I say stuff about stuff regarding Dumpster Fire Press and name drop like a mother fucker in a socially awkward manner and had I had seven more minutes probably would’ve droned on about even weirder shit concerning pending projects…

Thanks to the Emotional Orphan of the Social Yet Distanced podcast for having me


Poured chocolate over her responding navel region

 a sunny afternoon of Arizona

glowing thighs of correspondence,

her moistened opening

my fingerprint imprinted as that code to open her mind

nothing selfish, I’m just selfless in how I express magnanimous acts to express my inspired infatuation, not at all scripted

this is a spirted connection through poignant conversation

purposefully placing words to her sexy cerebrum

I plan to disassemble her walls of pleasure to the natural molecules

simple touches to those erogenous membranes, our mainframes of daily interactions are interfacing the correct programing, let’s nibble and savor on portions of our seasoned beings

sultry experiences makes us Chefs in the kitchen of sexuality, I want to physically knead her willing body with a warm sedative of an ointment

prepping takes time, consumption can take place in a matter of minutes, we enjoy the hours of the moon while ingesting all of this intake

the dinner table slathered with uninhibited pheromones derived from our eyes, I delivered a full morsel to her lips

her body language delivered an appraisal, an everlasting satisfaction

I have no doubt she’ll revisit my embodiment of ecstasy…

The Journey

It started with a driving desire to relocate

Then the actual taste of the different atmosphere changed my perception to a grand clarity

I felt youthful to an all-time high thus far in my Life

I was living a dream out of hotels for weeks

‘til it became nearly three months passing, yet I was still happy to be hearing the unique chirps of unique birds in this sunny setting, many nights watching the common streetlife of the townfolk, getting acquainted with the hotel workers and such, obtaining monetary benefits just above living

finally landed on a steady income

though the pressures of paying daily for a bed to rest on is peaking, I’ve nearly stayed in hiding at my jobsite during after hours, many of my peeps helped me with financial aid to keep my paid for nightly rest

I finally landed on steady bedding of shelter

figuratively and literally, they gave me solace to stack my bread, so I could rise to an independent living,

I mingled with many troubled minds as well optimistic ones during that stay

the staff of that sheltering supported so as I did my daily chores

gave viable suggestions to my fellow residents

I still managed to maintain my theme for this reason for transcending to this location

work and play

I definitely made times to add lovely experiences to my soul and furthermore I’ve found it interesting that many enjoy the Backpack Life with a Bike out in this land,

such a different way of Life out here

I stick to my practical movements, making waves in San Diego, there’s a sexy dame that’s assisted me

she’s always involved…

The floor just slowly starting to fall before my eyes or rather I just started to elevate

now my inner shine is glowin’

my cardiac bloodstone pumpin’ more power

my nervous system shocked to a strengthenin’, I can actually see brainscans, so I visit Mars for a minute

now I’ve gathered higher knowledge of the actual Earth living…

I return enriched alien of the living planet, Martian glyphs put me onto extraterrestrial diets of stimulating consumption, my daily ingest was increasing all of my abilities of my body parts even to the very atoms of my constant existence

I’ve been cleansed of worldly sickness

Thoughts clear

Body in motion

Soul cleansed

now I’ve rebounded with a great sense of intuition, I’m keen ta’ schemes, examin’ ya’ eyes, I’ve found the prize ya’ was lookin’ for, don’t explore no further, I went into attack mode because my infused intergalactic intuition was tingling, I’ve talked to tha’ Watchers, I can dismantle you into easy parts, yes, I’ve taken on internal sabbaticals, it’s no wonder why I return each time cemented

been spoken on as a Gilded One

it’s no wonder I’ve been spoken upon to being on covers as the “Golden Choice” leaving the minds of women moist

I can hoist to different positions

that means my levels have heightened in human interaction, I fully enjoy sincere kisses from Earthly women,

I’m astronomical in how I land upon minds with this expanse of thinking

grandiloquent is how I’ve been categorized at times ‘til understood, I’m rocking out in tha’ desert at this current point to still pull upon tha’ fire from my resting point on this Atlas…

