Deep Tissue Magazine - January 2009

Deep Tissue Magazine   

Issue # 1, January 2008 

 

    Deep Piercing Cut ‐ Editor  Glen Still ‐ Contributing Editor  A 10K Poets Publication     

Front Cover Graphic Thanks to artist Stephen Viner for the use of his artwork “Lost” on the cover. Steve Viner, was born in 1970 and lives in Dorset England with his Wife and Daughter Athene. He did one year at Norton Radstock College studying art and design, and found his way to the magic of digital art. Steve held a rather successful exhibition in Shaftesbury in autumn 2004, selling several pieces, as well as illustrating C.D covers and flyers for local bands.

Message from the Editor

Hello, everyone, I welcome you to the first issue of Deep Tissue Magazine. Deep Tissue is a new e-zine dedicated to bringing you some of the best poetry on the web. It is my wish that you find the poems in this issue both entertaining and enlightening. Deep Tissue Magazine is a 10K Poets publication. You can find other great poetry on the two other 10K Poets Publications Eviscerator Heaven and 10K Poets Zine. I would like to thank all of the great poets who submitted poems for this inaugural issue. I utterly amazed by the quality of poetry that was submitted. In this issue you will find works from Roseanne Morales, Celeste, Natalia Beller, Glohorizon, Brandi, Christopher Howell, Wayne Russell, Crashimp, Benjamin Nardolili, and Beauty’s Beast, Tyler Collins, Glen Still, Christian Alvarez, Samara, Dan Kellet, Mountain Girl and Jeff Sibley. Lastly, I would like to thank Glen Still for his insight and exceptional taste in helping me put this first issue of DTM together. I hope you enjoy reading this first issue as much as we did putting it together. Glen Lantz - Editor

Roseanne Morales The Race Is Lost Open your mouth and make me smile; if only the curling of a lip in slide. A raise of an eyebrow, a twitch of an eye; it's better to snicker than cry. Devo is here; intelligent monkeys make light of their shit, make Darwin uncomfortable. A idiot's theses, an imbecile's proposal; all couched as something intelligible. Empty boxes on satellite, speaking with no thought behind them; Only exist to remind them of the newest toilet flush. A horror movie starring the human race; sure to keep you screaming with night sweats. My theory's correct, and lest I forget, you'll let your thoughts flow and give it validity. I've locked up my rifles and swallowed the key; for the day I will look and stop laughing.

Rose Morales is 51 years old and lives in Miami, Fl. She has been writing poetry since she was 7 years old. She has some of her poetry on here: myspace.com/1pissedcat  

 

Celeste Canvas taking off her clothes in a snap-shot-private-act of despair smearing black prints over the desirable features she posed in dismay of the freedom she relaxed releasing a pulse of endless nerves cold and pressing-the view of the camera tends to freeze emotion into a single frame confidence relived in a beauty shot a semi-serious nervous laugh creped out motioning the anxiety of each flash quickly positioning herself away from a tasteful-shameful display the photographer approached with coffee in one hand and examples of success in the other she had no choice but to succumb a vision to become numb that was his desire a painted canvas running through captured colors You can see more of Celeste’s work at: myspace.com/celestialsfire

Natalia Beller Waiting So now by this time You already know me Know me inside out There is nothing I wouldn’t tell you There is no reason for me not to trust you And there are a billion reasons for me to want you More and more each day You don’t know that I wait here Wait for you every single day Just until you call me And take this pain away The one that’s now too for me much to bear Cause whenever I think about us There is this other thought scaring me to death I could never have you, no matter what I’d do Cause the one I love loves someone else So I’m waiting I’ll keep waiting for you Why do you always do this? Everyday there is something you say that makes me feel so certain Why do you always do this? Don’t you know how a love fooled feels? But you do those things voluntarily There is nothing I say or do to force you to And everything you say sounds so sincerely And I believe you But then this bell rings and you leave Leave me to go to the one you love And every time you leave my heart breaks Every time a little more until it’s gone I don’t know how long it’s gonna last And you’re the only one to mend it Please come to me and save it Don’t let it fall apart Until you’re here I’ll keep waiting Waiting for you here

