March 17, 2009

It Hurts When I Pee

by Chris Butler

It’s as if I have
salted glass
shards bathing
in my bloated
bladder, or these
sifting Siamese
kidneys roll jagged
burning stones
down my rifling
urethra, bursting
hemorrhoids in
rainbow rivers
of pain.


Anonymous said...

This Chris butler is a rising star!! He will soon be in the next issue of the Beatnik Cowboy, which is publishing some of the chaff from his undigested wheat. We at the BC really only accept a poet's lesser weaker shoddier of works, as we follow when we want the dictum "less (or worse) is more". So get your copy of Chris's 'worst' as soon as possible. This is something you do not want to miss. What he thinks is his worst we think his best, and what he thinks his best we taste dictate it's his worst, which in turn is his best...and so on. This is bad poetry you just can't miss. Along with other legends that submit because I am such a greatly flawed editor and all around in general bad or ill-tempered cheerful human being, bursting with cool redefining, rough hewn fine tuned, sweet eye for what is 'good'. How do I know and how am I able to choose taste dictate reinvent the genre detrimine what is 'good' the choices I make that you should slavishly follow should yourself wish to have pre cutting edge esoteria with feet firmly planted in the air? Two words: cerebrial hygeine. Other than my own I rarely read or can even make it through more than a few pages of anyone's poetry except our submitters and Bukowski. And, I know the secret. Now we all know it is the accident that makes the best art. And ignorance in the field of boring poetry (most all poetry but hey I like Ross's sight!) will lead to an, if knowledge is power, a powerless unknowledgeable chosing of who knows if they are good or bad poems sent into our golden rag? To clarify, because we don't know poo-poo or want to know poo-poo about poetry because the good stuff is I guess not rewarded but read enjoyably laughingly blasphemically, cover to cover, first thing out of the mailbox (or online) and the author of these masterpieces gets a mere cheaply stapled free copy if that, while the so-called good stuff, the stuff they give out money for (unless you can approximate Bukowski and catch like the Baywatch/Knightrider guy the German market and random and various mysogynistic former Sam Kinison/Ford Fairlane guy? stylings fans, these scumballs being located in almost every literate society the world over) this Bukowski style/influenced (Burroughs with Junky too) this writer gets published, read, laughed at, imparts a sort of hard case wisdom to worn hard looking bottle blonde roll her own postitutes, among others entitled often 'riff-raff', it also entertains, stimulates similar poets who want to express themselves in this way, pisses some folks off,
questions mocks flippantly makes a joke of power to power and authority, encourages new proactive unique unthought of yet or undefined yet ideas, images, ways of being, etc., this is stuff good for it makes other mostly sort of malcontents happy there are other losers like them out there, winning by writing and sharing their loserisms, imparting the knowledge fact or idea that indeed most of them out there that are viewed by the idiotic moronically imposed norm normal moral proper way of being are themselves, (we label them 'moral entrepreprenuers') they are bent on one book, one channel, one way to Heaven, linguistic and acceptable topic limiting, dominating the discourse judging what can be said without reperucssions negative as these folk see them, these power hungry controlling bastards are sadly defining and writing those 'good' high art works,to be read after internalizing much arcania to get the side by side words, seemingly senselessly placed logically meaning nothing to the average person of good bad taste, to resemble some idea or notiion the reader can latch on to, some idea to better the world perhaps. Most or all of today's so-called good poetry, New Yorker poetry, shit I don't read so why am I commenting? It is so dense and often much of the poem is written in a foreign language any decent American at least wouldn't even attempt to read it, because it's probably French! And, since the reader can't tell what the hell the author is suppossedly cleverly I guess talking about, the average reader reads two three lines before abandoning the fine verse. The same reader sits for hours online raptly reading the work on display on Opium Poety 2.0, the "poems that will live in infamy" of Randall Rogers, and Chris Butler, both of whom's work will be lowest common denominatiorily showcased in the next more sordid than the last, issue of the Beatnik Cowboy. The BC has been said to be "the gay cowboy in the new cummer break the condom in his bottom mountain burgeoning though tempestous with catty petty quarrels cowboy poetry scene, expecially popular with gays denying and