C.M.P. Featured Writers, August 2021

Cajun Mutt Press Aug. 2021

August, the tail end of summer’s flame. Just before fall brings out death’s beautiful colors and the icy winter creeps in. These next few months are my favorite time of the year. Plus, they get bonus points for being so close to Halloween.

Speaking of Halloween, I was thinking of doing a little CMP zine experiment for October. The minimum page count for KDP is 24 pages so I’d need around 30 poems. Keep it small, and around $5 or so. I was even thinking 5×8 instead of 6×9. I think that would look cool. Anyone interested can shoot an email including one short poem and bio to cajunmuttpress@gmail.com with Halloween Zine as the subject. It doesn’t HAVE to be ABOUT the holiday, just something creepy in general will do. I’d prefer if it didn’t rhyme. If I get enough submissions I’ll put something together for y’all and make a post about it with all the details later.

If you’d like to submit for a regular weekly featured writer spot, CMP is always open for submissions. Send 1-3 poems along with a bio and author photo to the same email address as above. I have one spot left to fill in October, then I’ll be reading for November.

Manuscript submissions are CLOSED but will reopen in 2022. Keep your eyes peeled for our next book release to be announced soon. In the meantime, you can grab a copy of our three 2021 releases by following the links below. I’ve also included a link to all of our available titles.

A Screaming Place
by Brian Rihlmann

I Hear Your Music Playing Night and Day
by Dave O’Leary

Oracles from a Strange Fire
by Merritt Waldon & Ron Whitehead


Below you’ll find this month’s kick-ass lineup. And as always, enormous thanks to the writers and readers. Without you, Cajun Mutt Press wouldn’t exist. Love y’all.

Write On,
Cajun Mutt Press

CMP Featured Writers, Aug 2021

by Robert Cooperman

My parents had some sex and here I am
by Gale Acuff

this digital wasteland
by J.J. Campbell

Giving The Bard His Due
by Will Mayo

by Aimee Nicole

Dance of the Damned
by Lynn White

by Sanjeev Sethi

A dying glitter God
by Carrie Magness Randa

Another look at loneliness due
by el gallo sabio

Down Below
by John Drudge

All the roads which lead to roam
by Wilfred Hildonen

by A.P. Lewis

chris and his fucking fuel jet kicks
by Adam Johnson

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 07/30/21



After each sunrise.

Into bliss, excitement, and serenity.
A world of pure creation.

Hours pass…
Pass like minor increments.
Followed by a slow climb,
Then a rapid descent.
Jousted into an ecosystem of
Ignorance, and survival.


On repeat.

An attempt to craft an ending.
Before one unmakes you.

©2021 Drew Campbell All rights reserved.

Drew Campbell

Drew Campbell is a creator from Southern California. Together with his partner he runs VLASINDA PRODUCTIONS, which produces art in multiple mediums, including short films and zines. In recent years they have developed a focus on organizing events to showcase other artists, and to help build a more connected creative community. For more information you can visit VLASINDA on Instagram @vlasinda_stormdrain and YouTube.com/vlaSINda

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 07/28/21

Who Am I

I sometimes take pride

While working heavy, and hard

Driven, I hardly Know by who, or what

Or why, even though the tune

Plays over, again and again, and spurns

Me on to new places, new people, and

New things, it seems to me, it’s who

I am, regardless of who I meet, or

Of what the season might be

The environment tells me so

And like fish in their bowl

I’m satisfied with it all.

©2021 Ann Privateer All rights reserved.

Ann Privateer

Ann Privateer is a poet, artist, and photographer. Some of her work has appeared in Third Wednesday and Entering to name a few.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 07/26/21