Natalia was born in June 29, 1987 in Kazakhstan. When she was 4 years old her parents moved to Germany hoping to start and get a better life in the new country. Growing up she has always been curious about words and body language. She loves spending time watching others and thinking about things others never think about. Natalia started writing poems and songs when she was 12 years old. It was the only device for her feelings and the only way to deal with her problems. You can find Natalia at: myspace.com/miss_mae_west

Christopher Howell Barroom Brawl dark barroom sitting quiet, alone in a booth staring at silent mute TV sitcom slamming one after another I was 8 when I met him sitcom mom mouthing out I love you's to sitcom son I remember the first time it hurt another goes down hard grit my teeth and breathe, blow a hot vodka breath I wince and shudder conversations bleed in and out as my attention jumps from place to place, thought to drink to the table across the room to pop-tart commercial to crumpled paper the cripple on crutches talking loud and friendly a regular he told me this is how a father shows his love the booth beside me people are looking at me sideways while I scribble and finger my next shot getting myself ready for the burn I'm gonna drink myself under the table tonight in just a few more drinks If a Father is a boy's model for God what does that say about God? the last one goes down smooth   Christopher Howell is 28 years old and is a North Carolina Bum. He has been writing bad poetry since he was in High School and has since continued in that tradition. Anstey drunken drivel is how he would describe his style. He asks you to decide for yourself. You can find more of Christopher’s poetry at: myspace.com/sickheart2

Glohorizon This Consequence the kids are running in the hallways throwing cupcakes at passing cars recording girl fights on their cell phone cameras cutting at their arms in bathroom stalls masturbating into the urinals fifteen year olds talk about crack like its candy what consequence can they be given that isn't worse than what they've already done to themselves?

Evo Me there are no urgencies in these voices no no no their hope sits perched upon the highest branches then floats off on the breeze like a melody so so so

melancholy with heart ached stained memories they close their eyes to dream and recite stoic prayers into the morning You can find more of Glo’s poetry at: myspace.com/sundroprays

Beauty’s Beast The Tool In the room of a thousand glares, Eyes love me more passionately Than their hands would ever dare. I am an instrument In the shape of a woman, Used as a tool For a Prick's fulfillment. I've bared witness To the kiss Of the phallic fist. Reserved virginity Was lost In it's midst. The bed forever empty, As my heart Is in it's forced prison. Put into the grave long ago, Is the hope of love Never to be risen. A violent death, In the room Of the secret child. It is only the heart, That grieves man Born savagely wild. For more poetry from the Beast’s Beauty go to:  myspace.com/_beautys_beast_  

Benjamin Nardolili Outside I live here, Beyond the city, Living on the crumbs Cast by generous strangers. I have it, A dirty mark That is cut inside me And keeps the strangers away. It is not Sickness of the skin, No, I am wrinkled and sagging Like any other old man outside. Once I tried When I was proud And younger too, filled With hate, to fight back I was not Strong enough to move The walls of the city back So that I might enter and live. They say I Am cursed, Born with a disease Which trembles downward. Though the means Were cut off, to be safe, They banished me to this place So that I might pray and be healed. I think that It is working, I have lost So much temptation. Benjamin Nardolilli is twenty three years old and lives in New York where he looks for work and inspiration. He is originally from Arlington, VA. His work has appeared in Perigee, Thieves’ Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, The Houston Literary Review and Perspectives Magazine. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com

Wayne Russell Alone Bitter twisted and alone this is probably the way that it was meant to be it's better off that way it makes more sense wolfs howling baying for my blood phantom's, phoenix's, knocking at my door at the stroke of midnight calculated like a dream but that's all in the past now let it go time to heal time to dream and to fly to new heights broken glass sends shivers up my spine when held within tight grasp of my hand a blood letting there will be sometimes some goddess broke into my dungeon my asylum and robbed me blind now she is wandering the frozen ramparts of crystal like dreams forest dark with chaotic thought where mad people roam looking for a home anywhere but here bats in a cave fangs to avoid dripping with elements of blind vision that no one can explain not even on a good day Wayne Russell is a poet that originally hails from Florida in the USA, however now resides in New Zealand with his wife and two young children. Wayne has been writing poetry since the age of 18, and does so for both therapy and love of the art. You can view more of Wayne’s Poetry here: myspace.com/thezodiacpoet

