Grab your own Poetry Grimoire from Cajun Mutt Press to write poems, spells, incantations, recipes, doodles, whatever you want!!
Great holiday gifts as well!!
Featuring original cover art by Madman Philosopher J.D.C.IV
8×11 — 100 pages — 35 lines per page
They can also be customized to feature YOUR art/name/quote on the cover!
Click here to purchase “Spirit Owl“
Click here to purchase “Psychedelic Demon Rainbow Fire“
3 ways to order:
Contact Tim directly for a signed copy.
Tim’s online book store.
Amazon
Tim Heerdink enters a nightmare landscape full force with his second full-length collection, Somniloquy & Trauma in the Knottseau Well. Following in a similar vein of The Human Remains, the poet captures alternate realities within sleep, bringing forth all that is strange & unwell in the process. Talking in his sleep, Heerdink tackles abnormal mental health along with traumas in a hell of his own creation.
“Somniloquy & Trauma in the Knottseau Well is a haunted house. Each poem here another door rattling unlocked and opened on another nightmare, another monster, another ideation within myriad visions of hell. This is a walk through the dark side of imagination, poems where the last breath is crystalized like the soft focus of a stereoscope. Heerdink’s poems have that same burned hoarse whisper as Marlon Brando at the apocalypse end: the horror, the horror.”
—Jason Baldinger, author of A History of Backroads Misplaced: Selected Poems 2021-20
“Is poetry dead? Does poetry still matter? Can poetry make a difference? Save a life? Even one life? Your own? Is poetry a healing art? Can poetry possibly be the path away from death in life? From suicide? Can you write your way out of the darkness? Or is life filled with too much damn pain for even poetry to save us? In Somniloquy & Trauma in the Knottseau Well, the brilliant young poet Tim Heerdink struggles with these questions and more. He’s walking a tightrope. Will he make it to the other side? I sure hope so. I’m pulling for him. Read the book and discover what this bright new Indiana voice has to say. You’ll be glad you did.”
—Ron Whitehead, U.S. National Beat Poet Laureate
Ley Lines
Have we failed the stars
whom influence us?
The innocence of our beginning?
Before us stretches our regret.
Wrecked, not regaled
by the warfare exploding.
We urge our gods for thunder.
With it our delight
for our children.
A realm of water and supported gates.
Order the blood from the pigs lurking.
Sentence the destructor.
And pray among the plum fields.
Let us then dance with the artists.
Signal the spending
of celestial inspiration.
Continue with us
and declare the pastels
of our torches will not fade.
Support the spirits
of the thicket dwellers.
Show us the way.
The way of our forefathers’
sacred canoes.
Lay routes upon the public seas.
Examine us as we traverse.
Hold our hand to clean the earth.
©2021 Ferris E Jones All rights reserved.
Ferris E Jones is an award-winning, internationally published and screenwriter living in Puyallup Washington. His work has appeared in both print and online magazines including as the featured poet for Creative Talents Unleashed. Other magazines include: Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020, Glo Mag, Piker Press, Se La Vie Writers Journal, Write on Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Degenerate Literature 17, Tuck Magazine, The Literary Hatchet, Warriors with Wings, In Between Hangovers, and many other literary publications. He is the recipient of two grants from the Nevada Arts Council and the Editor/Publisher of Nevada Poets 2009. Ferris has twice received honorable mention awards from Writers Digest annual screenwriting contest. He is also the Author / Editor of ten collections of poetry. You can learn more about Ferris E. Jones by visiting http://www.inquisitionpoetry.com where each month he features the work of other poets. The goal of this site is to spread the word of poetry throughout the world.
Accusing Wattage unrealized Coastal obscenities blameless recorded after testing bombs shattered my toe to the delight of gopher paratroopers How after flipping stripping a blimp kicked like a can of seedling wrapping paper I cut teeth braggadocio through B&W filthy groceries shopping cart fountain one PENNY 2 pennies 3 pennies inside/outside/ dusted trophy lighthouse promissory NOTE cappuccino absurdity entwined in blips Spinning in fashion chug choking plenty If you missed the hip to shoulder hugging devilled eggs rotted / spotted / covered in carved hamburger invisibility cloak Then you dropped bowels moving on freeway resolved to toe jam footing the bill until pills of extravagance instigate castrated trash Tho you squeeze crowning wart grains of wheat at least until forgetting an ANVIL squished as many collapsed VEINS as any troll could sooth to cannibalize. Nearsighted orangutan Comedy that moans in offensive glee b/c your jelly belly Christmas suicide appeared as a suffocation in my newsfeed until pajamas knew enough to engineer a building collapse crepuscular moose song.
©2021 Joshua Martin All rights reserved.
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia-based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the book Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in M58, Punk Noir Magazine, Beir Bua, Scud, RIC Journal, Ink Pantry, Streetcake, The Collidescope, SORTES, Prolit, E-ratio, Nauseated Drive, and Fixator Press among others joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
Frailty’s Baggage~ Dreaming of Jim Morrison
There is no grief in language
when you’re stricken, cast down,
changes silhouette past silence
pausing sullenly through the
echoing corridors of my mind.
Torn posters without poetry,
without song, without love,
face hopes and fears in the mirrors
of pain; and his sex hangs unhidden,
and his metal heart sweeps through
abandoned philosophy as the curtain
closes on the sensual train.
I want repetition of song, recollection
in truth; to create from the oblique,
denying the erotic, an obeisance to
the power it steals from those of us
who can’t find anything to live for,
but everything to die for. Cast not your
demons of treachery, tears, anger, and
betrayal on me; the elevator is rising.
There’s fumbled endorphins offered
up as a cocktail with some really good
whiskey and meth cocaine. Smell the
lily and the rose,
let the bricks soften to deep greens,
let God speak austere though vacant
fields while you grow stillborn
through drugs so sweet. Let the
suicide take on its own craft and magic,
as daylight comes and a stranger’s face
brings forgiveness; blooming, blooming,
in the scent of your sweet blood. Your rib
is gone, son of Adam and He shall
have her heart; lowered lids expand as
they rise in total annihilation. Tick tock.
White roses growing in the corner,
lilies dead on the sidewalk.
©2021 Theresa Gaynord All rights reserved.
Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies, and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school, a psychic medium/reader, and advisor.
Cajun Mutt Press 