untitled by eathelin h.
i try muffling the rising waves with my palms, but they crawl through my fingers, and somersault onto the sand.
so i cup my hands.
so i cup my hands.
now i can't control myself.
The sunrises, I sleep, the day brings hectic vision.
Expecting a wake up call from the finest of creatures.
I think I'll just pull the covers further over my face.
Blocking out what used to be my steady going life.
Substitute my aching organs with a pillow,
Some ambient nutjob music, and a single thought.
Stop making me fulfill an "under your bed" monster's fantasy
Of a 27 hour scare.
Today we will be exploring some old (genuine!) hobo slang.
"To Beef On" apparently means "to inform", although admittedly it brings some very unsavory imagery to mind.
As in:
"For my presentation today, I'd like to beef on you..."
A "Beagle" is a hot dog. We're not sure if that actually means the phallic Memorial Day picnic treat or if it's a whole different kind of bag. Will investigate further.
Ergh...
As in:
"There's nothing tastier than a beagle covered in ketchup!"
inevitable morning
by eathelin h.
backdrops print out the play's final battle,
where she keeps her keeper and he wins his honor.
spotlights rustle the crowd into enigmatic applause-
they trifle with the sense of pleasure that good beat evil
and agony of the cold seat firmly stationing their backs;
formal attentions brought to the unspeakable matter.
they clap like clowns,
redefining regret into what didn't occur.
then they wonder
if lucky people ever ask why life isn't fair.
by eathelin h.
backdrops print out the play's final battle,
where she keeps her keeper and he wins his honor.
spotlights rustle the crowd into enigmatic applause-
they trifle with the sense of pleasure that good beat evil
and agony of the cold seat firmly stationing their backs;
formal attentions brought to the unspeakable matter.
they clap like clowns,
redefining regret into what didn't occur.
then they wonder
if lucky people ever ask why life isn't fair.
morningtide
I woke up on a tightrope between day and night reversed
and saw sequined moon and sun pour marrow into the eye of the other,
coexisting in that point of morningtide,
where they share an infinity
alike denied
the full-bellied sun never reaches the dispatched moon
in her back-broken fight against constant change--
the endless chase of morning
and saw sequined moon and sun pour marrow into the eye of the other,
coexisting in that point of morningtide,
where they share an infinity
alike denied
the full-bellied sun never reaches the dispatched moon
in her back-broken fight against constant change--
the endless chase of morning
It was a lovely summer's day in classy 'n' sophisticated East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania when Bungle Brigade blog-keeper Sasha decided to have a little chat with Sean Elsasser, vocalist for NEPA punk band Blood Oranges. Watch and listen here to find out why they're named after a gory citrus fruit, and hear all about Sean's tentative plans to perform naked.
EPISODE 1: Sean Elsasser of BLOOD ORANGES
DEATH OF A TELEMARKETER.
First of all, I'd like to address that when your parents, teachers, and guidance counselors all told you that with a positive attitude, life could be peachy always, it was a blatant lie. And that's because some things will inevitably suck, regardless of your approach. It went like this:
I took up a job as a telemarketer on July 13th. About twelve cumulative hours later, I quit. Why, you might ask? Because it's telemarketing, you douche bag. And if you ever want your self esteem systematically punched in the lungs, then by all means, take up a job as a telemarketer. Because that's pretty much what it's like. For me, I've realized that spending four hours a day on the phone with people who probably (no, definitely) hate you was never, ever going to be worth the $7.15 earned hourly for doing so.
I took up a job as a telemarketer on July 13th. About twelve cumulative hours later, I quit. Why, you might ask? Because it's telemarketing, you douche bag. And if you ever want your self esteem systematically punched in the lungs, then by all means, take up a job as a telemarketer. Because that's pretty much what it's like. For me, I've realized that spending four hours a day on the phone with people who probably (no, definitely) hate you was never, ever going to be worth the $7.15 earned hourly for doing so.
Thank you and good night.
And as an added bonus, this was my "Rebuttals" page.
(You know, the bullshit I was expected to feed to people who had enough common sense to tell me off within the first fifteen seconds, with the hopes they'd abandon that common sense and listen to me instead.)
It is now a pile of soot, which is the state of being it deserves.
the elf especially suggests you check out PERKASIE, a wonderful band from the lancaster/philadelphia area, and a supremely awesome live act.
And as an added bonus, this was my "Rebuttals" page.
(You know, the bullshit I was expected to feed to people who had enough common sense to tell me off within the first fifteen seconds, with the hopes they'd abandon that common sense and listen to me instead.)
It is now a pile of soot, which is the state of being it deserves.
the elf especially suggests you check out PERKASIE, a wonderful band from the lancaster/philadelphia area, and a supremely awesome live act.
we drop our pain into canyons
designed for the purpose
for the hard swallowing sound
where dreams stagger homeless
by eathelin h.
Curtain raindrops sank to the bottom of my stomach. I lessened myself.
Here's the story of time capsules gone wrong,
where two steps backwards meant climbing into cocoons of storms that passed 1,567 days ago (and further into the future)
How many raindrops just hit the ground?
In this larger than life comic book
How many raindrops just hit the ground?
In this larger than life comic book
the thunderstorms are pixel pictures with a man's face in half view
that stir up the wetted dust on the blacktop
and make it fly.
Fly.
that stir up the wetted dust on the blacktop
and make it fly.
Fly.
I'm doing brain surgery with boxing gloves
shouldering your absence
hunched inside a shrinking room
with a license to believe it's real
A great big, massive, throbbing thank you to our contributors on our second issue:
Kevin Michael Briggs
Ayla Eichler
Sean Elsasser
Roberto Faust
Eathelin H.
Jake Weinberg
Book excerpts from "Tristessa" by Jack Kerouac and "American Psycho" by Bret Easton Ellis, respectively
and lastly...
Wayne Arnold... an old friend whose book I found the other day in my bedroom, and I know he wouldn't mind that I put a few of his poems here. I haven't heard from him in a long, long time...so Wayne, if you're out there, my family's still thinking of you.
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all content compiled and designed into one big pretty mess by Sasha Faust
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