Brandi You’re a good Bitch dear mother of Eden Slither slither dear Mother of Eden do come hither slither slither dear Mother of Eden do bleed for a week, and may your sons murder one another for greed. Slither slither Dear Mother of Eden I've got the gun, Do pull the trigger, Slither slither Eat my apple atomic bombs. Oh snake, Oh snake Father of mountains brought low.. just for one taste, But I musn't eat your shrapnel pie of apple confection It will be my desecration. Oh but Father you do sing a slithery song of longing, One bite will be of delite. Tastes so good father. Slither slither Oh Mother Eden, Oh Eden My sexy minion you are mine. I will poison the minds of your generations I will gather them together to blood baths and holy wars I wage on my arch rivals stage, and I will teach the people of honor to say it is in his name While I slither, slither under the rocks of their scalps and mastermind these vessels I have intoxicated with power and glory forever and I will say

Amen Let it be done.. Slither Slither take one more bite hun to ensure the failure of humanity. You're a good bitch Dear Mother of Eden.

Just having fun here with the idea of the things that an insecure person might ponder??? Why don't you like me? Is my bottom too BIG my mouth too Loud My legs to Short My thighs too !!!! THUNDER!!! Does my fire BLAZE burn your comfort? Does My Book irritate your Revelation? Why don't you like me. AM I A BEAST? can you smell my FEET Am I stupid. Do you hate what I EAT Why don't you like me DO I smell like fresh farm defecation Do you think I caused the ozone's depletion? Is it my lack of education and I don't know about Bukowski-oh mercy me. My abundance of degree? and oh for heaven sakes IS IT MY POETRY? You can find more of Brandi’s poems at: myspace.com/brandidanyell

Crashimp AN OXYMORONIC TALE It is true; Excitement Stimulates Every vital emotion. Yet I prefer The infinite wonder That pries open The doors Of imagination Beyond all realms Of possibility. Picture then My kisses, Washing across Your ashen face Like a soft wind On a summer’s night As you rest So peacefully. I hear the call In your sleep, An eternal whisper: “Take me as I am. Do with me As you please.” I envelop Your hand in mine, With a reply so pure: “Follow me Into the darkness As you seek the light.” I promise That before the dawn Can blossom You shall savior The sacred delights Of my immoral canon For I am always ready To help another Into the shadows

Of their liberty. I fasten The leather clasp Around Your virgin neck, My collar now in place. Your hands bound tight Behind your back, Your leash In knotted friction. Your body lays Straddled Across my knee, Your warm breath Crystallizing In the cold air Through every moan Of pleasure That escapes Your pouting lips With each thunderous note Of my bare hand Upon your naked flesh. My desire knows No bounds for you No limits. My whip now Blazing across Your velvet skin. Your body  Taken, Twisted, Marked, Disfigured. You are drawn To the fire Burning within Because And in spite Of this. Your ultimate fantasy; Your supreme submission

Crashimp was born in Sydney, Australia where he has lived all of his 35 years and began writing earnestly at university. Most label his ink as 'dark' in nature; where as he simply describes it as 'life'. He works in hospitality and travels the world regularly, immersing himself in foreign cultures from which he draws his inspiration. You can find more of Crashimp's ink at: myspace. com/impetuosity

Samara Howel Pious Fraud   Eat Sleep Work Awake alive Baby and child portraits line dusty shelves and newly empty corners, elucidated by dull 40 watts. Vacant love seat & seat less chairs. Snow TV mind at, 4 in the morning. Invisible, unremembered fingerprints placed history on walls. Work Awake Edited lie Papers collected to insurmountable pages piled high FUCKING Garbage It was this time a year ago I had wished to die. Transition into a moving coma state. Sleep Eat Still alive Drowsy eyelids, lovesick choke hold. Picks up 100 pound preprogrammed number. Dial tone every time.   I am 24 year old lover of poetry. Reading is a passion of mine as well as writing. I have dreams of sharing my words with the world. In my early teens I used to write a lot, for years I have put down the ink pen, until my recent heartache with divorce. Visit Samara at: myspace.com/SamaraR  

