Exotic Erotic

Three poems
by Saira Viola
 
Colonial Daddies #1
 
Where I was born is destroyed
The colonial daddies fat fisted me out of home and country
Where I ended up is ready to be torn down
Mr Swanky Wank wants more space to play with
 
He wants sponsored picnics in the park
A rebuilt skyline that maps the stars
Uniformed flower- lined streets and a
spray of Fair Trade coffee boutiques
 
Apartheid city : a broken leg that can’t be fixed
Salt licking- worm coloured meat
Cardboard boxes and crates for chairs
Sleep -deprived asthmatic air
Three to a bed -squashed arms
Yellowy yolk- pus blisters marmalade your palms
Swollen knees and sticky back- peel -on patches
fight fetid air mosquitoes
Glass domed nipples you cannot touch
Pig -swill and stolen bread for lunch
 
Corbusier style- chicken coops –
cage the working dead
the immigrants – the poor
junkies – booze -bums
psycho warriors -hookers
single moms – midnight train dreamers
and big- boss drug dealers
The system believes in that sweet nectar of greed –
But- I saw flames lick- spit the marrow off a toddler’s feet
Stop light : There’s a honey blonde in
a crepe de chine floating poppy dress
and a knife tongued real estate Adonis
They are grazing on artisanal truffles
Hunting for elephants and that magic
Fuck you Jackpot
as the curling smile of austerity
snakes onto one- eyed Pete
socking him breathless in the nuts
He wipes his cock clean
shakes off the dust and the lies
as two red suns wreath his dying eyes .
 
Pussy Riddim 
 
Retired porn stars  on foggy   afternoons   
       walking their pooches  
                   On Sunset 
 their pussies  on leashes—
 
            Exotic erotic
 
              They silk slit and streak 
                        through blue money streets 
Transient  bag madams sprawled 
       on steel  benches 
            Cat whistle 
         they hear  squad cars moo and 
trumpet 
            like virgin thoroughbreds  of the apocalypse   
                            in the palms of the gods   
The  final witching hour 
             when hot silver mammas 
 return to  the dark
             to their gilded cells 
                               in topless high rises 
   They puff on French cigarettes and taste artisanal cup cakes    
 
Ridding the elevator 
                              to watch 
            old X rated movies 
Alone in the night  under screw fixed stripped lights
 
Their sleeping breasts:  parasol mushrooms laid to rest 
Screwin’ The Pooch !
 
A step in a back room
A handshake behind closed doors
A half bitten apple
The black husk of a tooth
The putrid taste of deceit
A plain of scorpions on his tongue
A recurring nightmare
A Blood stained white sheet
Poison – petalled reasoning bound in green leather
A circle of angry voodoo feathers waiting to speak
Gelatinous begging to wooden faced clowns
A toilet slurp on virgin ground .
————-

Saira Viola :  Acclaimed poet , fiction novelist song lyricist  and creator of sonic scatterscript. The legendary Benjamin Zephaniah praised her ‘beautiful twisted imagination’ ‘Polymathic genius,’ and counterculture hero  Heathcote Williams wrote
“…… Saira Viola, has devised some new designer drug that keeps you reading. The language is so powerfully hypnotic and occasionally so explosive you feel you need to pause to apply burn cream….”

http://www.fahrenheit-press.com/authors_Saira_Viola.html

https://twitter.com/sairaviola

http://www.undergroundbooks.org/saira-viola.html

Poetry (Flowers of War ) (Don’t Shoot The Messenger ) (Mini Rebel Book of Poems) (Fast Food and Gin on The Lawn ) Novels (Jukebox ) (Crack Apple and Pop)

