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by Tom Walmsley the resurrection shuffle our last night i shot all the demerol sundown to midnight violet drank wine the idiot radio buzzed louder than the stones we were swollen & tender at dawn too sore for heaven too stoned to stop oh man it was the drugs it was the drugs. tommy's teeth left marks he sucked my blood i kissed his mouth i rocked him into dreams & stole whatever i could carry his leather jacket guitar 30 bucks even a coke from the fridge & i never kissed tommy again. violet went to montreal 2 years later you were born. your words are mud no face no place tel aviv just a name turned into winnipeg or anywhere you were in toronto seven years old & i was in tel aviv married - there is no reason for mystery i don't want to give you those things baby they're all yours secret & sacred you want to find a few people who truly interest me & go to bed with them & i want to keep it for myself. maybe you should have kept it to yourself sweet thing tucked it in your knapsack next to muddy words i can't understand & words you've forgotten. emails shrink & whisper after midnight sent & read at 1 at 2 at 3 a.m. you know you'll never feel okay about leaving my sweetheart in this situation. neither will your sweetheart. you want respite from the shadow of death & i don't blame you but there's no such thing, child, there is no such fucking thing. & if you think i have no sense of what kind of pain you're in or what i did to you you're wrong even i don't know what you did to me baby what did you do? did it hurt? 1 after ten minutes & 30 years i shot up again i went into vertical spin i fell down the well i could smell the shot the real thing i couldn't see i couldn't stand i had to crawl it was all wrong angel stayed angel left i was not going to die. smith arrived & panicked when i said heroin like when i heard dead the night my mother died words of ill repute heroin & dead angel on the phone calmed smith with logic & conviction then she gave the phone to me. i'll do anything for love i said. 2 there you are wearing nothing but 23 years nothing but nerve flesh marks the spot death in every breath my age written on each forgotten muscle the truth in clear & violent focus watch the naked games our bodies public & dark your secret emails brimming with promises & promises showing your face to the leather world. let's eat. 3 there is no dallas 1963 no jackie gleason no rowdy yates not the beach boys or howdy doody no manson family there is no first man on the moon - so what on earth do we talk about they ask like it's a question. what on earth. 4 bare feet creak the broken slats a hot day bright on the deck naked & alone smith with perfect posture slowly passes every window & you pose bend over raise your arms seen by a hundred dark panes you & smith alone & separate beautiful & alone. doctors scribble a few words that bring more grief than all the junk in mexico. smith stripped & you undressed & i can't remember what i did what you did then or later you both agreed it was hot & unhappy & i can't remember what i did what you did then or later was it hot & unhappy was it a few words from a doctor? 5 both angel's arms scarred by love & drugs wrap around his helmet his motorcycle waits in the sun i look at angel i can't see past his shades he loves the heat it's cool in here but not as cool as he is nothing is as cool as angel. angel talks & watches his helmet & i try not to stare at his mouth. today is monday. 6 here i am with smith it doesn't amuse anyone they don't bray ugly & mirthless they don't fake surprise they know they must know we were born on different planets & this brings no cunty smiles no questions no one is astonished but us. 7 at 3 a.m. i sent a text: i am in a tattoo parlour on a scavenger hunt waiting i looked down the corridor wide empty silent - it was the hospital the hospital again my arm freed from med tech i wore clothes & there was no scavenger hunt smith woke you & told you & you worried & she worried & none of us even knew i had cancer. 8 she bought you a drink it was your birthday you deceived her your lack of doubt your confidence fooled her drinking with your rival not drunk at a party you weren't celebrating friends didn't cover your life like colourful clothes - smith had that, not you & your birthday every birthday was a day i could have wept remembering the names you spoke wondering where they were where were they? you went to the other side of the world - are they there? 