A Tribute To Bill Doss

Noteworthy

The character was in searing pain. Thin skinned and only half formed he lay in a foetal position at the bottom of the writers imagination. He needed fleshing out. The oblivious creator was waiting for his next coffee before he'd continue to muse on the brand new being he was willing into existence.  In his local cafe, notepad and pen at the ready, the writer was also hungry. He walked over to the menu and considered the specials of the day. Half jumbled thoughts of a fractured back-story danced around the characters head. It was agony being barely a form but this was the forge all characters had to pass through on their way to either notoriety or obscurity.  He scrambled around in the dark, trying to find a story hook to hold onto but this must have been the beginning. He was being born before the world he had to fit into had been created. He then found himself on an empty white plain. "Hmmm, Should I have soup, or something a bit more tasty...?" The woman behind the counter stood ready but the writer was proving frustratingly slow with his order. Linda, a girl the creator fancied sidled up to him at the counter. "Hey, how is your day going?" The writer smiled, looking down, losing his train of creative thought. The character could see his creator and this woman talk but it was as if they were on the other side of a tunnel, the picture of them getting further and further away... Running one hand down his body he could feel his underdeveloped aspects. His guts were spilling, literally, "out of character". Where were his motivations? His distinguishing features? He kept thinking this was the cruelest way to be. The long wait towards narrative... It was then, he felt a hand grip his own. Looking up through blinkered, squinting eyes, he saw a half familiar face. It looked like the woman his creator had been speaking to, but slightly different. Somehow the figure was more beautiful, like an idealized painting, an unrealistic impression of that person. Linda sat with the writer and they made awkward small talk. He pushed the pen and pad across the table a bit, wanting to give his companion his full attention. The beautiful figure pulled the unfinished character up on to his still unsteady feet. He felt like a deformed creature unsure of what to do in the face of such conventional beauty. He looked away sullenly. The figure put her hands to his face and said in a comforting tone. "I'm the Muse based on that Linda creature out there. I'm here to help you in this strange new world." The character allowed himself a smile as he stared into his rescuers eyes. "Where did you come from?" he asked, his voice feeble, undefined. "From the margin," the Muse explained. "My...I mean her name..was written there and from that I grew. I guess coming from the template of a person has given me a far more solid form than you as an original creation." She beamed a nice benevolent smile at him . She leaned in for a kiss "This is just the beginnin..." Suddenly the two characters found themselves submerged under water. They couldn't breathe and began to thrash around. The Muse frantically looked around trying to find a dry scrap of paper to cling to. 

"Shit!I'm so sorry!" Linda said as she was trying to dry the piece of paper. She had spilled her bottle of water all over it. "I've ruined your work!" "Don't worry about it," the writer said. "It was nothing really, just some random thoughts and notes. Actually my phone battery has died but here...if I could take your number..."

A strange black object with an ink stained nib began to scribble something near the bottom of the page. Cradling the barely formed character, the Muse tried reaching out for what had been written. It seemed to be a collection of numbers but the "0" or the "8" would have been the ideal life preservers for the drowning couple.  "Urgh..." Her hand pushed closer and closer until she could feel the tip of the ink. It was just out of reach. No matter how hard she tried she couldn't close the distance.  Reality itself seemed to fold over as the top of their world began to crumple up. A drop became a wave and bombarded them. The character and the Muse looked back to where their possible salvation had been. The island of numbers was gone. It had been torn away.