Red Meat

Three poems and paintings
by Red Focks
 
NOT GUILTY VERDICT
 
Ghoulish Crohn’s Disease innuendos.
Rancid Mayo Clinic Shrimp Gyros.
Korean shopkeepers on the roof, shooting.
Give Charlie Manson all the money!
All the money and some damn latitude!
Caged for 999.9 years. Cold wind blowing.
Potholes from landmines on Skid Row.
Highly opportunistic performance art arson.
Tell your doctor if you’ve been to certain areas where fungal infections are common.
Tell your doctor if you’ve banged anybody interesting as of late.]
Ask your public defender if peace can exist without justice.
Break windows and take whatever the fuck you want.
Early detection is the key.
Resistance is disobedience.
Peaceful protests infiltrated by sleeper cells.
Rodney King’s rhetorical wisecrack.
Can’t we all just get along?
WE NEED TO GET
Dennis Rodman
A gallon of Stolichnaya
That golden shower tape
As many penguins as we can round up
Probably some duct tape and WD40
Dried ice
Digital turntables
A blonde, republican news lady
God’s blessing and the devil’s forgiveness.
(Mousetrap)
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 2
THE BETHESDADAMUS DESERT
 
Does beauty
ever truly
break?
Do (so called) infinite amounts have ends?
Can the sweetest dream of a lifetime be forgotten?
Does love die?
CAN love die?
Yes, you candy ass.
All the time. Time. Time.
The twat that murders everything. Everything
Everything dies.
This desert used to host a river.
There were mountains on the horizon.
I remember when you could drink some water
and not shit, bloody chunks of your colon.
Before water
was physically and “artistically”
owned by Nuka-Cola.
I was there for the fallout.
No stimpacks or shelter.
I remember when cannibalism
was underground.
I remember when every baby
wasn’t born with
two and three-quarter faces.
Before we gave the launch codes to a corporation.
Fukushima eat your heart out.
Fuck (that was dumb)
Da Da Vinci code yo!
Realty shows, whoa!
The serial number.
Carved into the foreheads
of Cardinalz and Bishopz.
Piss drunk party girlz and state comptrollerz.
In da club say “WOOO!”
Human resource manijaz and underage hipster sluts
huffing spray paint under the bleacherz.
Our little sisterz were so jelly of us.
Maybe it was love.
Maybe radiation poisoning.
A possible combination of things.
But over time
It made humans
utterly barbaric
Ann frankly blind.
Most of them disintegrated
into dust.
The final endangered spices.
They just flutter around
flexing at each other
eyeballin
all over
all like
“Hey Dick
why dontcha
quit eyeballing
all my oil”
and WAR never changes.
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 1
GOD LOVES THE IDEA OF YOU
 
Microwave your cigarettes.
Sleep in a tanning bed.
God loves you;
but hates Purell.
God hates antibiotics.
God hates seatbelts.
The reddest piece of meat;
could be the deadest piece of meat.
If you cook it that way.
Death tastes sweet.
Fresh and bloody.
You’re mad.
Meathead. Cow.
Prepare for slaughter;
you beefcake.
Mexican tap water.
Ebola hallucinations.
DMT. Autoerotic asphyxiation.
Lick a Boston third rail.
Inhale a burning tire.
Punch yourself in the balls.
Just fall down some stairs once a month.
Thin em’ out.
Thin em’ out.
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 3
—————–
 
Red Focks is a 28-year-old writer/abstract artist/illustrator from New England. He is a co-founder of ‘Alien Buddha Press’, and is credited for working on over a dozen titles since the press was founded in late 2016. Red has 3 poetry books which he has authored himself (Punk’s Not Nice, Election Day, Apophenia). After years of exploration through The United States and his own psyche, Red currently lives in Phoenix Arizona with his girlfriend (poet/artist Ammi Romero) and their young family. Red Focks shows no signs of slowing down; and currently has several projects in production. He has been featured in the inaugural issue of “Nixemate Review “and by “Walking is Still Honest Press”.
 
Red Focks can be contacted through Alien Buddha Press at abpress2017@ymail.com or directly at
redfocks4thewin@gmail.com
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 4

Poet Interview #72: Red Focks

Scott Thomas Outlar: First off, Red, thanks for taking some of your time for an interview here at W.I.S.H. Your work does not exactly sugarcoat life, to say the least. What do you think the point of poetry and art is? Have you always been interested in exposing the underbelly of society?