9 i was in the isolation ward yellow as a crayon high on hash reading silver surfer comics writing notes the cleaners delivered to the girl across the hall & in walked violet with a handful of weeds she threw them in my face turned & walked out. violet made sense to me it makes all the difference 10 she threw pebbles at my window smith cast stones she neutered my phone - she sat alone in waiting rooms afraid of test results she sat alone watching promises become lies your mother told you i should have known better after you shared every tear your mother condensed my epitaph & our alliance & we began again we rolled through my past my endless past we found thrills with strangers & i should have known better i lost you to strangers & i lost smith i had it coming i lost you to strangers i lost smith to everything else. 11 smith keeps secret her ordinary days i sweat over damnation & the outer darkness angel drives a tow truck tuesdays i meet my priest for coffee you left the country i stopped praying smith won't talk angel is driving a tow truck too busy. 12 i touched him there you touched me here are my vile affections worse than crossing time & laying hands on you on your young flesh? just ask saint paul ask about working that which is unseemly or go ahead & ask me. did i ruin you with kink even kinksters find too kinky? i won't ask the priest & i can't ask you & i have other questions for angel. 13 smith was with a short fat sick man who wasn't me for years & years must be her type they met every morning early for their walk they rode bicycles wherever people ride bicycles they rented cars for day trips he ate dinner with her family & friends they all went to bermuda on vacation they work on the same magazine live in the same building it makes sense to everyone leaving out omissions & fabrications i have a few facts to make you laugh i'll bet you'll laugh - i don't meet smith in the morning we don't walk or rent cars & i say fuck bicycles i have never met her family i don't know where they live never met her friends i have never been in her apartment listen: i have never been in her apartment let alone bermuda we don't work together on anything & i am the love of her life - & what the fuck i mean WHAT THE FUCK 14 my birthday was nice my roommate had a little party for me i got quite drunk - that's what I get for letting a russian mix the drinks - 15 your picture online the camera overhead your cheek against his young stubble faces upside down together my stubble old grey & idiotic & there you are young together there you are cheek to cheek there you are. 16 smith & her history the history my sweating mind invents the only history that counts crushes my broken yesterdays my diseased everything my list of didn't do wouldn't do will never do a list as long as her own she turns on the lights i dash for a crack in the plaster too late - she is looking down & i am crawling my history rolls over your dreams turns them flat sucks out the colour yeah i know i know how it feels you have nothing to fear i shut the door this place is dark the lights are off they don't work here not for you not for me. 17 all day i knew you were angry so angry you posted a picture you knew i'd find you knew i'd be hurt - you were angry with me all day i knew it & all night long i knew i was wrong you had no me in your mind only you both of us were thinking about you about nothing but you & there it is. 18 lying on the grass i thought fuck it i said i have a crush on you & angel smiled he didn't say i was out of luck exactly but he did not put me on his bike i did not circle his waist with my arms he did not speed us home & we did not live happily ever after. i saw him today & i said fuck it never love a junkie 30 years changed the lyrics but i kept on humming the song maybe you heard it maybe you know it & maybe you heard me singing just like an angel. 19 this birthday i knew the rules i made the rules no words no calls my brilliant idea a silence too long i broke the rules it was your birthday we said hello all we really said was hello i said heroin & you had words to say the same words as everybody else - what is it with you people? you stopped you were kind i knew we'd be friends & i never heard from you again. the book is closed the curtain lowered etcetera no one is crying emily you could have said goodbye you made us strangers emily i don't care now or tomorrow but you could have said goodbye emily you didn't you haven't you won't so i'm saying it for you goodbye 20 if it had been junk, had i shot junk neck & neck with infections & cancer, shot junk 4 years long i might have a memory of maybe 10 minutes worth of love maybe 10 minutes of nostalgia i might even have 10 minutes worth singing about but i took you instead of heroin i took you in sickness & in health & i'll give credit where it's due - you make junk look good, baby you make it look good. 10 years & 20,000 miles turned to dust with a single kiss in quebec city it scattered the angels & i said to her i said to violet 2 hearts one heartbeat & she touched my face she smiled she shook her head & she went home to her kids. Tom Walmsley has written several award-winning plays and film scripts, along with four novels. He won the second International Three-Day Novel Writing Contest in 1979 for the infamous