welcome to Queen Vic Knives, an online lit. short story journal / but send us anything, alt lit permutations, short things you just wrote, things you've been slaving upon, sound poetry as mp3s, unfilmable one-page screenplays, snapshots, burns, objects that the people didn't want, nonsense, tranhumanist macros, memeplexes /deadlines: none, except please send through a little bio / we'll be posting up 3-4 times monthly...
"Jeremy Balius is Dallas Texas born, Giessen Germany raised, Los Angeles California educated and now resides in Fremantle Western Australia. He looks after Black Rider Press..."
You can tell he still loves her
by the way he shades
the muscles of her arm.
Careful sketches over rounded flesh.
She left pencil shavings clinging to him,
spider webs
grazing the top of his head,
woven into unwashed hair.
He looks for her in the morning,
reaches across a cold bed,
to trace her outline in
a head crushed pillow.
Not yet ready to replace these impressions,
or wash her scent from loose sheets.
He pretends he can hold her,
keep her safe, a green and yellow parakeet
nestled in his palm.
Head twisting back,
sharp black eyes reflect
his thick fingers around
her fragile frame.
He was so sure, despite
the sharp flick of restless glances,
the spit of tears from a cursing tongue,
the hollowness in the cage of her ribs,
she would keep.
So sure
he could reverse rip currents
pump air into languid lungs
resurrect the broken.
You can tell he still loves her
by the way he won’t catch your eye,
the small tremble in his voice,
when he says her name
and looks away.
Rain.
I wake at 2:37am,
Tuesday morning,
all knees and elbows
reveling in the sound
of your late summer storm.
I feel that clap of thunder
in my hipbones,
inhale the flash of light
in the cage that holds my impatient heart.
I’m thinking of how it might feel
to have you next to me in this downpour,
your hands on my body
displayed in the night’s electricity,
the rhythm of you
like sheets of hail beating my skin.
I conjure,
at 2:37am,
your moisture spreading along the line of my clavicle,
your thumbs dripping into the flesh of my thighs.
I imagine your violence drenching me,
spit and splash as I
soak into you.
You collect my hair,
moist from your shower,
sweep it from my body,
revealing soft flesh underneath.
The condensation of your lips
caress the back of my neck,
fingers tap a melody against my spine,
something about the rain at 2:37am.
The storm doesn’t hold back
it is unleashed, wild and primitive,
and I picture the rise and fall,
the beat of you,
the growl and flash,
reflected in hungry gestures
before you move on,
leaving remnants of your tempest
dripping from my window ledge.
Paper.
A stain leaks
through the bedroom wall.
Heat peels paper.
Yellow wildflowers,
slink down slowly
dragging glue
which once held them firm.
I held your cheek once
in these paper thin hands.
Skin like baby powder
folding onto itself.
Skin so seemingly fragile,
I was afraid to touch it.
Skin that fell like dust
in my grasp.
You warmed my fingers
with whispered rosaries.
I tore,
riding waves of rising temperature,
no longer consuming your air,
or choking on your obligation.
Evaporating in the heat
like so much stagnant water,
I have disintegrated.
Risen into light and air,
lingering just long enough,
to watch you wake.
Cinder Silhouette.
I was the weak one.
Prone to suggestion.
Too eager to please to ever say no.
You took the hit, then passed it to me,
mouth to mouth,
feeding me like a baby bird,
just one of our many firsts.
We were sisters then.
When the heat rippled the air,
when the smoke first slithered up walls
and clung to ceilings,
I held your hand,
sang along to your tune,
in this together.
But somewhere along the way,
your inhalation outpaced my own.
The flame we waved our hands over
didn’t burn me,
the only ash on my clothes
from your body,
the only lingering smell of smoke,
the one you dragged in from the night.
Someone threw kerosene on your flame
and you burst,
as I dwindled.
I couldn’t stifle the blaze before it spread.
My hand on your arm
couldn’t confine combustion.
It wasn’t my pride that was hurt
the day you left me on the side of the road,
so crazed by the heat you mistook concern
for accusation.
I just didn’t understand how my touch,
ice on fevered flesh,
made you flinch and flee.
Yet somehow I delude myself to think,
I can pull unconscious bodies from burning buildings.
This misconceived strength
to throw those who can’t stand for themselves
over my shoulder and carry them
free from smoke, from fire.
So I wait, knowing,
as clear as spark to skin,
at some point,
you’ll stop basking in flame.
