Deep Tissue

Magazine

Issue 16

© 2012 Deep Tissue Magazine

Call for Submissions

Deep Tissue Magazine, a creative arts magazine that promotes the efforts of poetry

writers around the world is looking for poetry submissions for the next issue of Deep

Tissue. Send no more than five poems in the body of an e-mail to:

Martinfreebase@yahoo.com

Be sure to put the word “submission” in the subject line of the e-mail.

You can find Deep Tissue Magazine at:

http://deeptissue2.blogspot.com/

Deep Tissue Magazine is edited by Martin Freebase.

You can find his poetry at:

http://martinfreebase.blogspot.com/

Enjoy!

Mark Hartenbach entangled in quintessence

inspired by a rumor it was me that wasn't

there

despite an alleged sound mind in a sound

body

surfs biological abandon with rhinestone

cataracts

accused of irrational behavior because

they can't wrap

their small minds around the workings of a

genius

a fiery no prisoners taken attack on those

who attempted to reduce my place in the

world

instead putting me in their grand scheme

ruminating on vague concepts which will

have me

speaking of time in past tense in circular

logic

instead of breaking through into brilliant

revelation

cancelled inscription to never had it in the

first place

so why be taken for yet another fleecing of

my identity

that can only be detrimental to the final

result

an allegedly unstable entry point is

criticized

but we have to start somewhere that

hasn't

been inhabited for a thousand years of

apocalyptic

always precariously hanging in the

balance

was once blinded by the presence of a

deflated ego

that pressured me to not rise up against

the herd

a quandary of loose cannons have

reached

yet another plateau of unfamiliar where it's

doubtful

anyone will follow me when fused to a

dying light

an avowed love for self cannot be brought

to knees

with bitter descent of latent formulas that

never worked

blurting out abstract worship of that which

they can't

even fathom but they're anticipating an

opening soon

a field of alterations in no particular order

if we're going to start high-lighting the

pages

the paragraphs that seem the most

confusing

the lines that we think would work on late

night tv

an emotional wound is closing of its own

volition

after blinded perception pierced me with

bloody arrows

leaving a stark stigma attached by those

who wouldn't

believe i could possibly be placed in

pantheon of saints

without my knowledge, without my

permission

a deconstructed symbol is left unmarked

so that everyone assumes it has always

appeared

in that ragtag but uncompromising

condition

while a matter of space is told to work it

out

with supposedly declassified & shredded

nonetheless

an unabridged communication deficit

is linked to the wrong direction by a chain

gang

who enjoy doling out excruciating pain &

unfolding grief

a checkered past is jumping all over the

place

more than a mere reflection of

circumstances

which i pounded a stake into many years

ago

to save myself from the demons willing

to obliterate down to confused soul

searching

exacerbating problem of no matter which

direction

is finally taken to supposedly solved

connection

that has become exact whereabouts

unknown

incandescent immolation

is fired for not towing the line

in exhausting maximum technicalities

beneath the sod of the underachieved

or possibly the misplaced teeth of god

while a three-legged prophesy

hitchhiked a thousand miles

is now straddling what could easily pass

for another dimension

in an unexpected eclipse of stunned

pink moon dripping fetal gunk

into right hemispheric locale

while deactivating reason

in the name of eternal monopoly

finally feel i'm at the nadir of my powers

though not blasphemous by any means

but autonomous dreams laying down stakes

an imploding dogma isn't acknowledged

by blind-eyed incognito which has been charged

with chemical imbalance too many times to decipher

there is no dependency on hoodoo glide

but try telling that to festering doom

with its tricky contagious odometer

& corrupted heart with its quivering taglines

which are nothing

but dreaming of dreaming of dreaming

which is a lazy ending

at the end of each school year i

would throw

all my notebooks & papers off the

bridge

watch until the river had carried

them south

then let out a sigh that was

bigger than me

a mirage dancing seductively shaking it down

to an audience of reborn squawking heads

last gasp at learning to breathe on our own

learning to deal with the fact that the future

is always behind us unless we're heavily sedated

erratic conversation with myself

is getting way out of hand

so i believe it's time i moved on

because i have nothing of importance

to add to the escalating

argument

& nothing to say

that will nail the whole thing down

driving a stake right

through

the heart of the matter

but that seems like a total waste of energy

since the whole dialogue

means less than nothing in the grand

scheme

depending on your

mathematics

find ourselves in promised land in name

only

since there is no documented

evidence

to prove that it was actually given

away

with no strings attached

enshrined in a glass case with all the other

stoned relics

all the once valuable objects

nothing but trinkets

that will one day be

worthless

possibly before we vacate the

premises

incurable emotions are being put

on trial

which is only going to make

things

worse since nothing can possibly

stand up

under that kind of

scrutiny

jabbing at a conclusion

that might very well be

deceased

or may have been eradicated

for crimes against mankind

though it's been said to be apolitical for

many years

David E. Howerton --become in dreaming--

Beneath Mars

bubble pools ancient life

whispering come home

--Coyotes are all alike--

dark rooms and crying

unsanctioned colonists

ill prepared for new slums

--beyond the outback--

beyond halo

stars lonely call

anyone there....