Doctor Tin, published by Pulp Press. Arsenal Pulp Press later published a sequel, Shades: The Whole Story of Doctor Tin, which was followed by Kid Stuff. His most recent novel, Dog Eat Rat, was published by Mansfield Press in November 2009. He lives in Toronto. Phone Me by Lawrence Shepp I can't concentrate any more I don't know what's wrong with me You keep phoning all night every night and some mornings before work any excuse to call Sometimes I ignore your call when I see your name you can't exist without that thing you are no more than a voice whining pleading crying laughing whispers and curses Do you realize I have not seen you in the flesh for 16 days but we have talked for more than 11 hours in total? One of my phone's features says this: It shows that we have talked for 747 minutes and 11 seconds since we last saw each other You tell me this is a relationship what we are doing it is what friends do even sex partners We had phone sex this past weekend You said you used the phone itself as a dildo while having my voice on speaker and I yelled about how hard I was fucking you Lawrence Shepp is a poet and video store clerk. He lives in Omaha. Brilliant Young Doctor by Liu Chiang I stood with the nurses and the young physician said this man is a bleeder My hand covered my mouth and they all stared at me the doctor too We could see the man whose shirt nearly all red with blood was bleeding The doctor stared at me and I expected the nurses to say something since they are only a short step beneath him and I am a mere orderly but the nurses laid their hands on the dead or unconscious man He has stopped bleeding I said He is not a bleeder The doctor walked away peeling off his surgical gloves and threw them at a bin You are insane said the oldest nurse now you will never be a doctor your parents will be destroyed and they will die of this monstrosity The man is not a bleeder I insisted and added, I am already a doctor and you are still lowly nurse washer women cows in the field pigs running in the street after the bus never to drive a car and I am already diagnosing beautifully far into the future where I will be the respected surgeon and that fool will admire my hands covered in a sheen of forgiving blood and secretly wish they would curl into fists for him alone Liu Chiang is a translator, novelist and poet. She lives in Shanghai. The Heavyweights by Aubrey Singer john l. sullivan bent me over a table fucked me with blood on his knuckles fucked me without a dab of grease & the whole bar cheered except the guy bleeding on the floor. sonny liston so long thick & delicious we went at it 15 rounds or less - he couldn't come out for the 6th helpless pumping a quart as thick as a milkshake down my throat. i thought i'd die if he shoved it up my ass i knew i'd die if he didn't Aubrey Singer is one of Israel's best loved underground poets. He lives by the seaside at Eilat. It Is Official by Jamillah Ayoun-Frick (translated from German) Who asked you? I didn't ask for your opinion, did I? Oh, I see. Now you've written it down. Good for you. You have formulated a thought into a factually incorrect bit of prose. I am extremely happy for you because now you are a writer and have joined that great snaking army. Yes yes I know, the pen is mightier than the sword. I have another one for you: Paradise lives in the shadow of swords. Go ahead, you can use it because it is official according to officials at UNESCO. The world now has more writers than readers. The official figures indicate the current ratio is 1.32 writers to 1 reader and growing geometrically in favor of the writers. So hurry to the back of the line. I have heard official rumors it is 649 kilometers in that direction. Jamillah Ayoun-Frick is a short story writer and poet. She lives in Leipzig, Germany. Ode to the publication: Canadian Literature - A Quarterly of Criticism and Review by Lambert G. Closse Uh, knock knock, hello? Hey, Whitey, you in there? I just noticed your 50th pile of gardening magazines. Glad you managed to chase off those dandelions after they puffed up. And we all thought Whitey was a cold bronze statute outside that new mall in Chief Thunder Pants, Ontario. Nope, still gabbin' in the doorway of the English Lit common room, still bearded and narrow footed. Yep, of course, we get it, you gotta rush off to a class now and I hear your good bud Archie Lampman still gets verily engorged. Oh, Whitey, I gotta admit, you're our DC Scott and we're your residential school injuns. Beat us, rape us, nail our tongues to our desks and rent our tawny asses to those hardy Dauphin miners. Just like Ol' DC underwrote, and his forefather, Masta Nicky Flood Davin, had suggested to Papa John A. MacDonald, cousin of Ronald and great antecedent of the tam o'shantered girl on the green cigarette pack. Lambert G. Closse is a poet and trapper. He lives on the outskirts of Dawson City, Yukon Territory. |