Showing posts with label ben john smith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ben john smith. Show all posts
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Regardless of Authority #2
Regardless of Authority Issue Two is now live. It features poetry from Edward Krzeminski, Tim Peeler, Adrian Manning, April Michelle Bratten, Melanie Browne, Walter Thomas Beck III, Michele McDannold, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Nathan Graziano, Jason Fisk, and JJ Campbell. It also features photography and art from David Thompson, Eugenia Loli, Melanie Browne, Jennifer Tomaloff, Ben John Smith, and Abigail Beaudelle. Enjoy!! http://regardlessofauthority.wordpress.com/
Monday, September 17, 2012
Call for Submissions: Grandpa Shit His Pants
Catfish McDaris in partnership with Ben John Smith is starting a heavy duty enterprise in conjunction with Horror Sleaze Trash called Grandpa Shit His Pants (or Pigpen Gets The Blues, you choose)
They're looking for poems or flash that will bring you to your knees grinning. E-mail Catfish at Mcdar3@aol.com.
They're looking for poems or flash that will bring you to your knees grinning. E-mail Catfish at Mcdar3@aol.com.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Review of Dancing Naked on Bukowski's Grave
DANCING NAKED ON BUKOWSKI’S GRAVE
by Ben John Smith & Catfish McDaris
135 page Hardcover at Lulu.com
All night I dreamed of the poems of Ben John Smith and Catfish McDaris in their new book Dancing Naked on Bukowski’s Grave. I read non-stop the Catfish section which comprises the second half of the book, tore through it like the sex-crazed maniac I’ve always been, running down the street after that guilt-ridden fantasy bus headlined real life. Afterward on the bus, and in my tortured sleep, I began to understand the meaning of the ritual phrase that’s what I’m talking about. I formed words in my dreams to explain to Catfish how reading his amazing output was like looking into his soul, if anyone has such a thing, because oddly, he approaches soulful material through an outrage of the senses, because he talks about boogers and shit and glorious cunt-holes that most people lack the courage to discuss, yet isn’t that where we all live?
Take for instance “Even Rats Party in Hell’s Kitchen”, a fantastical portrait of the toilet at Dangerfield’s Comedy Club, the cooking up of a poetic recipe that starts out with some possibly true measurements. 1) toilets in NYC and Paris are in “dim decrepit basements, swampy funk-ridden holes”; 2) “the stairway is rancid”; 3) “a cloud of maryjane fumes engulfed me”; 4) “I heard female laughter and an Asian language coming from the Men’s Room”; the rest could be called imagination, or not, when it introduces “a talking rat” with “a tiny hard-on”. With these ingredients Catfish leaves the kitchen and enters the inner rooms of the soul, a mystical journey to jolt the jaded and wise-up the weary.
“While Bogart Played with Rock Hudson’s Balls” is another myth-buster. We knew Rock was gay but what about Bogart? I always suspected he was a real pussy with his various wives in spite of his tough guy image. I could imagine Lauren putting him to bed with a glass of warm milk. Sure, he smoked, but that only began as a way to show what a regular guy he was. Then he became addicted to sucking butts. Maybe Rock was the one with the real balls; gay, and enjoying his lifestyle to the hilt. Like the cops in stanza three. What’s this tough guy bullshit all about, anyway? Think about it with help from Catfish.
—Patricia Hickerson
by Ben John Smith & Catfish McDaris
135 page Hardcover at Lulu.com
All night I dreamed of the poems of Ben John Smith and Catfish McDaris in their new book Dancing Naked on Bukowski’s Grave. I read non-stop the Catfish section which comprises the second half of the book, tore through it like the sex-crazed maniac I’ve always been, running down the street after that guilt-ridden fantasy bus headlined real life. Afterward on the bus, and in my tortured sleep, I began to understand the meaning of the ritual phrase that’s what I’m talking about. I formed words in my dreams to explain to Catfish how reading his amazing output was like looking into his soul, if anyone has such a thing, because oddly, he approaches soulful material through an outrage of the senses, because he talks about boogers and shit and glorious cunt-holes that most people lack the courage to discuss, yet isn’t that where we all live?
Take for instance “Even Rats Party in Hell’s Kitchen”, a fantastical portrait of the toilet at Dangerfield’s Comedy Club, the cooking up of a poetic recipe that starts out with some possibly true measurements. 1) toilets in NYC and Paris are in “dim decrepit basements, swampy funk-ridden holes”; 2) “the stairway is rancid”; 3) “a cloud of maryjane fumes engulfed me”; 4) “I heard female laughter and an Asian language coming from the Men’s Room”; the rest could be called imagination, or not, when it introduces “a talking rat” with “a tiny hard-on”. With these ingredients Catfish leaves the kitchen and enters the inner rooms of the soul, a mystical journey to jolt the jaded and wise-up the weary.
“While Bogart Played with Rock Hudson’s Balls” is another myth-buster. We knew Rock was gay but what about Bogart? I always suspected he was a real pussy with his various wives in spite of his tough guy image. I could imagine Lauren putting him to bed with a glass of warm milk. Sure, he smoked, but that only began as a way to show what a regular guy he was. Then he became addicted to sucking butts. Maybe Rock was the one with the real balls; gay, and enjoying his lifestyle to the hilt. Like the cops in stanza three. What’s this tough guy bullshit all about, anyway? Think about it with help from Catfish.
—Patricia Hickerson
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Dancing Naked On Bukowski’s Grave.
The joint collaborative of Catfish McDaris and Ben John Smith is on the shelves and ready to rock ya jocks. Featuring flash fictions, poetry, rare photographs and zine scans, this bad bitch should make a nun cum. Hard cover, 130 pages, split right in the guts – half BJS and the other CD, as cheap as it could possibly be made for, or download the PDF file for a buck or so.
via Dancing Naked On Bukowski’s Grave..
via Dancing Naked On Bukowski’s Grave..
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)