Such a unique world in this flammable valley, I feel like I’m dancing with cool deceptionists at times of nothingness to invest in

but of course, I will not…I’ve acquired a side-by-side in a sense

 a Phoenix in a sense

as the Sun rises so shall I…

I’m here to burn away all constricting beliefs…

Explode from within your deepest feelings…

Show yourself…

2021 Officially Begins

Dumpster Fire Press is proud to present the first release of 2021…

STRANDS OF STRUGGLE by Brenda Christie, a strong and unique voice who takes the reader into a variety of places both tragedy and triumphant…there’s so much here difficult to put into words from a language and realm older than words and Christie delivers on that through her own person journey exposing the inner depths of being and what it means to express one’s soul she’ll take you through a multitude of highs and lows going inside and out…

While I cannot do poet’s work justice, perhaps one just needs to let the work speak for itself…

 14 Days                                                                                                                                                                                  

There is a hush,

that pulls apart

the moon and spreads like laziness.

A starvation,

for touch hides in a locket

of words kept hidden from civilization.

You shake,

the whisper that screams down 

the throat and burns in the hands of church.

Her breath,

swallowed the tongues of her

ancestors. To end grief is to save a life.

The coo of a song,

blooms bent across the hydrangeas scent,

but sleeps with sorrow and wakes the mourning.

She fenced mirth,

molting into gardens of twisted stars,

pulling skies into our robotic exoskeleton,

with metal jaws wide,

chomping on the shedding light, stretched

outward, dangled in branches of leftover constellations.

As hooded darkness looms,

hiding isolation into our pockets, sewn, and

unraveling into ourselves,

with grey strands plucked,

leaving roots opened to rise in graves of suns,

beating on tongues of hurling storms, soaking in murky waters.

Her clothes hung,

like a taco hangover, slumped against the core

of her heart, wrapped in a collapsing cloud of freckles.

She is all the colours at once. At full brightness.

She is years of decades,

slow walks of shapes; slow walks of shadows.

Dark creaks of silence; contactless tiles

like thorns,

folding in, towards the spine,

to form a circle that clips on the outside in.

Earth tilts our heads,

as we bow for greed and power to the inevitable.

It gives so much and takes away more.

She is the fingers,

stroking the core of society.

Telling her, what she can and cannot do.

The bony fish,

whispering down the curves of isolation, reflecting

light against the walls that bare the cracks of her teeth.

A tightened knot loosens each time a breath is taken in moonlight.

Like a leash of foxes,

living underground, burrowed deep in thought, she is

hungry for thirst to fall on the tongues of the forest.

The world erupts,

and dwindles into shattering shards of cold stones,

dipping her panicked feet into burning sparks of twilight.

Wings spread like freedom,

holding spines of chapters with words thrown into

the wind of clouds, caressing new births of sky.

Hands deep,

wide in clay. Touching the silk of porcelain on grey skin

with pale fingers falling into the sky with eyes wired shut.

One day,

the bloom of warmth, will grow stems of gardens, scattering

speckles of scented light turning on its head.

Freedom, sprung tulips, dipped in a summer dream of marmalade.

In the skull,

behind the bones, she resides.

Telling stories of echoes filling her lungs.

Her past,

a lone star. Bent backwards. How lovely, was her vision that turned full,

in clothes of sorrow.

I will follow,

where she bleeds. Absorbing the stitch of wounds on lips that whisper in graves.

How lovely it is, to look so far away and be visible.

Poet Brenda Christie

2021 has officially begun for DFP and it is an honor to present to such a captivating and romantic (in the true sense of the word )collection of poetry. I humbly thank, Brenda for entrusting me with her work and look forward to any future contributions she makes in the world of words.

“Brenda Christie’s ‘STRANDS of STRUGGLE’ unravels the intricacies of love, mystery, animal rights, activism, victims of crime, natural disaster, bullying, and the year, 2020, which has masked the world in fear. Brenda’s inspiration came from songwriters like Gordon Downie, whose poetic lyrics are forever carved in her soul, along with intense admiration for strong people like her own mother, who exemplified personal stories through poetry. Words are magical, each one telling a story that invites the reader into this captivating world of poetry created with amazing compilation of stories found in ‘STRANDS of STRUGGLE.’ The skies will brighten as we slow the clouds, enabling us to see a world with shapes of new eyes watching us from the stars, moon and sun whispering to the universe.”

