
and yes
I’m aware the irony
of using a TV show to make my fucking point
So, What Do You Do?
Many days I’d stand there
in my supervisor’s office
waiting for him to get off the phone
with some pain-in-the-ass
so he could explain to me
the potential pitfalls of the day’s jobs.
And after he’d hang up,
and say “Jesus Christ!”
he’d go on again about quitting
and becoming a dishwasher.
It became an inside joke—
we were both gonna quit
and find our “Dream Dishwasher’s Job”
and leave the stress
of machine shop life behind.
Well, I may have found mine.
Interviewed yesterday for it.
Both the white-shirt manager and
the kitchen supervisor
seemed to like me,
and after the interview,
he bragged about what a cake job it is,
as he showed me around—
the walk-in, the ovens, the sinks,
the racks full of trays waiting
to be delivered to that building
over there. He pointed and said,
“There’s the mental hospital.
That’s like a prison.
They’re all fucking crazy in there.”
(I must be fucked up, because
something about washing the dishes
of the criminally insane
somehow appeals to me.)
The pay is surprisingly good, too.
Plus I can listen to music,
get a free meal sometimes.
The only downside I can see
is going on a first date,
and having her ask
the inevitable question…
And I’ll look her straight in the eye,
and say, “I’m a poet.”
On second thought,
maybe “Dishwasher”
sounds a bit more impressive.
Taking a rare full weekend off during a snowstorm for an out of town excursion…
It an attempt at romance while courting death…
in meantime, DFP is still taking submissions for DEATH BY PUNK until March1st
Poems, stories (20 page limit), photos, art, essays…whatever
Oh and as always VOICES FROM THE FIRE the blog later to be collected into a massive year end anthology needs more stories art but will always eagerly accept poetry as well.
Submission guides are located on the about page, don’t be lethargic even if you think it’s punk rock…it’s not.
Stay surreal.
Walker’s Bend was a small town. Nothing exciting ever happened there, until Henry Parker got killed by that thing living under his porch. That was fifteen years ago. There have been a few strange happenings since then, including me seeing the thing that killed him; not when it happened, but a few weeks later. It was a sight to behold.
No one had actually seen the thing under Henry’s porch until I saw it that night, and possibly only one other person since, that I know of. Hell, nobody even knew it was under there. But they said poor old Henry’s body was torn to shreds and there was blood everywhere. Everybody figured it was probably a mad dog or a bear, but I can tell you it wasn’t either one. I’ve never been one to believe in monsters and such, but I can’t really think of any other word – other than monster – to describe the thing I saw sitting on Henry’s front porch.
It was a dare that led me up there that night. I was thirteen years old, and me and a few others were out back of the Stop-n-Shop, sharing a bottle of Sloe gin we got from Benny Finch’s older brother. Benny was the one who dared me.
“Bet you won’t sit on dead Henry’s front porch for ten minutes,” Benny said.
Amy Jensen smiled, looking at me with her Sloe gin buzzed blue eyes, “Go on, Ronnie, show
him you ain’t chicken.”
I took a drink from the bottle, handing it to Amy. Damn, she was pretty. “I’ll stay longer than ten.” And with that, I walked on up to dead Henry’s house. I’m sure some of my courage came from all that alcohol, and Amy Jensen’s smile may have had a little something to do with it.
Henry Parker had lived alone, and he didn’t have any family, so his house stood empty after his death while the State was trying to figure out what to do with it.
It was one of only three home son Stone Creek Road. The other two were farms, so there was a bit of distance between the homes. It made for a long walk late at night. At least it was a clear night with a good moon.
It was going on ten o’clock when I got within sight of dead Henry’s place. I didn’t see the thing at first, but I did hear a knocking sound, so I stepped off the side of the road and crouched down behind a tree. That’s when I saw it sitting there on the porch. Its legs – at least I think they were legs, it was hard to tell – were hanging off the edge of the porch, swinging back and forth like it didn’t have a care in the world. It was banging its head against the porch rail.