Red Focks: In a world where the “sugar coated” alternative is what gets swallowed the most, I believe one purpose that art has is to be bitter, sour, or spicy. Another purpose that art and poetry have had for me is straight therapeutic value. Hitchhiking from coast to coast, meeting the biggest wingnuts walking the streets of America, getting arrested, thrown in the nut-house, getting stabbed, getting so high I forgot what up was; this has gotten me up to my neck in the underbelly of society. I enjoy exposing this walk of life, just as much as the higher-ups of society who engage in all the same activities, with their pinky fingers up.

STO: Your writing and paintings seem to be laced with signs, symbols, numbers, and allusions to seedy political realities. Are you drawn toward occult and conspiratorial knowledge? If so, where have those sorts of rabbit holes taken your consciousness?

RF: I am a self-proclaimed “conspiracy theorist”. I figure that most of these “theories” about the American government (9/11, The never-ending wars for profit, JFK, MLK, Cointelpro, Operation Mockingbird) are not theories at all in 2017. Facts have presented themselves- people feel more comfortable, not thinking too much about it. It’s brilliant, because the result is a bunch of tribes, divided by fears, location, and color, blaming each other over the pain and suffering caused by a handful of evil families.

The conspiracy theories which I have fun in the rabbit hole with, appeal to the absurdist in me. The Mandela Effect and the theories involving CERN and quantum physics, has had me convinced that life as we know it is a system of 1s and 0s in a computer. It’s also just funny to tell a group of strangers that Katy Perry is Jon Benet Ramsey, or HRC is a shapeshifting reptile. (and No, the earth is not flat)

The symbolism in the art (hidden or blatant) is also absurdism. Sometimes with an abstract piece, I will throw a bunch of 666’s or upside-down cross’ in, for shits-n-gigs. Then I’ll sell it to a nice, wholesome, Christian who doesn’t even see the blasphemy lost within the lines and splotches. Then I think about how crazy it would be, if this person was otherwise a perfect candidate to go to heaven; but because they idolized my sinful art, Jesus sends them to Hell.

STO: What’s your opinion on the current climate of society at this point? Where in the hell is all this modern madness leading humanity?

RF: War. New wars, with more exotic enemies with elaborate motives. A lot of citizens really are sick of it, and the effect it has on society; but blame either Trump or Obama for it, thus dividing us further.

I hope that one day (even if it’s thousands of years from now) all of civilization can coexist the way it should. We could achieve so much, and go so far if the divide wasn’t there.

STO: You, along with Jay Miner, recently started up your own publishing house, Alien Buddha Press. What made you decide to get involved with publishing books? What inspired the dope name for the press?

RF: The name came from Jay Miner, and a series of haikus and one liners that he would write, and post in online poetry groups. We are a part of a network of extremely talented artists and writers, who we felt were a relatively untapped honey hole of talent. Jay and I both had the idea for such an endeavor, and it’s gotten off to a great start.

STO: What is your overall vision for ABP?

RF: To produce quality content, which improves on the zeitgeist, and disregards the status quo.

I had a blast working on your book, “Poison in Paradise”. From an illustrator’s standpoint it was the perfect project to display some choice photog I’d been saving. It’s a wonderful collection of poems about adversity and the human spirit.

Then there’s “Surfing the Appellation Vortex” by Mark Hartenbach, “The Headpoke” by Paul Brookes, “Screamo Lullabies” by Robert J.W., “MY NAME IS GIORNA ALZAVOLA” (self-titled), “LOKO”motion of Life by Adam Levon Brown and “Irritable Brain Syndrome” by Willie Smith. These books are available on Amazon.com. Any of which is a real gem for anybody who likes to read poetry; and I am proud of every title.

STO: Can you talk a bit about some of your own books that have been published at this point? What type of material and themes do they delve into, and where can they be purchased by those who are interested in picking up copies?