Flirtation

It's been the same voice

circling the very same concerns,

the banks are spilling over with

slang and the great unlearned.

the waves wont let the good themes

flow or take hold

but the brave are frauds, amongst us,

made pretty like lanterns in the cold.

find yourself in the place of the unnurtured flame

the one that dances as if by accident

I wandered down, the paint of the sky drying

from the high roads of sentiment.

and there's a way, a better way to narrow

down desire

I say a young spark like you

could do with

a flirtation with fire

and silly angels dance in the near dark

always with something heavy and worthy

in mind

the agendas overheard of the great untamed

the rules they swear by are barely defined

If i'm to become a fighter of sorts

i must learn to replace the sharpness of a smile

with the blunt edge of swords

and there's a sadder fate for the straight man in the comedy

of the liar

there's nothing ill-fated,

over a flirtation with fire

failures to condemn, retreats to an apology

the smile that frames the forgiven face I say its better that the blessing words are uttered

with great respect at the resting place

but the silence that follows, the bird-less trees mooning over some paradise names

not knowing their mortality when stretched across the age

they foolishly fall in love with the rougish flames.

The House of Words

Like the corner spider unable to understand this city No qualms to the task at hand I'd swear your eyes looked empty. It was a long walk to this place where saints sit in eternal hubris and because these figures never speak their stories will remain forever side-less. A strange fate that does not sit well Something fierce in deeper nature across this patchwork Earth while the mind covets the souls stature. When we are compelled and until truly embraced, even though the tongue is the house of words it still can not explain its taste.

All-Seeing

An evening mask or a pretty

pattern drawn

on the sky of your back

ready for nights waiting hand

the skeletal bottles collect

on the porch

ready for the warm house invite

and the patter of the confident booms strong

I can not wait til the calm

when all the violence is gone

but the walls as thin as whispers

and it reaches the sleeping mind

the inquisitive part

the seas are receding

faster than the beaches are formed.

We are still all the way put together

the slip of years warming the bones of youth

the body is a temple, on a Holy River

and no one descends from the mountains

to hear my truth

when the figures brush against me

and the naked boast they are all seeing

I can not remember for my life, anything

past the point of my own body, that the

light is now catching.

A Blood-splatter analysis of the Dexter finale

The confusions to be found at the base of this narrative seems to suggest a sadistic writing team who used whatever "blunt instruments" were at hand to overpower the audience. The angle they took, if you can follow the attempts at tying up of all the messy loose ends to the right of the victim tells us that this was not a Six Feet Under copycat killer as Michael C. Hall's work there was at least given a satisfying conclusion. The abrasions to this body of work could be described as heavy handed and seems to be the act of a showrunner in a rush, perhaps fleeing with a large amount of money before the true nature of his crime is discovered. Writers of this type seem to have an innate lack of subtlety probably stemming from a childhood need to insert unnecessary symbolism and a love of endings which require absolutely no investment. We're looking at an 8th season suspect who very often talks to himself in the guise of ponderous "voice overs". The suspect is syndicated and dangerous and currently at large on the re-run.

Cat-ch 22 - A Poem about Cats and the Internet

  I was thinking about cats, the domestic pet How much space is devoted to these dolls through their odd relationship with the Internet And how they've come to have the prefix, "lol"s

Every Tom, Quick and Furry Every Tab Key leading to a Tabby The whole wide web is in such a hurry We even had a cat known for just being crabby Over them the whole world has flipped Even when kind or when vicious I guess it can be traced back to Ancient Egypt. All the way back to the black cat smugly superstitious. The timeline of the felined The whole kitten and kaboodle From the feral to the sterile kind (Have you ever heard Cat sex? it's brutal) Their retractable claws giving me practical pause and leaving marks on my arms And of their rational cause in stalking distractible jackdaws I could spin you many yarns. I wonder of their nine lives Which one really counts? Purring and scurrying Waiting for the moment to pounce After the climbing of trees, and scaling some fences They'd catch a scent in the breeze Just one of their heightened senses. Landing on their feet however one falls Grooming themselves and their young No wonder they pick up hairballs with a sandpaper like tongue They slink through the night with unique vertebrae Only when they are gone do mice come out to play But the Queens are Glaring at their prey This is the same all over from Housecat to stray. So when I see my thousandth cat picture, I think of songs, cartoons and ancient scripture And it seems no suprise their stance in pop culture Falling for something so adorable is human nature So felis catus would love to be seen as Royal But Dogs should make a big on-line come back Cause the audience would be canine-like , so loyal To challenge this current monopoly of Cat Writers note: I've written plenty of poems about forbidden love. This one is for-kitten love.