See ya’ in the fire kids…

(still have to work on a better sign off)

Visions of Things to Come

I’ve been quiet for the past couple of weeks dealing with work and thinking what DFP’s next move or rather what direction it shall take and while things haven’t been fully formulated nor edited yet, I’d like to present with visions of a few things to come within the next several months…

First off, I’m proud to announce that Dumpster Fire Press will be featured on THE SOCIAL YET DISTANCED podcast hosted by Fran Lock and Jack Varnell…expect not only a socially distanced experience but a socially awkward one as well as we discuss DFP from its frenetic origins, what it’s doing or where it may even be along with all sorts of oddball tangents more than likely instigated by me…

VOICES FROM THE FIRE is finally going to be launched starting January 3rd. The rolling blog/e-zine from DFP featuring ONE POET, ONE ARTIST and ONE WRITER each week later to be collected into a tangible anthology at the end of the year.

Submissions: 12 pt. Times New Roman

No more than four poems,

Flash fiction is welcome

Short stories no more than twenty pages

Artists, fuck man…I’m new at this send whatever just no dead rodents stapled to cardboard sent to my house.

can you guess what I might be doing?

By the end of next week expect DFP’s first 2021 release… STRANDS OF STRUGGLE the highly sympathetic, sometimes jarring yet uplifting poetry collection from Brenda Christie…

While Dumpster Fire Press is not an aggressive publisher and plans on releasing one title a month along with quarterly anthologies that doesn’t mean there won’t be any surprise bonus releases or anything…

and further entice like a pusher making a fetal junkie aware of its latent addiction to junk I present some images from projects in development all through the spring of 2021…


Prepping manuscripts to start filling in the 2021 year…

Don’t jump the fucking gun, I’m not accepting manuscript submissions on an official basis yet unless we’ve personally corresponded but I am about to embark on something soon that I hope will have you picturing slitting my wrists as I type away at my computer.

So, I’m pleased to announce to distract myself from the tearing away of my flesh the official arrival of VOICES FROM THE FIRE.

Part of DFP’s mission is to give voices to the voiceless, those on the margins of society, those who never had a chance to speak, yada-yada-yada, how many times is this written on the site.

Let’s get down to it Voices of the Fire is going to feature those voices…

ONE POET A WEEK (starting)



We will started accepting submissions on Janaury 3rd 2021

Expect a preview of what’s to come shortly.

I will hate all of you as I continue my regular one to two title release schedule along with other fun projects in conjunction with trying to write and release my own work but it will be worth it as I will be proud to release your work and admire you exposing the essence of your being and projecting your awareness of how fucked up and beautiful the world can be…


Times New Roman, 12pt. 1.5 Spacing at the most

Poetry 1-4 preferably 1 per page.

Flash Fiction

Short Stories nothing more than 20 pages

Artists, fuck man…I’m new at this send whatever just no dead rodents stapled to cardboard sent to my house.

Sweet Christmas!

Taking a bit of time off to revise the site along with recuperating from an insane publishing schedule….

In the meantime…get yourself or someone you love or are bitter enemies with one or all of these Dumpster Fire Press titles:

THE GRIND a collaborative poetry text by myself, Wolfman, Roz Washington and Push Cart Nominee Robert Ragan with art by James Maj…

The novelette HONEYDEW:THE CORRECTED TEXT by R. Keith…

the much anticipated poetry collection from John Doyle LEAVING HENDERSON COUNTY

and who doesn’t like biting social satire from Editor in Chief of Alien Buddha Press? THE ENTIRE BLOODY SAGA: RED FOCKS THE COLLECTED WORKS…

So glad you could join us and hopefully we’ll have something cool for you up before 2021.

Take it easy guys during the holy, holy daze of what is called by the market “the holidays.”

It started off with ONE HELL OF A MUSE and ended as one hell of a year

A Bloody Good Time…

Ha! See what I did there?

Dumpster Fire Press is thrilled to release our fourth and final release of the year…THE ENTIRE BLOODY SAGA: RED FOCKS THE COLLECTED WORKS!

Editor in Chief of Alien Buddha Press’ interconnected fiction of a world gone awry not dissimilar from our own! Collecting the novels: The Philanthropist’s Suicide, The Bloody Waste, Haight, The Corona Carlyle Conspiracy and Otis Chang-Hussain along with the short story Fire & Ice. A must read for fans of Red Focks of Alien Buddha Press and satiric social commentary.