RF: My first attempt was a short little poetry book called “Punk’s Not Nice”. It is a collection of 40 poems that I wrote in the winter of 2015-16. (Production wise, it reads like my first attempt). My second title is “Election Day” which was released at the end of the last election. It is 2 years’ worth of poetry, with little blurbs and jokes in-between to make it about the election. Aside from the page where I boldly claim that Hillary was going to win, I am happy with how it turned out. My most recent title is, and the first released through ABP is “Apophenia”. This is a poetry AND art book. It includes over 60 color prints. These are all available on Amazon as well.

STO: As 2017 continues rolling along, what are your expectations for the latter half of the year? Are there any new projects coming up that you’re particularly excited about?

RF: Two projects that I would like to note are “American Antihero”, a graphic novel we wish to continue expanding upon; and the first anthology book, which feature the work of ABP and its collaborators.

SO: Thanks again for your time, Red. If there’s anything else that you’d like to mention that my questions didn’t hit on, please feel free to share it here. The floor belongs to you.

RF: Alien Buddha is accepting submissions for publication at abpress2017@yahoo.com. Thank you, Scott and Walking is Still Honest Press, for featuring me here. Peace. Pot. Microdot.

Revelations Through Reciprocation

Three poems
by James Dennis Casey IV
 
Something Stirs
 
A metamorphosis
Of spirit
To purge the soul
Under candle lit skies
Seemingly infinite
 
Amongst crystal dusted majesty
Something stirs
Within
 
Underlying currents
Revealed
Subdued
 
Exposes Truth
 
She licks the plaque
From a dead man’s teeth
Rich and curious the taste
 
She feels his suffering
Takes his pain
In exchange for answers
 
Gentle and undeceiving
His lingering soul
Whispers of things
Unknown to the living
 
The suckling of beasts
Footprints of gods
 
Giants
 
The perishing sun
Flesh houses
Good and evil
As one
 
This kiss
So putrid
Exposes truth
 
Crosses
 
Coffee and nicotine
Booze and narcotics
It is all relative
To each their own
Vices like crosses
To bear
 
Television lies
Ambient background noise
To break the monotony
Of silence
 
Another cup of Mellow Joy
Another cigarette
Another drink
Another joint
 
Tired of the noise
On to music testimonials
Soothing to the soul
Ones and zeros
 
My mind at battle
Sword on sword again
 
Thoughts like arrows
Cut the air
Many a man fell
Lost like memories
A clever tactic
 
Far away now
Flying high
Half of life a dream
 
Let consumption
Gnaw me inside
Numbing my woes
With crosses
 
—————–
A self proclaimed “Madman Philosopher,” James D. Casey IV is a published author of three volumes of poetry. Mr. Casey’s writings have been published in print and online several times as well. His work has been featured in places like Triadæ Magazine, Pink Litter, In Between Hangovers, Indiana Voice Journal, Poetry Breakfast, Beatnik Cowboy, Scarlet Leaf Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, Whispers, Your One Phone Call, I am not a Silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, PoeTree, Story Mirror, Stanzaic Stylings, Spillwords, Micropoetry, Leaves of Ink, Poetry Life & Times, and Realistic Poetry International. 
 
 

Poet Interview #71: James Dennis Casey IV

Can you tell us a little bit about yourself? At what age did you start writing? Who/what first inspired you to begin? Who are some of your favorite writers and artists (past and/or contemporary)?
 
I come from a family of bootleggers, self proclaimed pirates, and peace & love era hippies. My late grandmother’s great-uncle, A.F. Ray, actually founded Garden City, Colorado, with moonshine money. I know that has nothing to do with poetry, but it’s just a fun fact to offer some insight into the type of family I grew up in. We’re all a bunch of outlaw good ol’ boys and wild free spirits.
 
My mother was always encouraging me to develop my artistic talent. I started writing and drawing at a young age. The first thing I can remember writing is a Halloween short story for a class contest in elementary school that I won first place for. I started to get more serious about poetry in my teens. Listening to artists like Tom Waits, The Doors, Leonard Cohen, and Nick Cave in high school had a lot to do with it.
 