--big hatreds-- Ver. B

more crime

no more rapes, longer sentences,

offenders gone centuries,

cryotech cheap

banker smiles

-couldn't have guessed--

hadn't thought colors hurt

alien's eyes tear, but dark

now makes feeling worse

Martin Freebase

Abstraction and the Occult

he goes outside to brave the falling bombs almost halfway to the park a flux of

force and energy subjective feeling and objective realities the problem is with

the multiplicity of objectivities we cannot glimpse into all the possible worlds I

find that my studies of postmodernism is leading back to Nietzsche the romantic

fusion of the soul with nature the first few step outside your door it is the late

seventies on the eastside of Waterloo my front steps are sinking into the ground

someone is cranking ted nugent out their bedroom window wang dang I have

an organ for nature I fine grasp on the obvious there is in the strictest sense no

duality in the world to experience and feel oneself in another that presence that

we can sense inside of rose is the presence of ourselves she is our otherness

offering comfort to our primitive minds the enjoyment of self projected into rose

orgasmic forms betty boop was the lady who slipped away she was gone and

then she was back and then she was gone again like the breath that escapes

through my lips the wall outside says life is beautiful I'm watching you absorb the

sun I'm your summer shadow your tricky walk and empty pockets I look up at

your ceiling a human auction someone is sticking their head out 72 virgins in

heaven it was side trip you don't want to know the truth it escapes you running

down the street you are frightened thinking it will never come back alone

forever just you and your thoughts trapped inside you never getting out you

want to run but you can't you stand there in the darkness alone totally alone

wanting to be more than you are is this possible to break free to become

someone else 5 dollars a pound Orwellian fedora turns me old and fallen I drop

and roll a bygone days of remembering I know how to work it your boyfriend

was curious I think I made him afraid I'm not here to steal your body I already

have that I want your soul a commercial with a little dark haired girl I think it was

an infomercial about the emotional thunderstorms god does love her look and

see the magic that surrounds her more self-centered apathy we buy in gallons

and throw a great big party for all our narcissists a good drug a plastic man with

a handful of push and pull it was an omen a warning of the certain outcome

the blue rider so lost and spiritually helpless primitive ornament rhythmic

configurations whose curvaceous rolling forms merge fusing figure and ground

the organic rhythm of all things you place your glow in the dark jesus on your

dashboard and drive with impunity violently dismantled the animal

anthropomorphic appropriation see things as they really are and not filter

through the prism of human knowledge we corrupt everything out of an inner

compulsion I have increasingly come to recognize the ugliness and impurity of

nature we reject the idea of the seen as being the only thing of value it Is the

hidden and the unknown which we seek and which our hearts long after we are

against the positivists building blocks of truth and reality carried to the grave in a

small coffin the secret and abstract conceptions of the inner life that is where

the vision is the greatest this is the mountain top from with the lords and ladies of

karma descend we destroy to reveal the power that is behind all beautiful

appearances we seek beneath the veil of appearances I want you to share

with us your inner life the secret you that you keep hidden behind your masks

take your mask off and show us the real you the person you are without your

defenses putt your guns away there is no need to shoot anyone here we will not

stab you in the back when you turn around show us this true thing that is left

when all appearances have been removed free yourself from human purposes

and human will show us the beauty that is inside you withdraw from the

prejudices of human perception you have placed so much trust in your ability to

see but it is this ability that deceives you your eyes do not see the truth and your

mind cannot understand because you have been trained into ignorance we

have all been trained to be sheep for the slaughter become a wolf like me

break away from the flock see the world with new eyes and a new mind see this

world through the eyes of the spirit not the eyes clouded over by religion but by

the true being that dwells inside of you religion is a human creation the spirit is

eternal and cannot be explained by mere worlds it is an absolute essence that

live behind the world that we see

Christopher Stravener

Voidcom[5]need to know

my left hand plans

a war of attrition

my right hand

stratagems of terror

neither speak

and the silence is shocking

I am nervous enough

without sulphates

unplugging my heart

as you described

whalebone attached to a chain

your hand darting

like an unpredictable bird

possibly carrion

although quite small. Crafty.

I congratulate you, excellency.