trying to hide their gay activities thoughts looks wrist tautness, desperately trying to hide the thing that is the bane of the existence of the heterosexual mostly, the okay I thought about doing a gay thing or I did it yes when I was young crucify me name me brand me discriminate beat me but please I'll beg if you don't murder me, please don't murder me, mind set. With this genus of gay guy, too, the wholly fooling himself manly cowboy poetry spouter, the type of guy that refuses to believe the actor John Wayne was gay, promiscuous with many many male lovers (hwe liked them young, real young) with this poetry riffing buckaroo we are...well.. to tell the truth probably not too popular a poetry magazine. Those manly talk about coralling the doggies out on the range life and other non-gay Cowboy stuff, much less Beatnik gay Cowboy stuff,and other odd offbeat dissonant poetic topics, noises, this type I predict will probably not become big fans or indeed subscribers to the Beatnik Cowboy. True to prior experience, one cursory read through the intro to the zine or picking a poem at random from the issue to read should be enough to make any in denial gay he-man cowboy spouting clever poetry, so hetero he gets almost any womean he wants, he gots a hairy hairy Scottish Sean Connery chest and hairy arms legs, etc, too, and the thought that he is or maybe could be gay never even remotely came close to once crossing his mind, upon the opening of and gazing upon the blinding words of the Beatnik Cowboy, this act undoubtedly will immediately make him both psychically and physically ill. Ill at ease, he may begin to sweat, become figidty, possibly run out of the room. No, in the Beatnik Cowboy this is not the 'good' shit, this is poetry that moves you, even if it's quickly to the toilet. Get them at no website becaue you think we know how to make one of them? Or have the money to pay someone to make one for us? Please don't make an attempt to flatter or overestimate us, we are in the Poet's Market book, we take email submissions, even hand written stuff we can't even read and handwriting specialists have difficulty decifering it, or snail mail subs, like a church where are the icons have been defaced or stolen, our church is always open, to any and all submissions. Though at times we have openly discriminated against the Dutch, due to the attitude of the guy who sold us shitty hydro pay a lot an psuedo get you high weed over there. Though what is grand about our comprimising stance, is our name and poem issue memories are on the brainwaves the lips of all who don't matter much, but will, if the meek do inheret (sp?) the area outside the Earth, because they declined their inheretance of the Earth proper. Why? Because they, the meek, believe in a Manicheanistic sense the most of the population on Earth, that the material side of Earth things, though these folk try to be spiritual, they object to that shortcut to satori that inevitably arrives when one holds in one's hands and gazes upon the verbiage written on the hemp paper in a reading the words and understanding them fashion. The experience of the first encounter with the Cowboy has been likened to if an infinity of lightening bolts suddenly hit you some thousand direct stikes at once, repeatedly. The zine has been said to so joyously jolt the senses, the mind, the ability and desire for considerate or unconsiderate abstract speculation and empathy, on a scale 'beyond speculation' 'immutable' that little old cheaply stapled together on cheap almost thin as rice paper, paper, this literary tasmanian devil paradigm world view confirmer or changer or what the heller, this hell cat of a thin though weighty publication known as the Beatnik Cowbooy. Featuring in the next issue the repeatedly rejected works of the great poet Chris Butler, and similar gems that should have been rejected from other giants of literature, poetry in particular, stemming from the Beatnik genre and beyond. If you believe just one thing of this missive make it this: you don't want to miss an issue. Subscribe today or purchase a sample copy. Guaranteed fun with knowledge you won't get in no book, nor heard spoken in confidence by some drunk guy confiding with you in some bar. Get enlightened, entertained, a little poorer in money but richest in the things money can't buy - well presented bad taste with numerous scatological reference and photos and no or a pro-drug hedonism in immoderation till you can't take it anymore stance/agenda! I'ts, it's, a barnyard blitz!! It's a barnyard blitz! We will wait until the peacock screams, for you, because our other follow it when we want to motto axiom is "the customer is always right." And too we'd hate to have you spend seven or six bucks for a sample issue,and have your hard earned or criminally aquired money, shall we say, go to a waste?

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