I’ve always been a pretty avid reader too, and a lover of art. My favorite writers are Charles Bukowski, Jim Morrison, Hunter S. Thompson, Stephen King, and Jonathan Shaw. My favorite artists are Gerald Brom, Luis Royo, H.R. Giger, Zdzislaw Bekinski, and Fab Ciraolo.
 
How do you first start writing a poem? Does it come to you out of the blue, or do you have a set time where you meet with your Muse each day to fall into a rhythm?
 
My writing method varies depending on my mood. Sometimes I’ll wake up early, make a pot of coffee, and have a mellow day typing out a few words while smoking a few cigarettes in between. Other days I’ll wake up well after noon, crack a bottle of liquor, and violently slap at the keys while chain smoking. I must admit that some of my best work comes from the latter method. I believe it was Hemingway that said “Write drunk; edit sober.” Having a muse is a big help as well, and I do have one that I love very much, but sometimes I find it hard to write if I get too happy. So writers block can be a bit of a problem for me at times. It just doesn’t flow the same, and I’m not a fan of monorhyming cushy love poems. I like to just let the words flow when they want to flow and don’t force the issue. It’s quality not quantity that counts.
 
What does poetry mean to you, and has your idea of what it represents changed over the course of time? Where do you see it going in the future?
 
Poetry is my passion. It helps me cope…it’s like a release. Poetry is the purest form of human language distilled down to speak volumes with only a few words. I truly enjoy when people tell me that they like my work, but in reality I don’t do it for them. I do it for me, and that will never change. A lot of people say “poetry is dead,” but it will forever live in my heart, and as long as I’m able to write it will live on. So for the future of poetry hopefully the poets out there with the same passion toward it that I have can keep the ball rolling. We may not be held as high in the social status as the days of old, but we’re still here.
 
Are you on Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media? Does that fit into your writing life, and if so, how?
 
Social media is a helpful tool for self promotion in the literary world, and I have profiles on just about any one you can name. Yet, I’ve found it can deface the value of true poets sometimes as well. Everybody’s a “poet” nowadays it seems, and some great voices can get drowned out and lost in all the white noise. That’s the reason I’m not a fan of this new meme poetry trend that I’ve seen all around the internet. Taking a pretty picture found online and slapping a few words on it just isn’t poetry to me, but I’ve found that to be what’s popular lately. To each their own, I guess.
 
Do you have a writing group or community of writers you share your work with? What are you reading right now?
 
I’m in a handful of poetry communities on Facebook that I share my work with, and I have a poetry blog called Skeleton Poetry by: J.D.C.IV. I also have profiles on websites for writers like Hello Poetry and WordPress, but I haven’t had a chance to connect with any writers in the real world. I don’t do well in crowds, and I’m kind of shy in person, so as much as I’d like to I’ve never been a part of any type of group or event setting. Maybe one day I’ll break out my shell.
 
Currently I’m reading Jonathan Shaw’s latest book, “NARCISA: OUR LADY OF ASHES,” and I highly recommend picking up a copy.
 
As 2017 continues rolling along, what are your expectations for the rest of the year? Do you have any new projects in the works that you’re particularly excited about?
 
I don’t have anything currently in the works as of yet, but I just self published a third volume of my poetry on June 4th that I’m pretty excited about. It’s titled “Tin Foil Hats & Hadacol Coins” and it’s the book that I’m most proud of to date. It’s 102 pages and features 57 of my poems, and a wrap around cover with my original artwork, “Love’s Flames,” on front and back. It’s a beautiful book. I’m extremely pleased with the way it came out. Now it’s time to start drumming up ideas for the next one. I have a few things in mind.
 
What words of encouragement can you offer other poets who are trying to get their work noticed?
 
My words of encouragement would be to just keep going because perseverance is key. Dreams can be willed into fruition through perseverance, and one dream can change the world. Even when you feel like giving up because it seems like no one cares about your work–don’t. Writers write, it’s what we do, but do it for yourself and not others. That’s when it’s the most fulfilling.