Cajun Mutt Press is extremely proud to announce that the incredibly talented poet, and friend of the late great Hunter S. Thompson, Ron Whitehead has been added to the line-up for a featured spot on our Facebook Page! This is a big event for us, so be sure to catch his poems Tapping My Own Phone this Friday the 28th, and Shithouse Manifesto on October 31st.
Ron Whitehead’s Brief Bio: Poet, writer, editor, publisher, scholar, professor, activist Ron Whitehead grew up on a farm in Kentucky. He attended The University of Louisville and Oxford University. As poet and writer he is the recipient of numerous state, national, and international awards and prizes including The All Kentucky Poetry Prize, The Yeats Club of Oxford’s Prize for Poetry, and many others. In 2006 Dr. John Rocco (NYC) nominated Ron for The Nobel Prize in Literature. He was inducted into his high school’s (Ohio County High) Hall of Fame, representing his 1968 graduating class.
“I have long admired Ron Whitehead. He is crazy as nine loons, and his poetry is a dazzling mix of folk wisdom and pure mathematics.” – Hunter S. Thompson
I just can’t get used to being my age, it’s as weird as weird can be. When I read about ” young people ” on the newspaper page it’s hard to see they’re not talking about me
My age certainly never feels like the middle, I feel like a kid, or feel old. It bothers me more than a little, I know too well what the future will hold.
This is the one thing you can’t fight, well two if you include death. You can try plastic surgery, but it never looks right, and I want dignity until my last breath.
All those stupid, old actresses with their trout pouts, trying so hard to beat time and tide. The desperation screams and it shouts. They look like Frankenstein’s bride.
Age can mean becoming more wise, expansion instead of reduction. More understanding behind my wrinkled eyes, creation instead of destruction.
They say you learn something new everyday and that’s something I seriously intend Stay curious about whatever comes my way, until the time at the very end.
Ian Lewis Copestick is a 47-year-old writer from Stoke on Trent England. Although he started writing poetry in 2001, he only started sending them out for publication 8 months ago. In this time he has had over 100 poems and 5 short stories published. He is featured in print anthologies by Alien Buddha Press and Horror Sleaze Trash. His first book Detritus Of The Drunken Night was published by Cajun Mutt Press on April 2, 2019.
“If this is justice I’m a banana,” I remember this being said and I liked the sound of it humour and pathos combined incongruously. So sometimes I used those words to express how I was feeling in various situations. But strangely the oddness, and incongruity of the expression impressed no one. So I moved on to express myself with different words, forgot about it, until now when the sight of a banana hanging singly by it’s stem on a hook not made for the purpose (how could it be?), made me realise that the banana, a fruit with no juice and usually no seeds, is always incongruous always out of place wherever it appears.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077
Like a sponge, I take on poetry, politics, style, endless talk. But inside I am nothing. I am a little black box with nothing inside. Waiting to discover the most cosmic nothingness of all. Eventually, we all evaporate, return our shells to the world around us. But always, always, the nothing remains. It abides and fills up all over again like the endless surroundings of which it is made. Nothing to nothing. And so to one.
Will Mayo is the author of Dreams Of Mongolia, Hoodoo Voodoo, The Shells Encasing Our Nothingness, and other books of the extraordinary. He lives with his six-toed black cat in Frederick, Maryland, said by some to be the most haunted city in the state. Most of his writing is done between the hours of 3 a.m. and sunrise. He enjoys wordplay and strange tales, and hopes you do too.
Not sure what to say about this month. Nothing against November, I just feel like it’s about to get really weird to one extreme or another. There’s absolutely nothing that could happen at this point I wouldn’t be expecting, but let’s hope for the best.
Below you’ll firnd this month’s featured writers, and if you’d like to send some work shoot 1-3 poems to cajunmuttpress@gmail.com along with a bio and author photo. I’m not accepting any more manuscripts at this time.
Sitting on a misted street With frigid wind And soaking leaves,
The years I’ve roamed the nights I’ve played, Hide -n- Seek: In shallow graves
The years draw on; In this chilling calm, Where all is dead And no one’s home
With pumpkins lit Will these wicks still hold?
To keep us from the frozen ghosts. . .
Are we safe and sound, Tucked in at home?
On a night all-souls, conjure theirs. . .
We’ll see to the mischief While we make our own, As I think of a place, For the resting bones.
Imaginary Friends
I will tell you in the dark That my family, Is now dead and gone, No more home No more wrong, No more place To keep running from; Now I’ve found, in my head, All my friends Come out to play; Without eyes Without face, I Let them dance I watch them rave; As orbs shine on Their crooked spines, Decomposed They twitch and smile; Ebon skin Grayed & peeled, Shedding all With every spin, In their silence Losing dress; They breathe so softly On nape of neck.
Waiting for Halloween
At night I write Till the morning comes Waiting for Autumn Hoping Summer’s done. Regretting Winter Hating Spring, Dreaming Fall, As my everything. Light the candles In lantern frowns, Your loving face, I’m carving now. Raise a toast, Welcome ghosts, Open doors, To floating orbs. Let them in As a chill of wind Greeting past As a friend. See the face I left in flame Dreaming you, How faint your name. Yell aloud; In thunder now, It rains for you When I’m calling out. Pictures perfect Pumpkins chosen, Rather rest in peace Than to never know when; You’re coming back Guessing days, I light the wick So you’ll find the way. Lost my life Lost my home Waiting for: Orange, red, and gold.
Frogg Corpse is an author, actor, vocalist, and poet from Louisville, Kentucky. Frogg recently published a guest blog for 48 Hour Books on the importance of documenting dreams to improve writing. In 1999 Frogg Corpse was one of the youngest poets and members at that time in the International Society of Poets. In 2011 Frogg Corpse wrote a memoir titled: “The Mourning Hour” which in 2012 was showcased at the London Book Fair. Also in 2012 Frogg Corpse worked as a haunt actor for Waverly Hills Sanatoriums’ haunted house. Frogg also auditioned for season 12 of American Idol in Chicago. In 2013 Frogg Corpse served as a background actor for Magician Criss Angel’s Spike TV show BeLIEve while living in Las Vegas and also was cast in a supporting role for the film Las Vegas Story featuring Eric Roberts. Also in 2013 Frogg Corpse Auditioned for NBC’s The Voice twice in Las Vegas and in Los Angeles. Currently, Frogg has a poetry book coming out soon called: “A Quick Guide to Suicide: Poetry to die by” with dark artwork by artist Vitaly Illyn also known as Barandash Karandashich of Russia. Copies of Frogg’s book The Mourning Hour are owned by MTV Jackass Star Stephen “Steve-O” Glover and comedian Jim Jefferies.