Nicole Chernick One Hermatic Corner

In the chase of misplaced syllables

dirty with the aggregation of the blood of time and admonishment

There are drops of everything here

the deconstructed cells of semen and one very out of order egg

Where guilt is around me in this bed like a frozen river

resting on thorns of probability and subjection

And the crack in the ceiling will devour this wall since you and these hours

I look to his peaceful face to pull me through your nameless moments

And then I am angry he is peaceful, and the walls become cannibalistic

In the expanse of the universe I see a bastard and in the stars an abasement

And this fallen girl and room are down to one hematic corner

Cyndi Dawson

Room 374

From what I could see, it was raining.

Room 374. Glass windows posed a risk.

At certain times my reflection

was strong enough to catch my reflection.

At certain times my reflection was unwelcome.

You know inside the past has passed.

What's done is done. You know this

as you know the trail of your own fingerprints,

yet they still seem detachable. Foreign on your skin.

You know the future is an intangible.

It exists only in the world of the sylphs.

Which leaves one simply with the present

and in this present it is raining. I am in room 374.

God help me. I have repeated the madness of my father.

I have hung my ugliness up

above the welcome mat in the house of myself.

A house of cadavers. God help me.

I will hand over my arms. I will open my mouth

to sacrifice my tongue. Just get it right.

Just get it right this time

if I am to see the rain ever again

outside the walls of this room.

Let's do it. But let me taste the rain.

Let me feel it drop to my skin, trickle nerve cells.

Get it right. I've swept too many parts of me under that mat.

Each one, marked unique with a print. All cadavers.

Danny Baker

Sunset Dance with Buddy Guy & Suicidal Tendencies

Sitting under a gently swaying palm

watching day turn to night

in a dance on a floor of no boundary

but for the horizon

One might think all is well

espying me watching flickering light

like eyes fighting sleep

futilely pushing back against the dark

Suicidal strings race from chord to chord

fermented barley and hops chase wisps of anesthetic smoke

and medicine cabinet sutures

one might think all is well but the western front is besieged

The floor has fallen from beneath feet of

tapping tides, rendering an eve of flame thrower potency

as held in the hands of original passion

in new wrapping, enveloping sanity in a slam pit found only at night

Cornelius Bent

Babel’s Bathing

no grace be louder

in this moment

our bodies dusted by seeking grains

of ancient sands

while we stare down the throat of God

plenary in span

as she raps the shore with swarming and unappeasable waves

like the tapping fingers of a parent

growing impatient

with the rumblings of disobedient children

we drink an ale of ire

fermented 'neath the pores of restive disciples

as it spews from chrome fountains

yet still

even here

surrounded by the fragility of men

who bare atrophied shoulders

chiseled by lack of labor

while their bellies boast the girth of western abundance

the anatomy of a careless species

we dance here

in the hem of babel's bathing

having purged the soiled palms

of dysfunctional conglomerates

from our heads

we dance here

being beasts of rhythm

stomping our heals into a continent

stewing in divisions

where the rebel larynx

is forbade

in the throats

of principled men

Jeffrey Park

THE AMAZON MEN ARRIVE

The Amazon men arrive

in twos and threes

decline politely to shake

hands and quickly

take their places in the den

clutching paper plates on their

knees.

It’s like an AA meeting

or a post-funeral gathering at

the home of the bereaved

only worse.

No one looks their neighbor

in the eye, no one

asks for seconds

and most importantly, above

all else

absolutely no one allows

expressions like unbalanced

or disproportionate or

asymmetrical

to come up

in casual conversation.

Glen Still

Figure It Out

Hey, I live next door to you

Even though we’ve never talked

I somewhat want what you have

I see you in a light above me

Or perhaps

Below me

Either way I have never come to terms

With my own prejudice

I live on Almond Street

A row of centrifugal configurations

Where they try to hide me

Where I am most comfortable

And the more I try to reach out

I just see and hear the propaganda

Meant just for me

I think I want to be loved

But I expect you to form into my

Inth degree of how I perceive the world around me

And unless you conform

I don’t have a problem with you becoming a victim

The way I see it

Is as you choose

The more I hurt everything around you

I have no regrets

Seeing you disintegrate

As I live past you

I will never save you

Oh neighbor

You’re not really worth that

You don’t live in my house

You're not family

You have no idea of what I go through

Trying to manage my stipends

Trying to keep my salvation

Trying to make sure that you wind up in hell

And I don't

And I won’t say please

When I kick your door in

Intent on either

Apprehending you

Making you succumb to me and my ideology

Or just putting a bullet through your head

Because when it comes down to it

I have to believe in something

And so it goes

You live on Walnut Street

We have our differences

I don’t respect them

And just so you know now

I’m on a killing spree

And you’re not my neighbor

Even though I see you

Drive up in your driveway

Next to me

This is hate

Figure it out…