Just in time to coincide with Alien Buddha Zine issue#21 featuring Dumpster Fire Press before any of even knew what was going to happen…

It’s been a wild time this year and what a way to end 2020 than for our final release to consist where everything just about started years ago before we really get down to business…whatever of that means…other than refining the wordpress and getting down to a steady rhythm of sorts…I guess.

I have had the benefit of being Red Focks’ fiction editor for a bit of time, even before this press started. Red is the one who really gave me a shot via small press publishing when he accepted my manuscript VOID BENEATH SKIN years ago when I didn’t have a direction, he gave me a shot at writing installments of the graphic novel series AMERICAN ANTI-HERO allowing me to play with his creations and aid in the crafting of his fictional world which means a lot without really knowing or having met someone.

This relationship has continued for years with various contributions being made to various anthologies and Alien Buddha Press putting out other poetry collections A FAREWELL TO BIG IDEAS and ONE HELL OF A MUSE and seeing as how I don’t like to publish my own work if I’m the exclusive contributor it’s going to continue that way for the foreseeable future. (I think we should all be noticing the shameless plugs here, it’s small press none of us really make any money, haha)

All kidding aside, though if it weren’t for Red, Dumpster Fire Press wouldn’t exist.

I was thinking of getting into editing as a side gig because my real gig is kind of unreal in a variety of manners and asked if he needed an editor, beside I have this degree from a community college just languishing what else was I going to use it for in our capitalistic realism driven world (Mark Fisher is probably not very proud of me right now with that failed attempt at a joke but that’s how hauntology sort of works I suppose)

I got the privilege of working on THE BLOODY WASTE and OTIS CHANG-HUSSAIN before they got accepted for publication which led to a Managing Editor position at Concrete Mist Press which resulted in some pretty challenging and rewarding editing gigs, one of my favorites being HAIGHT another tale by Red put out originally by Cajun Mutt Press in which I may have bordered past editorial into something more assertive ultimately leading to a failed venture with another publisher that has already been chronicled enough on here but still was an experience I found fulfilling both in a creative and technical way which not only sharpened my skills as both writer and editor but even contributing to the enlightenment of characters but enough of that existential bullshit no one really wants to read about…

Red Focks is the guy who defended me online when things went awry and encouraged me to strike out on my own and generously allowed me to again edit and collect his work in this tremendous volume that I hope everyone enjoys. It easily could have been published through his own venue but again showing a strong sense of trust and sincere belief in what for the most part a stranger was doing with his supposed attempt at a small press, Red put some faith in me and for that I’m genuinely grateful not only for this but for everything and I like to think we’re going to be continuing within the realm of small press like this on the same path because ultimately again we’re in this together and not like some lame mantra but let’s be honest mainstream reading is not where it’s at…people are going to want things by the people and the engineered corporate artists feeding us recycled hyper-realized aspects of bubblegum pop culture and pseudo counter-culture…

The game, if there is one has been upped because there isn’t even a game at all so…

If you’re a fan of Alien Buddha Press or Red Focks give it a whirl.

If you’re almost a fan of Dumpster Fire Press or unsure give it a whirl, if you don’t like me but like my editing most definitely give it a read.

It’s damn good social commentary and writing by a damn good writer, artist and indie press operator.

Also just in time for Christmas pick up this anthology by Alien Buddha Press by a bunch of writers whose work I respect and admire ….

Now this being the fourth and final release of 2020, it’s time to take a break for about a week or so…

Hopefully we look different in a more appealing manner for you guys and have something more of substance to share.

2021 is bound to herald more flaming garbage and dare I say a reign of writers?

Leaving Henderson County for…

“What’s in store for me in the direction, I don’t take?” – Jack Kerouac

One of my favorite Kerouac quotes next to “I have nothing to offer but my confusion.”

Which kinds of sums up this and sometimes existence itself altogether but that isn’t what this installment is all about…it’s about John Doyle’s long awaited poetry collection LEAVING HENDERSON COUNTY which happens to be the third release from Dumpster Fire Press.