The Church of Transient Anuses

I met a guy in the park
who claimed to have a transient anus.
I said what’s that?
He said I can form an anus
on any part of my body,
wherever I choose, whenever I want.
In fact, I can form multiple anuses at once.
All over.
So, to be clear, I said,
you don’t just have one transient anus.
You have the potential for many
transient anuses, depending upon
your needs and desires.
Correct, he said.
Bullshit, I said.
I’ll show you, he said.
He rolled up his sleeve,
and an anus appeared on his arm.
He made a fist, stretched out his arm,
and fertilized the flowers along the path.
Oh, my god, I said.
That’s nothing, he said.
He bowed forward.
A huge anus appeared on his forehead
and took a gigantic dump on my shoe.
Words failed me.
He offered me a bag from a device on his belt
to place the shit in, and a wet-wipe for my shoe.
He wiped his forehead and told me a story.
The earth, he began, has an infinite capacity
to produce transient anuses.
With these anuses, she spreads food and wisdom
to all her creatures.
Wisdom, I said. How do anuses spread wisdom?
Join me, and I’ll show you, he said.
Who are you? I said.
I, good sir, am a priest of the Church of Transient Anuses.
The Earth speaks to her children through the flatulence
and defecation of ministers such as myself
and you, should you choose to join me.
He held out a brochure. I declined, as politely as I could.
As I walked away, the man called out to me,
Have a shitty day, my friend! I considered, a moment,
before responding appropriately:
Same to you, you walking asshole!

©2021 Damian Ward Hey All rights reserved.

Damian Ward Hey

Damian Ward Hey has had poetry published in several places, including Poetry Pacific, Truck, and Cricket Online Review. More recently, his work has appeared in Madness Muse Press, and will appear in the upcoming anthology, Poets with Masks On. He lives on Long Island and is a professor of literature and theory at Molloy College.

C.M.P. Saturday Special Feature

The Bible Belt Bachelor Beat

So now the beat was out on the streets again
Darkness hears the soul’s tears burning within
Finding home wearing the sadness coat
Fighting a love affair with a knife wielding holy ghost
My beautiful girl is at rest, wasting away
She is staring into the darkness – Of this evening’s shade
The horror calls from across the halls,
They were deafening, my silence proved too late
So now I know, how the death bell tolls
I seek revenge, I fuel myself with scorn and hate
To take apart, the crooked heart
Who severed my soul, magician of greed and loath?
Reincarnate myself into the heroin, the addiction
The power rose, the mighty lion, the sorcerer,
The dictator, the cult king
The need to be disillusioned The creation was to be crazy,
To break apart with newly found powerful hands,
That used to be so gentle.
So fragile and weak,
When I used to touch her cheek
The morning like a celestial daydream,
The haze of fog
Sipped her tears,
When she began to cry The dryness,
Like a desert for sad brown eyes
This germ will not run, cannot hide
Cannot mutate, I know that I can design
The perfect plan, the perfect kill
Alas, I may become dirt on the way
Dear God, knowing however
His bones are already chilled
Spirits have cried, they dry, they fly
They live in my heart, for my love
That was taken by the evil in a wild heart.

The Bible Belt Bachelor Prison Speech


To all that have been captured
We are breathing the same chipped paint walls,
Yellow urine stained floors, pneumonia air.

The air of a criminal
Locked up, prison guards whistling our death tune.
Death will be coming soon.

We’re already dead in a sense.
Nature is outside, designed for the free man
On a warm sun-lit sand.
The touch of lovers, the natural consumption of lust.
In my cell asleep with the poetry –
I felt when I was one with the free
When I wasn’t practicing bullets
Setting fire to Mother Nature and to faith.
When blizzard walks exuded freedom.
Through the snow chills devouring my feet
With numbing, cutting skin
The pain of past freedom
My name is Dante Moricelli
Her name was Nadine Angelis
You might have read about me
In your wrinkled newspapers, Slippery
phlegm gazettes

The glossy excitement of a Time Magazine.
The mortality sonnet depicting the surrealism in a slippery dream.
Nadine Angelis was my love as the tender years began to fade.
Young, careless, we were the storybook tale of the unsaved.
I will tell you more about my love,
If your ears are tuned to listen “Must
we have a heart, we never listened
before?” “Must we have ears,
To be attentive to your listless self-loathing?” “Must our
maniacal spirit be all and sundry To your hopeless
“Are we peasants to your pulpit?”
“You, bleeding your cold love propaganda in our troglodytic tomb”
“Interrupting the carving of our minds with a fever
That comes from watching roaches scurry down prison floors, Spiders climbing up our
shirts, flies and decay consuming our food”
“Marking x’s on our calendars with our life force fluid,
The countdown to our demise: the foregone conclusion”
But I am a human heartbeat
I was a 5-year bachelor that fell on hard times,
The loss of reasonable thinking,
And a self-confessed stalker of love
So, if what i’m about to tell you –
Were the opening of a movie
The song “Let There Be More Light” Would be
resonant, magnetic to the ears
Illuminating, flashing of lights from psychedelic trips of torture
The horrified manic looks,
As we drive erratically down a desert road.
Passing cacti and breathing in dry arid air
The sun setting down to a dark orange/bright red hell.
The flashes of a nearly perfect capture lay –