At some point,
your lungs will fill with smoke
and your limbs will turn limp.
At some point,
I can drag your unresisting body free.
I can save you.
Will I recognize your silhouette
aglow with smoldering cinders?
Will I know your freckled
skin strapped upon bare back
or will you be scorched bone,
empty sockets, hollow?
When I touch you,
will your skin fleck
and fly under my hand?
I can tend burns. take in the broken.
Reshape you into the doll you used to be.
But I cannot extinguish your pain,
I can only bandage blistered skin.
And when you break free from my arms,
charge back through fiery doors,
so eager to be warm again,
I won’t be able to mold you back together.
You will disintegrate under my touch.
You are so far from my grasp
I can’t stop your body from flaking away.
Crisp ash strewn by the breeze.
But if it happens
your body goes limp,
your breath shallows
and you need salvation,
fresh air,
I will give you all that is in my lungs,
mouth to mouth,
to make you whole again.
"Katrina K Guarascio is a teacher and poet. Her poetry is published in many literary magazines and online journals including Vox Poetica, The Legendary, and Out of Our Poetry. She is the author of two chapbooks: Hazy Expression and More Fire than Sun. Most recently, a book length publication of her poetry, entitled A Scattering of Imperfections, has been released and is available at Amazon and Barnes and Nobel..."
When my eyes rest on your beauty
And you refuse me a double recognition
My soul slips in rejection
And I wish I am handsome
I just wish I am handsome
Then I would sweat not in search of you
Your beauty would hear of my handsomeness
And cast her presence before my eyes
For a consideration from my heart
And you'll recognise my admiration beyond requirement.
You are a sweet babe
Making every looker desire to be the nanny
But you wouldn't fold yourself under my arms
Lest I stain you with my ugliness
How wouldn't I sigh for my misfortune?
And wish I am handsome?
Just wish I am handsome
Then I would need not be stiff
Before you recognise my hunger
You would cross my way along the path
And crawl your way to my shoulders
And sprawl upon my chest
Commanding me to your father
Lest your urge wave you to sin
And should you carry a pot, we'll be ridicule for eternity
High maiden of Oboko
From a proud royal lineage
I long to fix you by my side
To have you call after my name
To have you suckle my children
I long to plant you in my life
But I am a farmer without a hoe
And shall dent the stock of your root
If I dare request for your seed
How I wish I am handsome
Just wish I am handsome
Without a shame of comelessness
I would amble to your father
And request to make you mine
Your father is a man of authority
And I would stand with the authority of my comeliness
And reveal the emptiness of my purse
And your father would give you to me
That I should return when i'm full
Then I would marry you on credit
Just because i'm handsome.
Ekpangkukwo.
A damsel that feeds the stomach
Soft and flexible as a woman
A little sight of you move my lips
I want you, I need you, ekpangkukwo.
A delicate delicacy of value
Enfolded in a young cocoyam leaf
Humming in a smoky pot on fire
I want you, I need you, ekpangkukwo.
The enemy of hunger
Red palm oil uplifting your taste
With winkles enriching your ways
I want you, I need you, ekpangkukwo.
My only dearest friend
So mild and tender like a baby
So delicious and fulfilling like nothing
Believe me, I want you, I need only you, ekpangkukwo.
"Kufre Udeme was born on the morning of Tuesday 26 September, 1989, in Ikot Oboko, a small village in Akpabuyo, Cross River State. His father, the first Work Supritendent of University of Uyo Teaching Hospital, Uyo (UUTH) comes from Nya Odiong in Mkpat Enin Local Government Area of Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria.
Udeme is a strong-willed writer that has written scintilating articles which first appeared in Community Papers like All States and Updates. In 2008, he was the youngest columnist in Pulse, and has published his poems online and in Evangelist Newspaper.
He was a pioneer Secretary of Anti-AIDs Club in his school.
An old student of Government Technical College, Abak, (2008). Udeme is at the moment processing his admission into the University, for his first degree in philosophy.