LEAVING HENDERSON COUNTY is kind of a symbolic release for me. Almost parallel between my journey to forming my own press, so one can imagine reading Doyle’s work (and I hope John forgives me for referring to him by his last name, it seems a bit informal as a publisher to refer to an author by first name only). As one reads his poetry which could be the nectar of the gods, you become him and experience not only him but others through yourself like a bizarro mystical mirror of revelation and enlightenment.

We’re not only leaving Henderson county to find ourselves but we’re leaving who we thought we were, not entirely behind but it sure sets up a strong foundation for who we’d like to become while struggling with the successes and failures of that which aren’t really failures at all but essential transformations and I can’t do that justice, no something like justice comes near the piece of writing after I’ve spitfired my say which…

This third release was about making amends and doing the author right. The last of several works from when I was editor in chief for something that never fully materialized and no, I don’t finger point or lash out as I did what I was thought was right for my authors my brothers in word who trusted me with their work. Half a dozen artists entrusted me with their work to bring it out and I did. THE GRIND was the start, lingering and waiting to be unleashed, HONEYDEW: THE CORRECTED TEXT a series of unfortunate errors needing to be rectified and finally LEAVING HENDERSON COUNTY, much the same way THE GRIND was without a sense of guidance or collaboration between editor and press. It marks the end of a short era and the start of something new, where the obligation to put things right, I can finally breathe with a sigh of relief and continue on in the direction I never knew I could take in the first place.

So in LEAVING HENDERSON COUNTY, I’m not only able to leave said location but certain situations behind and craft an entirely different scenario that will be full of all sorts of mad errors and I hope all of the artists including John (sorry but fuck formality) will be willing to join us from time to time as a voice from the fire. It’s been a wild time and when in the wilderness you either let go full on feral or attempt to tame the nature which will lash out three times brutally back at you for trying to do so…building cities on wetlands anyone?

Wow… so enough scattered babbling , I’m trying to switch back come from being a nocturnal animal to regular dayshift drone , it happens with the frenetic scheduling I content with in my “real life” haha which is anything but…

John Doyle and LEAVING HENDERSON COUNTY, I let the poetry speak for itself…

Nursing Homes on Sunday Evenings

Nursing homes in the South of Dublin,

Cork, Limerick, the constellation of Orion…

Rainy days,


lawn-tennis Fridays.

Time like a drop of rain

on this umbrella, the songs of constellations yet to be named,

after Romans and Greeks who died, telling clergy

there were other Gods prowling infinite spheres.

Time is like a drop of rain, moistening a front door carpet;

And the smell,

rich, pungent, like the colour bronze.

So I bring you some grapes,

a paper,

and you tell me of the latest gangland scumbag whacked,

4 minutes walk away –

away from the lawn-tennis Fridays

and the Gods prowling infinite spheres

John Doyle

and if my random selection of having too many damn good poems to choose from here is an opinion from someone who really matters…

In this age of insta-poetry and “rhymin’-all-the-timin’” spoken word it is a great pleasure to read a poet who understands that before there is art there must first be craft, John Doyle is one of those poets. His new book “Leaving Henderson County” glitters like well-polished crystal, each individual poem contributing to a fierce, beautiful and clever collection. The poems are by turn deeply personal, scathingly funny and at times achingly sad (there is a particularly lovely little poem “as Ghaelige” which made my heart glad!). They all carry that makers mark of familiarity, the common experience hiding quietly in the individual one, the sign of a truly fine poet writing truly fine poems.

He is a poet who loves language and language in its turn loves him, those many years of hard work mastering this tricky, slippery, nebulous, back breaking thing we call Poetry has now repaid him with poems that appear effortless and charmed but that speak to a writer operating at the top of his game. He writes in an often surreal style peppered with images that sear and arrest, he can be Beckett or Joyce as in “taking all the words out or putting all the words in” but he really is his own man and the quality of his style is his and his alone.

Don’t just take my word for it, get yourself a copy, find a quiet place and let this beautiful collection work its considerable magic.

Maith thú, a Sheáin.

Mick Corrigan, October 2020.   

Much appreciation to John Doyle for entrusting me with his work, along with Roz Washington, Robert Ragan, James Maj, R. Keith and most especially the fates who drew us all together.

It’s been weird and when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro or something…I don’t know, ask Hunter S. Thompson…

-Mike Zone