An Illuminating Encounter

Sam was sick of waiting. The woman on the phone said the Electrician could arrive at any time on the Monday between the hours of 9am and 5pm. That was his whole day gone. He had to book some time off work, which hurt him more in principle than anything. He couldn't have gone in any way, not with this hanging over him. He felt very unfulfilled at his job and it was the one place his ideas were never heard or nurtured. So Sam killed some time, reading, watching TV but in all his pursuits he was distracted. Afraid he would lose it, if some part of his mind wasn't constantly dwelling on it. At 1.43, there was a knock on his door. Cursing the low door ways of his house he carefully ducked as he walked through them into the hallway. "Hello Sir, "came a cheery voice from the Electrician as he entered the house. "I'd ask what's the problem...but I have eyes. I can see it quite clearly!" Sam didn't need to point it out. Over his head, a few feet up, hung a light bulb floating in the air but totally dead and dark, as if someone had turned it off. "I've had this all weekend. Couldn't leave the house and there was no-one on call til Monday, "Sam fumed, leading the Electrician into his kitchen. They both sat at the table. "Thanks for coming out though." The Electrician replied. "Thank you for being here! You have no idea how often I go out to someones house and there's no-one to let me in." "So like a false alarm?" "Oh yeah, I have to remove false alarms from people psyches all the time!" Sam poured a drink for his guest. "Alright Buddy," the Electrician bellowed, "Talk me through it." "Ok, last Friday night, I came up with this ridiculously good idea. We're talking a game changer. Well maybe. I'm a sort of a part time inventor and well I was really excited but then...well this happened. The light bulb appeared over my head but it was switched off. Is this common?" "Sure, happens all the time. You see people are...y'know...tentative with ideas. On like a subconscious level. They worry it mightn't be thought out enough, or sometimes folk are afraid that their idea has been done before. It all depends on how you're wired man." Sam was anxious. "I'm afraid to take a shower! I don't want to get electrocuted!" The Electrician looked in his bag. Rifling through it, it was obvious he was trying to find some thing. He removed various forms of pliers, voltage indicators and insulation. Sam's eyes widened at each new tool that was laid on the table. It looked like it was going to be a physically taxing job. Finally the tradesman found what he was looking for. "There she is, at fucking last." He placed a messy notebook on the table along with a chewed on pen. Noticing Sam taking in all the hardware he laughed. "Oh no. No! This isn't for your job Lad. My next job is a husband and wife. Their relationship needs a little bit of a spark after all these years! For you ,all I need is a notebook." Sam was unsure about this. "For real?" The Electrician began to put away the miscellaneous equipment before testing that the pen could write. He looked up at the poorly illuminated Sam. "Basically we have got to work through your idea a bit more. Flesh it out. And boom, let there be light!" Sam shifted nervously in his chair. "Um...well....I'm not so sure about going through my idea..." "Jesus man, I'm not going to steal your idea. I'm happy with my lot in life and plus I've been privy to far more lucrative jobs than this. I think I'll beat temptation here." For the next hour Sam outlined his great idea. The Electrician was taking notes. As a seasoned worker, he asked the questions that needed to be discussed to ensure the ideas viability. Despite his initial hesitation Sam enjoyed the process and even indulged in a little give and take about the concept. 

Success! The light bulb over his head flickered to life and while it still remained that bit dim, it was nonetheless a nice soft light. "Ha, I wouldn't read by it, "The Electrician joked. "But as ideas go, it gets my volt!" Sam waved off the helpful Electrician, telling him he would have to be credited, should the plan come to fruition. "I'll just take the bill kid. It's my job!" Getting back into his van, he was dismayed to learn it would not start. "Fucks sake," he exhaled. "This is a state of the art vehicle here. It's meant to run on fumes!" A few more tries of the ignition proved fruitless. He took out his mobile and made a call. He was informed that it might take an hour or two for what he asked to be done. "Great, I'll just have to sit here then." He sank back into the drivers seat. "And wait for that damn Fumigator."