He is currently working on his debut novel, but is pondering on the right publishing company to disseminate his collection of two hundred poems. Udeme loves to hear from readers. Please visit http://www.kufreudeme.blogspot.com/ to talk with him..."
a brutal blue pill frenzy not the red pill terrorism
I've shot my share of loads on lounges
over all your optimus transformer
a prime beef reformist - I'm fatter than angus
rounder than a bank manager's anus
I'm sittin in this chair but floatin on the ceiling
these mushroom dusters kickin in like heeling
camel seedlings in wheatbelt regions
wishin sage was a tradie
shouldn't listen to the bleeding
I'm a youtube junkie
yr a facebook monkey
a cyber sex function
beginning again
begin again
begin again
again
bear
I'm a pop-up shadow puppet
a ghost in the paddock - fuckit
bones of foxes and feathers here tell stories
a narrative of dreamers
but the weather keeps hittin
nothing better than squatting here
after breakfast bacon hot coffee and smoking
dug this hole just deep enough
to fit my human waste
I'm not brave enough to build a shower
wait days to hit the public bar
and shout shit at the flannos
the reffo-hating spanners
beginning again
begin again
begin again
again
bear
and I'm getting vertiginous
needing 10 beers to get near the finish
I can't finish this - how can I finish this
can somebody help me
kill this poetry - let me finish this - let me finish this
struggle over the wandoo sheoak
my stick not big enough, wide enough
to please the blokes
anyway I was fucking this bloke
it was a reach-around - a hip n shoulder
to the ground like a full-forward on the run
at 25 metres out - a mark on the goal square
I'm strugglin to hit the line
before I need to begin again
beginning again
begin again
begin again
again
bear
and this thing is not a picnic
my life is is not a jpeg or a ping pic
an xbox joystick
not a vimeo page
not a guest spot on rage
wish I was back on the paddock
smashing trees in the ripline
not drillin for words like peak oil philosophy
not eatin stale sandwiches
wishin I was the masterchef
servin up treble clefs
plating up poetry
and and and
beginning again
begin again
begin again
again
bear
this must be the end
this must be the end
it is
"Allan Boyd (aka the antipoet) has been performing at and organising poetry, arts and music events since 1995. With a view to deliberately “fuck shit up”, he’s performed his “anarchist provocateur” performance poems at festivals and events around Australia..."
In the pink gutter suburbs spill their guts. In the pink gutter ride a paper boat to the letter box. In the pink gutter poverty colludes with cigarette butts. In the pink gutter broken ballerinas. In the pink gutter breasts swing free. In the pink gutter memories of romance novels under sheets. Manicured lawns swirl pink hems. In the pink gutter pink scars fade. In the pink gutter garters climbs up your thighs. Tenderized. In the pink gutter failed wars spit bullets and mushroom clouds. Cupcakes and tutus. In the pink gutter everyone writes a book once. In the pink gutter syringes are colour coded to match bruises. Holes in arms like designer tattoos. In the pink gutter everything you learned in a classroom shaves your dreams. In the pink gutter Barbie dolls pull their own heads off. In the pink gutter earth lubricates her eyes with glitter gloss. In the pink gutter family history is erased by memory. In the pink gutter the remainders of noses and breasts and lips are made into lolly bags that we give away at pajama parties. In the pink gutter happiness is cleaning your bong with a nappy pin. In the pink gutter a thousand broken internet links flutter in a flood of ones and zeros and porn stories. In the pink gutter no one remembers your failures because no one remembers you. In the pink gutter the bible quotes itself and it’s always the whore in revelations. In the pink gutter buildings falling down upset us more than buildings going up. In the pink gutter yesterday’s news is made into papier mache head jobs for politicians. In the pink gutter old hamburgers have shoe prints in their pickles. In the pink gutter mental illness is punishable by chains walls needles. Some days the psychiatrists look like friends and you want the prescription so you’ll say anything. Just don’t say too much. They decide your future with a sticker and a pen. In the pink gutter you can never begin again. In the pink gutter I follow the trail between my thighs. In the pink gutter I lie.
"Deanne Leber is a writer from Perth, recently moved to Sydney. This piece was performed in the Perth Poetry Slam earlier this year..."
The images featured here (from top to bottom) are:
"The bright lights render my outfit complete" - Gracia Haby - postcard collage - 2011.
"Keeping a watchful eye both day and night until you return" - Gracia Haby & Louise Jennison - lithographic offset print - 2008. "I still don't trust them" - Gracia Haby - postcard collage - 2006.
"Something mighty peculiar was afoot but I was hard-pressed to say for certain what it was (II)" - Gracia Haby & Louise Jennison - lithographic offset print - 2010.
"Moving forward in the way of all things" - Gracia Haby & Louise Jennison - lithographic offset print - 2010.