This thing didn’t look like you or me. It looked like its skin was turned inside out. I know it was dark, but with the moonlight, I swear I could see the blood running through its veins. It was short, no more than four feet tall at most, but it looked downright mean. It had a head kind of like a deformed goat but with long claws like a big cat or something. I ain’t gonna lie, it scared the shit out of me. I was hugging the backside of that tree so tight I was starting to grow bark.
The thing finally stopped bumping its head against the rail and slid down off the porch, its claws digging into the wooden railing. It didn’t move like anything I’d ever seen. I thought it was going down on all fours, but it started walking all bent over. I still don’t know to this day if it had four legs or two arms and two legs. For a minute, I thought it had seen me and was coming after me, but then it turned around and started pacing back and forth like it was thinking about something. That’s when it started howling, or maybe it was screaming, I don’t know. But I do know it sent chills down my spine. When it finally stopped, it dropped down and reached under the edge of the porch, dragging out what looked like a small child. I was ready to turn and run until I realized it wasn’t a child, but a doll, and it was cradling it in its arms. The way that thing was carrying on, you would’ve thought the doll was real. It was like a mother caring for its young.
I knew then that I wasn’t going up on the porch. It’s not that I was backing out of the dare, it’s just that the situation had changed. I was only thirteen, but I knew enough about animals – and I guess even monsters would be considered animals – to know you didn’t mess with one and its
young. I started to back away slowly, trying to use the tree for cover. I was about three steps back when a small branch underfoot caused a very loud snap. I froze. The thing quickly turned its head in my direction.
Everything came to a stop; you couldn’t even hear a cricket. I was sure if I moved, that thing would see me. It tilted its head, listening. It was strange how it looked like a monster but acted almost human in some ways. It slowly turned around in a circle, raising its head and sniffing the air. I thought I was a goner, but then it turned its attention back to the doll in its arms. I waited until it started stroking that doll’s head again, and then I turned to leave. I had no sooner taken my first step when I heard it screaming again. I looked back just in time to see it drop the doll and start running in my direction, this time it was down on all fours. I headed back up that road faster than I had ever moved in my life, hearing that thing behind me, snorting and growling. I could feel all that Sloe gin working on my stomach as I ran, but there was no time to slow down. I stumbled as my foot came down in a pothole, causing me to lose some of my lead. The thing was gaining on me and I was beginning to think I’d never see Amy Jensen’s smile again.
Just when I thought it had me, I looked back and saw it come skidding to a stop. Right there in the middle of Stone Creek Road, that thing started walking upright again, round and round, snorting and growling. I finally stopped running and turned to face the thing. I was feeling dizzy and sick to my stomach, on top of being scared half to death. It lunged at me a couple of times and I damn near fell down when I jumped back, but it wouldn’t come any closer. The nearest house still wasn’t in sight, but I could see the edge of their field.
I don’t know why it didn’t come any closer to me and I don’t know what made it turn around and go back. All I do know is that was the first and only time I saw the thing, and to this day, I still don’t have any idea what it was. Nobody ever believed me when I told them what I saw. Benny Finch just laughed and called me chicken. Amy never said anything, she just smiled and gave me a disappointed look.
There were a few stories after that, about people finding dead animals out at the end of Stone
Creek Road and according to the stories, it looked like something had made a meal of them. They finally tore down Henry Parker’s house and auctioned off the land. The demolition crew found what they called, ‘some kind of skeleton, about the size of a small dog’, underneath the front porch, in what looked like some wild animal’s den.
That was fifteen years ago, and I can still remember that damn things like it was yesterday. The one other person that I think may have seen it was Benny Finch. Amy Finch (formerly Jensen) called me today, the first time I’ve talked to her since I moved up here to Hatley. She said they found Benny’s body – or what was left of it – yesterday. He was drinking with some guys he worked with and decided he was going out to the end of Stone Creek Road. Benny always did get a taste for adventure when he was drinking. That was the last time anybody saw him alive.
I wonder if he finally believed me?
I’m going home for Benny’s funeral. You never want a funeral to be the reason for going home, but it’ll be nice to see Amy. Damn she was pretty.