Tyler Collins A Savior In The Digital Age Not a crumb has been absorbed by your starving mouth That slings bullets to my white flag ears, Yet you're bellies bulging with a baby boy Who's been attached to wires for thirty nine years In an old condemned basement filled with horoscopes And fortunes from fellow walking-deadFilled with asbestos that's absorbing into The sponge sunspots of your hairless head. Meanwhile the televisions cast flash images Of televangelists saving souls for bags of gold And John O'Sullivan had a price on both of his heads Yet the newspaper stated they were already sold. In the next column someone screamed the statement That maybe Jesus was born prematurely Because the world needed a savior in the digital age Some form of a platinum calf we all can see. The side of the roads filled with wooden crosses That created guard rails for waves of traffic And the faces of the victims who were their seeds Were locked away in photo albums in the attic Along with unwanted children who had no names And only came outside on Christmas eve And as soon as they tasted the watery snow They were banished and forced to leaveIn the same manner that you left to the wired city And forgot all about what life was all aboutAnd you drew bathwater expecting a tub of blood But the sight of crystal water made you shout Into the mirror that was once your mothers That was once her lovers and it broke to reveal A medicine cabinet containing bottles of life That would kill your death and cause you to feel. Tyler is eighteen years old and from Kentucky. He is currently a freshman in college, majoring in English. He writes poetry and short stories in his free time. Tyler states that he currently has no direction in life, and has no clue as to what he wants to do in the future.

Glen L. Lantz Sink The water overflows spills over the sink fills the puddles on black and white tiles. Deterministic drops they have purpose in their abandon freefall form. We are barely held together as they fall listen to the sounds. If you are lucky you can see the splash like a junky’s laugh. Between is the silence anticipation for the next bouncing off. We amuse each other with poison extracts funny and rough drenched again. I wash the sleep away and look into the mirror never recognize the stare. Each day I seem more different as I wash away more of me. I wonder about the points my crimes are silent. I watch them circle down like a clockwise dance. You can find more of Glen’s work at: http://www.myspace.com/glenny_the_poet      

Glen Still dog god i take this hit i'm not ashamed then it comes into me i feel like god feeling like he should fuck with a few minds i feel like i'm special considering that he would choose mine i take my dog for a walk and god is walking me asking me why don't i talk why can't i express my feelings i just want to reach up slap him in the face remind him i'm just what you think i am but i'll get over it give me a little space bet your ass i will i'll never be so held up in this state of mind that i need a bone i'm free too free to ever be your victim

Glen Still is the Founder of 10K Poets. He’s been writing poetry since he was seven years old. He is the Managing Editor for 10K Poets Poetry Zine. At age fifty, he feels like he’s just started. You can find more of Glen’s work at: myspace.com/glenstill10kpoet

Christian Alvarez Ms. Taken i need help as a chord rings out everything i care about is in a constant state of goodbye even this is yesterday everywhere is anywhere everywhere i see dead people and close my eyes every night i know the west won the sun i know my kick will shout the paid devil out soft like a thought clear like your culture dropped and broken slipped and watched fade away the sound in my ears is equal opportunity but unspoken picked up taped together a new if not to win but to make same mistakes again and lose and then............. that’s when i wonder just what the fuck it really takes to pace passion? how to live and die in fashion? naked and screaming asleep awake and dreaming lost and found the bass is in my chest and this situation rides and slides changes and rearranges itself up and down from side to and back and i can’t even keep up i had to walk away and now all i want is to come back attack and validate mate with fate life is exactly what i just made of you miss taken id

Christian Lawrence Alvarez has been an artist all of his life, but his writing sparked after a short tour with Saul Williams. His influences range from Burroughs to Subtitle, Lemon to Charlie Parker. Born in the bay area and has been pretty much on the road for the past 6 months. You can find more of Christian’s poems at: http://www.myspace.com/christianalvarez

Samara & Glen Still  

Washed Dirty Tell me you'll, yank, grab, pull onto, hold my hair. With locked, hang nail drag forced fingers. Sinking into the depth Parting waves like Moses, great tides. Ring around the, pocket full of.......... Let ME walk in the straight and narrow. Redefined by Genesis, separated by Revelations No clear in the beginnings, no cleanable endings. You will cling to the apple in Eden I come god walking Tempt you to bite in something Red & throbbing Deep in longing The gates will open into a new beginning The snake will slither acting out the rhythm In the first spoken words from your glossy lips Will resemble a half open kiss Your head pulled back hair in my hand Whispers that just drift Screaming in unison "oh MY god"