Em says it’s time for something to change in her life
Myers says it’s time for something to change in her life
uptown kids dressed in a protext
but never did wanna change
J’s in a dress, a graffiti distress
punks & poets holding hands in the street
there’s a band buzzing ‘cause the radio it does play
singing non-words as a kind of Gestalt presence
there’re songs out there for every sin in the book
& the last word can’t hear itself amongst the applause
do not graffiti on this page
this already is graffiti
"Jeremy Balius is Dallas Texas born, Giessen Germany raised, Los Angeles California educated and now resides in Fremantle Western Australia. He looks after Black Rider Press..."
{ ALSO I recorded this some 11 months ago and it was dedicated to or Jeremy Balius & the whole of The Black Rider crew.... So worth having a re-listen... }
Why I hate Christ (os) by Aaron Goldberg September, 2011.
The Melbourne magazine is a free monthly addition to the Age newspaper. It's basically a lifestyle magazine for the cultural elite and people who generally earn well over the average Australian wage.. The magazine is, by and large, an advertisement for the 'winner's' of the world, with the focus on 'culture' and lifestyle, which means if you make it into the Melbourne Monthly magazine you have pretty much made it, and if you make it to the cover of the magazine, well you are pretty much an cultural icon in this town. This month's magazine featured 'iconic' Australian author Christos Tsiolkas holding his hand to his face in prayer. Now I'm totally NOT a fan of Tsiolkas work, but I admire his stance as an immigrant homosexual who speaks for those particular identities. Essentially Tsiolkas is an 'identity' artist. His whole shitck is based on his Australian 'Greekness' and his sexuality. But like most artists, he is more complex that those simple pigeon-holes, or is he? On top of Tsiolkas shtick of his identity and its position within society as a tool of eviscerating the 'dominant paradigms' or something, is Tsiolkas's proud stance as a 'socialist'. But more-so, the voice of the 'working class', along with being being in this day an age 'the poet of the Australian zeitgeist'. In amongst this righteous stance is Tsiolkas's engagement with populism. How does one resolve their 'socialistic cause' in context of their unpredicted engagement with populism and the simple fact that you have now become through your hard earned grist and work, a very powerful currency within a capitalistic society? In Tsiolkas's case he seems to be looking deeply into the theme of 'failure', and as a 'socialist' the concept of 'failure', it seems, ultimately becomes a cause celebre of a failure to engage successfully with the requirements of democratic capitalism. Because spirituality is rarely, if ever, addressed in Tsiolkas's work considering his position as a homosexual, socialist and post-modern writer. But that is not exactly the issue here.
Tsiolkas's engagement with 'failure' is via his announcement in the latest 'Melbourne Magazine' of the development of his latest novel 'Barracuda', the story of a sportsman who fails (maybe try Harry Crews' BODY for exactly the same thing, far funnier, profound, shit just plain weirdly GREAT). Tsiolkas mentions his own sense of failure after his 'Jesus Man' novel. He talks candidly about having to find a 'job' like everyone else and how he had to 'scoop up dog poo' after learning he had won a prestigious literary award. Well what a 'down to earth' fella he is! In fact in context of the populist ideology et al., that Tsiolkas rallies against, you could even consider him a right-royal 'Aussie Battler'!! I guess the total wank of these statements is that despite his feeling of 'failure', Tsiolkas had already had his debut novel made into a major Australian movie not even 2 years after getting it published by a mainstream publisher, no less! In that time he was still earning royalties for 'Head On' that had been re-released to coincide with the movie (ok maybe not as much dosh as he'd like but...), and was still getting highly elite gigs writing for publications as politically diverse as 'the Australian', writing plays, and of course getting his insights and opinions heard in every left-wing and intellectual journal this country can produce. And yet, he felt he 'was' a 'failure' - the recent 'Melbourne Magazine' article attests to that.
Since that 'dark period' Tsiolkas's career has gone from stunning strength-to-strength. Despite being derided by Robert Manne, his 'Dead Europe' treatise of Greek anti-semitism won every Australian (and maybe even a few foreign) awards under the sun. I feel quite inspired and empowered that Christos attacked 'Greek anti-Semitism' 'head on', it really makes me feel better around Greek people in general, in much the same way 'Head On' makes me feel more compassionate to homosexual Greek boys. In fact I'll come out here - I've never actually read a Tsiolkas novel all the way through! (well I have tried, and just find his writing too basic, obvious and just plain didactic.)