Judo Intellectuals

The crowd was going wild as the two combatants social circled each other ready to pronounce, if the chance presented itself. They began to chant the name of the younger fighter, an artist who was given the public tested nickname of Sugar Man Ray Leonard. Thing is he was called that because he was boxing clever. But that would do him no good. This was judo. The more experienced fighter was dubbed the Obscure as he had a plethora of knowledge that served him well in his previous matches. He had swiftly defeated Thesaurus Rex and the Hip-Ocrite was no match for his peerless learned off references and his relentless posturing. He bristled at his nickname, fearing some people would assume a thematic link to the band The Cure, a musical outfit far too well known for this individual to associate himself with.  His coach stood on the sidelines, chewing on his stereo-gum mouthing the lyrics from a million Japan only released b-sides. He had prepared his fighter well but you never know where a heated conversation could go. In this world of Wikipedia as the ultimate training tool, fighters had it tough. Everyone was so well informed these days. As Sugar Man Ray unleashed a shaky but compelling treatise on the disestablishment of outdated draconian governmental ideals the Obscure felt his intellectual mettle take a bit of a knocking. Politics was a weak area and he had made the mistake he always did. He wasn't holding a liberal arts magazine in front of his face as protection. He began to sweat and looked towards the timer. Was it really the same round? It had felt like this particular period of time was stretching on as long as a contemporary art installation. The polymath just didn't add up. Following another well timed satirical swipe from Sugar it was clear he was struggling with his topics and lazily slurred a passage from Franny and Zooey in an attempt to steady himself. "That's as deep as you go Salinger-wise buddy? Pathetic!" his opponent taunted him. "Let me introduce you to my little friend Seymour.." Another direct hit. The Judgemental corner began scribbling in their moleskins and this fight seemed to be ready to Finnish like it was Apocalyptica.  To be fair, in traditional judo punching isn't allowed but the other fighter had gotten in his punchy prose before anyone was talking about getting punches in. Things hadn't always been this way. He had loved to absorb cultural touchstones as a child for the sake of proper learning but it was when a teenage desire to "take on the system" had mutated into a smug 20-something hubris did he realise he had lost his way. What was once a Scott Pilgrimage for him had now become just another Ghost World of thwarted ideals and expressionistic graphic novels. And the fighting industry wasn't the same either. The "Psuits" had it all sewn up, in both meanings of the phrase. Obscure wasn't ready to just fade into obscurity that easily and with a well planted zinger on his opponents moniker. "You should be called Sigur Ros Leonard!" he got his second wind. But it was probably the first wind most of the crowd had heard of. He stepped up his game, readying his signature move, a complicated maneuver his critics had called "The Pullman". It was just an elaborate name for back-Philip that he'd poetry slam on Sugar but the timing was very important. It was his turn to taunt. "Stop hitting your Will Self! Stop hitting your Will Self as he spun his way around Sugar Man Ray he began spouting film reviews of of French New Wave cinema, adding some bland platitudes about a cultural Renaissance. His mixture of classicist film critiques before a swift super(upper)cut of famous film quotes and insults proved too much for his once formidable foe. "I always said I'd hurt you,"The Obscure said in a moment of faux sincerity to his enemy. " I told you I'm a fuck up who would mess you up in the long run." Sugar Man Ray conceded defeat, reasoning that he had a mean Left Agenda. "But then I lean on my left a lot too," he consoled himself. Retiring to his library just outside the ring he began to lick his wounds and apply for unrealistic environmental drives. The Obscure had won the day and perhaps garnered too much acclaim. He knew his career was over but he was going out in a big cult classic way.  The Referee/Lecturer held up his hands to the build of an ecstatic crowd cheer.  This was the crowd who had just minutes ago wanted Sugar Man Ray to truimph but they had quickly changed their minds. I think it's called backlash. "Well Educated Ladies and Thoroughly Well Researched Gentleman. I present to you The Obscure who is our new Noam Chom-pion!!"