In the trunk of a Pontiac Sunbird.
The music, the music like soundwaves to our mind.
We can see the sound
We have become the sound
We have become the light
Passing by leather skinned lizards with masochistic claws,
Wanting to give you one more bite in the jugular before – The eternal
damnation of our soul’s ease.
The serpents black flickering tongue – Spreads
over the heavens
With a Hallelujah Chrysalis of poisoned tears.
We, looking for an escape to find peace again
But, knowing the only written word of our future is that of a Eulogy.
A eulogy given by family members who didn’t know us well enough
to care before.

All because of espionage and jealousy.
And the loss of love that wasn’t understood quickly enough.
The burning of a desert,
The scarring on the face of Mona Lisa
The victim that lay in his own bloodletting on torn towels – and
shredded t-shirts.
With the rips, that remind us
The struggle it was
The determination in us that caused our perfect lunacy to this near
perfect kill.
His false hopes of spiritual happiness
And wellbeing are exposed
by his crooked cross on a cut chest.

Even though i’m terrified by the outcome.
As sheriffs, detectives, specialists all pace faster and faster behind our car
of forlorn sin.

The electricity already beginning to pop in our veins! The multiple
trips are scary, long, and all indicative
That we had almost masterminded the perfect crime.

So, now the collapsing rollercoaster ride has ended.
The song has ended.
Let me tell you how we came to this plunge into ridicule and reverie.
I’m Dante Moricelli “the Bible Belt Bachelor”
The name they stamped on me,
I’ve lost all identity and dignity now
I’m just a title, less of a man.
Because I erased a man from existence
Who deserved to die.
He took away the root to my soul,
My dear Nadine Angelis
She made my heart feel, She
made my blood pump
And he twisted my mind into only one way of thinking,
Left me with the confusion

Much like after an aneurysm
The pounding, splitting shards of glass as well
shakes to the wild howls of coyotes.

Releasing small increments of mania.


Intro :

Seconds are becoming minutes

Minutes become hours for most of us

However, life is one long second
For a warped mind such as that of
Bradley Westlake
An anxious, delusional, drug induced rebellious kid
His visions can be beautiful, strange, horrific, maybe

even spiritual
His mind reads that of a newspaper, Or so he says
So now we will enter the realm
A walk, a journey into the soul of Bradley Westlake

We begin at 618 NW Murphy Street
Where I’ve been told there is this News Stand.

News Stand #1 :

From the 6 A.m. Murphy Street News Stand

I read about you and that famous gun Shhh!! The secret is out.
Hush Cries! Hush Cries! The Secret was a
I need the drug, where is the drug?
I need the drug, I’m a whore to the drug
The secret was a blot on my life, like fingerprints
For the captured, I will rust like a weak magnet
And all I could hear is the rushed hush
Of a police siren, a flash of a fire truck squealing
A cramp in my stomach, a haemorrhage around my skull
Standing on my malicious balcony with false hands
Lies that brand, hair fumes with sand
Runes that have cast me banned
My name has become a crooked dangerous bend
The ink smears on newspaper print
My mind was slightly poisoned
No memory of childhood baby dolls
My sanity is a frenzy, not any love for many years
Mescaline Hydrochloride 300 mg
My mind becomes Power for the next few hours

News stand #2 :

Today we will be introduced to comets

Galaxies of aliens will kiss our skies

The universe will be magical
Once again there will be the sharing of that electric shock
The mirrors will become not only a reflection, a vision
We will know our true selves
Milky-white skinned dynamos that flood with blood
That were treasured with memories and loving souls
We are fuel supplied by ego
That spat us out into the flies
Our seeds become superstars and murderers
Our visions have become doubts and galactic greed

In my hand I hold a copy of the Gazette
The front page reads of
Half-truths and universal mayhem
We are just inches away from – the burn, scorn, torn, forlorn

That black hole emptiness
Or that magical moistening and birthing of freedom

News Stand #3 :

Ok now,
I’m a smooth mellow rapture
I’m crushed with love, gelled in sunshine
Congealed in power
The newspaper headline reads: God has Escaped!