A large proportion of Tsiolkas appeal, apart from being an obviously original and talented literary voice, is the fact that ALL his work engages an obvious political stance and rhetoric whether you like it or not. Tsiolkas work is pegged into the literary genre of 'dirty realism'. His books aren't satires, comedies or experimental, on the contrary they are basic earnest meat-and-potatoes literalistic treatises with obvious identity, race, sexuality, cultural commentaries and I guess ultimately causes for compassion despite their mask of 'transgressive' events and characters. He is hailed for his 'authenticity', clarity of voice and 'universal themes' His characters are always based on some sort of 'underdog' or victim, or conversely some fractured and ultimately failed personality who is part of a power structure/dogma. This is fair enough because Tsiolkas is foremost known as a writer of 'fiction', albeit a highly political fiction. So it seems, according to this recent interview that Tsiolkas is wanting to go beyond something that is political and write about a fundamental human state that even he feels ie : 'a sense of failure'. It is this 'sense of failure' that ultimately capitalism ultimately engenders according to Marxism, and it is this same sense of failure that all us victims of the GFC collectively feel after getting sacked from our jobs for crimes we didn't even commit! So in that sense - onya Christos!
But in this current 'climate' (or how you say 'zeitgeist') Christos Tsiolkas words, based on his current record, (ie selling 600,000+ book worldwide, winning every major literary award, and within his own head, feeling 'I haven't written a great book' note: Bret Easton Ellis said the EXACTLY same thing) comes off as total, dare the irony, 'dogshit'. Tsiolkas according to his public persona via others is a popular guy loved by his lover, friends etc, is of a generous, kind nature, shit, he's more normal than Tony Abbot (I'd probably like him, but only because he's famous, successful and could probably help my own truly failed literary aspirations). In that context it seems his socialism has succeeded, but dare I say, in the same society the dreaded capitalism has more that rewarded, recompensed and deified him. The guy will never have to shovel shit ever again, his name within literary circles here and abroad is gold. Whether he likes it or not, the guy is an enterprise and his word, unlike tens of thousands of other writers, has CURRENCY both literary, socially AND financially. A blurb written by him on your book will help sell it. He is a power despite his wanky, dated, ironic, and self deprecating protestations.
Tsiolkas writing a book about a failed sportsman (probably based on gay rugby player Ian Roberts to some degree) sounds like dare I say it, a CAPITALISATION (I also eagerly await his books appearing under Creative Commons licences as well!)
Christos should really reflect on his career and be proud. His books of fiction are taught at universities, all are always in print and are regarded by many as modern Australian classics. Most of his peers from the 'grunge' 90s have long disappeared into mundane jobs, families and simple anonymity and probably a sense of failure Christos could not comprehend in his charmed life. 'The Slap' is probably the most popular Australian piece of fiction of all time, and in a climate where booksellers are going bust and literature is an artform that has been completely destroyed by bloggers, Facebook and i-pads, Tsiolkas isn't doing it rough by any stretch. In fact besides being gay and still not getting accepted by his parents (maybe he should accept they are the failures?), I would dare to say it, the guy has probably NEVER done it tough as an artist, let alone 'failed'.
So enough tall poppyism. Tsiolaks should write about what he truly 'knows' according to the unequivocal facts behind his identity and politics: SUCCESS.
But then again, it's all 'fiction', isn't it?
"Aaron Goldberg is a Melbourne Australia based writer, some-time musician, try-hard film-maker, IT loser and father. He toured the English speaking world in the early 90s with his indie band 'the Earthmen', then studied screenwriting in the early 00s thinking like every shlepper he'd make it in 'Cannes'. He completed three screenplays and was rejected each time despite his teachers telling him he had more talent than his peers. So much for their advice and the subsequent mental illness. He has retreated to the serene suburban confines of Eltham, once legendary for it's art communes, now another dull suburb like all the rest. This has made him a very 'Angry Penguin' and fuels his inner rebellion against personal mediocrity..."
Internet Poetry Manifesto: How social media will spawn a major revitalization in poetry...
"it’s often said that no one cares about poetry, but every day millions of people are looking for content online. sites like tumblr are built around sharing videos, pictures, and text. there is nothing inherently boring or old-fashioned about poetry, and with the freedom of form that poetry has exhibited throughout history, there’s no reason why poetry can’t thrive in this kind of environment. i believe we are entering an era where dedicated living poets will be able to achieve larger, more engaged audiences than ever before..."
Steve Roggenbuck is a 23 years old and he lives in chicago. he grew up in rural michigan and played in a death metal band in high school. he is a vegan and a buddhist. everything he makes is available free online, self-published into the public domain and I'm now a massive fan.