without title There's something brutal and special, beautiful and brittle about such a restorative rebuttal. it's not subtle, and it's not supple but it is super suitable to that of the more malleable millennial. and i guess it's just the perennial and the parental the supplemental instead of the fundamental and the more cruelly critical if deemed considerable well that's just atypical, anatomically analytical of the abominable and the abysmal why be miserable in the denial of any sort of miracle when the possible and the palatable are positively powerful and it's not tyrannical to demand change, be vocal champion local, detest bigotry and the unhelpful be hopeful, I dread to think of the dreadfully incapable You can't argue with a fanatical the odds of changing their minds is astronomical and I've never been all that mathematical but we shouldn't need a funeral to become spiritual, communal It's sad that such a grim ritual has become so habitual maybe these things will change in steps that are gradual and be wary of awful views that can border on the cusp of the casual Be mindful of plights around you that could be invisible. Signs in protests don't need to be grammatical or practical they can hang with questions rhetorical they can talk about topics regrettable With truth don't take a morsel Consume the mouthful believe me the respect will be mutual they can also blaze with power irrevocable and words wilfully wise could be deemed unpractical or whimsical Be the well read and readily available rascal Goodness should be commonplace not something special.and it should be placed alongside the cerebral and the celestial. I suspect anyone who boasts about being a radical gentle condescension lacking in truer comprehension a gent in a monocle lecturing the man in a shackle. Ideas of course are critical but hey let's just spitball and make sure we are never cynical, I want to look back from death inevitable and know from the break of the umbilical I was moral and I was ethical and that vicious things when all is final do die out and virtue is the thing that is cyclical 

Half Past Danger, Long Past time

Half Past Danger Issue #1 - Review by Emmet O'Brien Torn from every cliffhanger comic strip, blessed with the same breathless energy as a matinee serial and full of dynamic energy, Stephen Mooney's Half Past Danger is an absolute delight and easily one of the most fun comics being put out at the moment. It's the province of pulp to throw element after element at you and for any thrill seeking heart a comic that packs in retro hi-jinx, femme fatales and "War is (Prehistoric) Hell" asides will charm a particular sort of reader. Comics can be so dour and psychological these days, deconstructing but not celebrating. Now I must admit, my own particular sensibilities run alongside this tonal tornado as a kid weaned on, Indiana Jones, Tintin, The Phantom, Ka-Zar, Doc Savage and their ilk and despite a resolutely Irish hero in HPD's Tommy Flynn the DNA is easy to isolate as being of a very American flavoured action story. It's the Irish aspect that adds a little extra spice to this brew of disparate action tropes. The story of an Army Squad coming face to face with dinosaurs while on patrol on an isolated Japanese Island, the book is fast paced and dangerous, a tricky thing to establish legitimate peril  while having a tongue very much in its cheek but it succeeds with roguish aplomb. If anything almost too much happens, Flynn finds himself traumatised after the Jurassic jaunt and is drowning his sorrows in New York when he is approached by two mysterious British military types, one being a Steve Rogers-esque bruiser while the other is an alluring dame. Pitched at a hyper real level with Mooney's art at its current apex (we can only imagine the more settled he becomes in this world, the even more vibrant the art will become) this is the sort of comic I have been waiting for, for a very long time. Beautifully punched up with Jordie Bellaire's superlative colouring skills, further adding a timeless old world sheen, one can get lost in the tones and textures of the mad-cap world Flynn has to navigate through. With just enough intrigue to hook but not overwhelm and spectacle aplenty, this is derring-do, daringly done right. Keep up to date with Half Past Danger and the talented Stephen Mooney through his site. http://www.halfpastdanger.com/