My feet have become afloat, the energy inside a jolt

My tears now remote
I’m a septic bird, I smell of trash
I fly as if I’m a new-born saviour
Believe, believe, believe
The moon has been cuffed by priests
Taped their mouths and let me speak
I’m speaking for once
So alive, bloody eyes, my veins are the prize
I’m cryptic, a paraplegic, but I
Sail into mighty storms and escape the world as my thorn

Unite the allegiance
I’ll dream as a coma
Murphy Street will be claustrophobic

With angels and spirits tonight
God has escaped!

News Stand #4 :

Are we real? Not real? We are not real

We are hoods, unreal hobos

Peasants, descendants of the pathetic
Suicide soldiers, phenomenal depressing mind burns
We are coughing our flesh, our hair
Our bones, our blood, our ectoplasm
Did you read the paper today?
It said the boy is invisible

News Stand #5 :

Then it became vulgar
The girls that shook with energy, the clitoris like a windmill Boys that
held within a bruising release
Rough trade that walk by with a newspaper in hand
“Our eyes have seen the sex, on every street

our sex has become fair game”
I denote my curvature into a slur
Become crippled in sex
Ecstasy was freedom
Feeling free by the morning, long nights of our blood uniting

A shame, a prayer, looking

into the eyes of a storm that is breathing

News Stand #6 :

The dandies are comatose

Coffin man lives with me
I’m shattered, a paranormal prince I wear my face of
milky white death
Just years after my glory lobotomy
I’ve become fish food for hungered virgins
My severance have been applauded
Laughed at by the wealthy
United the pig stench
Today’s headline reads
“the dead overdoses on the normal only to become strange”

News Stand #7 :

Oh, my heavens! Lollipops rain down

In my red storm sunshine
Clouds, rain, mist and moons
Starlight barfight, June bugs to mysterious magical mind balloons
Exploding outside my rhapsody
I’ve shown the tears, the years of fears

Now I show my excellence
Enthusiasm, visions of grandeur, eccentric beauty
Angels fly by with the Golden Ticket
And I smile

Milkshakes found in trashcans, I smile

A sub headline drenched in spit reads
“He winks, he blinks to those who stink”

News Stand #8 :

Today I awoke to Sasquatch eyes

Crying, ref fire flames hiding

Behind my cave walls
Cobra spit hiding in earthly splits
Jasmine crevices on my cheek
Then without warning, I become clear when I show signs
of –
Being a diamond mine again
Read here! Read here!
“The Earth has malignancy spreading like wildfire”
The News Stand burned to the ground later that day

Suspects were few,and Bradley Westlake

would never be seen on Murphy Street again..

©David L O’Nan All rights reserved.

David L O’Nan

David L O’Nan is a poet, writer, and an editor. He has curated up to now 5 Poetry Anthologies including Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Digest Issue 1, Fevers of the Mind Poetry Digest 2,3, Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020 & Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art Inspired by Leonard Cohen. He has released 6 self-published books, which he will soon be re-doing to add more pictures & polishing up old pieces. The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers, Our Fears in Tunnels, Taking Pictures in the Dark, Lost Reflections, The Cartoon Diaries, & New Disease Streets. He is working on a favorites collection which will also include recent publishings from litmags he was accepted in His Poetic Last Whispers. He is working on new pieces to eventually be shopped around to be published outside of the Fevers of the Mind Press. There will be new anthologies the rest of the year including Fevers of the Mind 5 & Fevers of the Mind 6, and a 5 year memorial issue follow up to the Leonard Cohen Anthology. New pieces, a few favorites from the first book, revised versions of his poetry, and artwork by Geoffrey Wren.