FWD: Re Blog From Toronto

“. . . and talking of getting one’s rocks off, allow me to introduce you to Teri Louise Kelly, agent provocateur and transgendered author hailing from Australia. Not that she, or her work, is, by definition, Australian. Ms Kelly hails from Brighton, the town of Graeme Greene and Clockwork Orange fame. But there, the similarities stop. Her most recent works ‘American Blow Job’, a “faction” memoir that quickly dissects Reaganism and the art of the blow job in America circa 1984, and ‘Girls Like Me’, a razor-edged poetry ride through what can be best described as avant-garde composition heavily-laced with raw sex appeal and in-your-face confrontation, will, hopefully, establish what is in essence a provocative talent, into the throbbing meltdown which currently masquerades as indie lit. If there is a voice somewhere out there, along with the truth, then Kelly’s is most likely it. Search for her on Amazon, B&N blah re e-editions, or at wakefieldpress.com.au or paroxysmpress.com for tree editions – the girl is well worth a few of your literary bucks . . .”

SLICK YELLOW STUFF (FLASH)

SLICK YELLOW STUFF


The Slick Yellow Creek Road runs down from the Slick Yellow Heap to the Wasabi Rumour Mill. It's a well-travelled route for those seeking proof or experience up at the Proof & Experiential Establishment. Apart from proof and experience, there's also rumours, and if it's rumours you're after then you'd stop by the Wasabi. It's an odd place, kind of coincidental to the Corporation, just a shitty yellow stain on the grid really. But a lot of folks pass through, New People mainly, on the hunt for the differential. Some find it at the Wasabi where the Magician turns a few neat tricks most nights. The Magician never got involved in the revolution, the one that wasn't televised, and the Magician had never served a Chic Creature either, and said he wouldn't, even if one did happen to roll up. Not that that was likely now, not after the Chic Creatures had fled to the sanctuary of the Village. That was where they holed up now it was said, after the trap the Double EMs had set for Chico Ink up in Urban. That was a bad business and it had made a lot of New People hit the road looking for stuff. Stuff like the differential sure, but stuff like the no named too, the one up in the place with no name. He was the one who'd had the close encounter with the Duch, the girl who'd carried the theological spore, and it was him who'd put her back through the Gates of Philanthopy. He wasn't really a hero, they said – but he was as near as could be. Every night in the Wasabi Rumour Mill there'd be Stray Cats and Bit Parts all looking for the tale of two cities and stuff like that; all wanting to hear the Magician tell of the Monkey Station where primates like the Great Gatsby and Don Juan wrote the New Episodes to order. To hear those New Episodes though you'd need to be tuned in to the Corporation's broadband receptacle and that was no easy feat. Still, it was about as good as it got most nights in the Wasabi, and if it was folks and opinions you were on the fly for, then that was the place where the freedom of information got freer. Guess the Cactus Flower wine helps oil the wheels of excommunication some, then again it makes some folks lose their grip and dare someone they don't really know to a Canister Show. They just call it “The Show” mostly, and it never lasts long – just long enough for one of the two showboaters to drop stone cold dead out on the Slick Yellow. Next day the Welcome Wagon'll cruise past and its blower'll blow the corpse into Doc's Gutter un that'd be that. Some of 'em find the proof and the experience, and even the differential they're looking for, up on the Slick Yellow Creek Road.

hart & sole

stalk the small incidentals
the hunt negates the obscene tears
in magical illusion
the flaws in routine
presage the sensualist's tendency
to bleed out – dry

the hammer comes down, plangent
mimes a thousand bells tolling
at the sailor's blessed mexican fiesta

keep the butterflies & windmills at arms length
nurse indiscretion
through the valve
the thaw awaits, refulgent.
Another black sun to toil under
for a trust in god
assuages the guilt of liberty
incremental death benefits
on a subsidised plea bargain
buy big, think small
prevaricate over information precipitation
while the waves pound the ruptured shore
honesty lies, motionless & tragic
the war machine grinds on
making bread & human meal.

Chase the exquisite interludes
flirt with the ghosts of yesterday
relocate yourself; from fear to infinity
sip from the font of decadence
stand on the carpment – erect.

Refute the sanctimony of hallows
let the prime numbers fall
into the turgid ocean.