Dan Kellett Center Dead Something of a slash dance, This trampling in circles on the outskirts, Of grit and form, Where the ends of my intuition fray, Become center dead, Of a spit target stumble, And I grieve in my swamps of pestilence, Long lived and germ spread, I'm staggered by the human capacity, “To un / relate To alienate,” Its own bloodline, Shrugging with bottomless eye, Immense smug, Colossal miscalculation, man = superior man > animal Yet skyward sought domination, Infects, And an infested earth, Crawls, Plenary power of the undeserving, I've split the center of the man with the blade, The coward of prim stance and 'Olay' shout, And the tea pot whistle brings me joy, Down in this pit, A smirk, The simple stroll through my own castle day, Slipper foot, Wide breath in small town, Deep thrust and devil sounds, And come on by, To see, The slit, Of heart,

And the rise, Of soul, And how wrath leaves not a stem to stand, proper is closing in. The drones find crimson salvation, In pound nailed wrists, Of The Tri Headed victim, Even the omniscient can be betrayed Dan Kellet was born in South Bronx, NY. He considers himself a literary dummy. Outside of the writers and poets I read on Myspace, he says that he doesn't read. Dan started writing poetry about a year and a half ago. Prior to that he only wrote lyrics to the music created by a plethora of local musicians. He has been involved in a few musical projects, all underground with an emphasis on staying underground. Poetry has been a wildly refreshing stray from rhyme and structure for him. You can find more of Kellett’s poems at: myspace.com/dk_d

Mountain Woman Falling Sometimes I need paper screw trees when I'm falling falling on fire addictions sex love drink fall big you for me I'm just falling some other guy holds on I'm pearls from the sea I know truly he's addicted to me so we fall in shadow it is not love addiction is needy as is me. You can find more of Mountain Woman’s writing at: http://myspace.com/ginbenz

Jeff Sibley Sodom and Gomorrah New York City. Mother nature’s frigid asshole. Where depressed writers go to fulfill hopeless dreams, whores roam the streets and crack addicts kill for the high. Steam, stench rise from the hell running below. The horns blare loud, the sidewalk is cracked like the last stone after God’s wrath. Crooked businessmen run the herd of slaves in white collars. Animals are accosted in the serene country surroundings, yet not a word is spoken because the sheep fuckers grow the best weed. Small towns full of poverty and meth and depravity. Babies in dumpsters, bodies in rivers, millionaires on murder trials. Art is bread where darkness rules, and New York is full of that. California. Mother Nature’s pedicure cunt. Where happy porn stars with low self-esteem go to make a name for themselves by how many inches they can jam down their throats. Movie stars run religions, bringing throngs of people to new beliefs like the Pope was once able to do before the kid fucking began. New idols are born every day. In magazines, beaver shots, nip slips, supposed stolen fuck videos. California is a demon’s cock sprinkled with glitter. Both cities resemble the ruins of the past, but if you buy into stories like that, I don’t know what I can do with you. Realize it is human nature that allows these other world forces to affect our lives. God doesn’t give a fuck about earth. Earth doesn’t give a fuck about earth. We’re headed towards an orgasmic splash of blood that will descend upon the streets of rubble

when our souls become dried period blood on Mother Nature’s used tampon. Jeff Sibley is the new poet laureate of back alley bars, bare fisted fights and suicidal drunken nights.. His live readings have become legend wherever he’s performed. He tiptoes the line between good taste and distasteful art. Jeff has been writing for two years and has a collection of short stories, a novel in progress and a full CD of spoken word tracks entitled: Jeff Sibley Death, Drugs and Fucking. He is a writer not in search of fame, instead looking for a connection with the downtrodden. He refuses to live by society’s standards, instead having his own scripture put out for all to read. As un-PC as they come, you may hate Jeff, you may love Jeff but you will never forget him.You can find more of Jeff’s poems at: http://www.myspace.com/johnnydepth13

Francoise Night Flight

My name is Francoise Emilie Bennett and I am French but living and working in the UK at the moment. I am 30 years old and a college graduate. My interests are dance, theatre and travel. I have been writing since I was ten years old. I like keeping journals, nature diaries, writing short stories and poems. I have written a radio play. I am happy to write about anything but I have a great affection for writing about childhood and fame. I often find inspiration for writing when I travel. I like the work of Colette and Violette Leduc, also Charlotte Bronte, Albert Camus and Sylvia Plath. I have written a book (unpublished) and have been published in an anthology of verse 'Inspire The Planet'. My url : http:/www.myspace.com/feb121