Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/06/22


one hundred milligrams
of Thorazine. running away with
your imagination, sense of self.

bolts seize you, turn you dizzy, little
pills, i’m asking you to drink & swallow
please show me they’re gone –

i’ll let you go, slip
into it, you’ll never come
out, white cups, containers of
orange juice, drink up

the pills. i know you’re
thirsty, & slow & tired.
even though you slept
sixteen hours, thorazine,
one hundred milligrams.

©2022 Emma Geller All rights reserved.

Emma Geller

Emma Geller is a poet, singer, and actress from Boston, MA. Her passions include cinema, listening to Elliot Smith, and drinking too much coffee. You can find out more about Emma on Instagram at em_me_line.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/03/22


Anne drives.
Right foot presses gas pedal hard
hard as a pair of ruby lips smashed
on red wine
stained chin
bleached out collar.
I sit behind.
Blackberry vinyl resin sticks to hairless legs
holds me stiff as a cross
as she weaves her nineteen-sixty-seven
crimson Cougar in and out of cars
yielding to her yellow roar.
Anne’s tongue
laps up virginity until it is dry.
I want to be her kind.

Red dress wears her femaleness
the way a thin line draws a silhouette.
Not a child or woman
ambiguous and shapeless
I see words as words
inscribed in my body’s mind.
The rev-rev of Anne’s liquid laughter
turns high beams on high
mixes with air
excavates sound from my lungs.
a voice surfaces
begs me to slip on the costume
of brave Anne
still haunted.

Her marble eyes grow greener.
Anne tells me
I must learn to create my own room
my own audience
muster every chalk in my bones
let the words find me
until nothing is left but my sex
before the opposite of the poem
the opposite we both know
hides like a seed
grows like vine
inside a gravedigger’s

Crimson Cougar halts at the Ritz.
We sneak inside
order martinis
two-for-one and knock them back.
Poets dressed as salesmen
surround me
cat strut the aisle.
The podium is taller
then I remember
as words crumble in my mouth
fractured bone letters ash silent.

Anne waves.
Tosses my pages into choked up air.
I have not done my hitch
my half.
Part of the road
I am asphalt
not whole.
Back in the Cougar
the seat rubs under my thighs
shame fills the blanks inside.
Salty smoke swirls
around Anne
as she cures herself
last time.
To fill Anne’s dress
I must grow
I must burn
burn to render the madness.
I want to be her kind.


In quiet acceleration you drove.
Left behind sprinklers
bare feet racing to sirens
mating cats in the alley.
You left a house filled with curtains
wooden spoons
your name.

You were dark
always squinting something awful
through your eyes.
Bruises disturbed your inkblot face
credibility for the insane.
I was seven
buck teeth towhead
hard to feed insomniac.

That night you gave up
crawled into my room
after mixing cigarettes with men
wearing perfume for the whore
polluting the air.

You swayed above me.
Beads of sweat on your neck
glistened a string of white lights
around your tree.
Cherry flavor wax candy lips
sucked dry by whiskey fumes
kissed me once for goodnight
once for goodbye.

Through my pillow
I could feel the garage vibrate
your Nova engine rolled
asphalt still chewy
from July’s heat.
Echo of an echo
your life faded into slumber
haunted my mind’s cave
preserved for harvest bloom.

You left three dead kittens
tied in knots
placenta thicker than my hands
could pull apart.
We buried ourselves
next to the robin who fell
dog who hung
a tail
from a goldfish

Night is never good to me.
Under the covers
static electricity
my only light
my shame.


One sound grunts
from a toddler’s tongue.
like an awkward penis held
by lithium shakes.
Pickled lips struck
howler’s position
four-legged bitch
not human.

The idiot regurgitates
chunks of verbiage.
Shrapnel circumcises
tongue drags across
hot carnal skillets.

Ashen lint
hair snapped from calico dust
follicle colors of bone
taste inside her nostrils.
Words gestate a call
leap forward and back
wade in the bog.

Whose alphabet
hangs from vocal cords
fixed in amber
no one knows.
Under ice
thicker than the bed shared
she is buried

Plastic doll eyes stare
at you and them
matted copper frame
against blue sky.
The idiot feels your blades
shave figure eights.
Fingers point
sharp steeples
poke her loose
rippled bacon skin
swat that ass good
to make fire.

Floppy head cocked at the sun
you pretend to hear music
belonging to the salvation
of fake tears
sacrificed Jesus
black winged smudges
form a V heading south

©2022 Chachee Valentine All rights reserved.

Chachee Valentine

My work has appeared or is forthcoming in the following publications: Words & Images; Uni Southern Maine, InSite Magazine; Boston, Stolen Island Review; Uni of Maine, Lullwater Review; Emory University, Fugue; Uni of Idaho, Prairie Margins; Bowling Green State Uni (2010 & 2022), Askew Poetry Journal; California, Alchemy Literary Magazine; Portland Community College, Eunoia Review, The Parliament Literary Journal; New Jersey, Creative License; Georgia Perimeter College, 11 Mag Berlin; Germany & The Bitchin’ Kitsch; Colorado (2021 &2022).

My poem 1976 placed 2nd @ Lullwater Review, and was a finalist for the Rita Dove Poetry Award @ The Salem College Center for Women Writers. My poem Drive won the Rosemary Cox Poetry Award @ Georgia Perimeter College.

My short story Prick placed as quarterfinalist @ ScreenCraft Cinematic Short Story Competition.

My essay, Unfolding Creation: How Chantal Akerman Ignited My First Film, was published by Michigan State University’s writing, rhetoric and American cultures newsletter, Agnes Films.

Like the Moon placed as quarterfinalist @ The Script Lab ‘21. In the same year, LTM made the top 50 list @ Cinequest Screenwriting Competition.

My first experimental video, La Flamme, screened at London International Short Film Festival October, UK and was awarded Best International Experimental Short Film. Other screenings for La Flamme include: Paris Independent Film Festival, Chhatrapati Shivaji International Film Festival, Filmideo, Mediawave, Magmart, Bideoromo International Experimental Film Video Festival, Film Vault Presents and Traverse Video.

The Music Taken with Her, my second video, screened at Kinosmena Short Film Festival, Russian Film Festival, London International Short Film Festival, and Pugnant Film Series.
My third video, Self-location, had its debut at London International Short Film Festival and screened at Film Vault Presents.

Feel free to take a peek!

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/01/22

I gotta get back to LA

I gotta get back to LA
With my new old car,
Rusty of empty beer cans
And dentine wrappers
Stuck inside paperback
Shakespeare third acts of
Endless stabbings of villains
And fatal flawed heroes,
Losing its whiskey-soaked
Pages in the back seat under
Dusty memories of what I
Should have been,

Where I was drunk in sober life,
Longing for a buzz
At Bukowski’s San Pedro
Dream house, writing his mad
And beat poems till the end
Of no unglad post office pension
And cat lover mysticism, in his
Punchdrunk of barfly skid row
Flophouse craziness, undone
By death but never dying,

Where the clarity of smog
Induced sunset blvd call girl
Lust sings sweetly of soft
Inner thigh promise, where
Miracle mile tattooed legs in
Thought are cold in the youth
Of Echo Parks murky water,
Rowing Chinatown boats to
Groovy back lots at Paramount,
Before rushing to the next
Sexual conquest, trying to
Find the perfect end line for
My new spy novel,

When purple evenings
And mid-August moons
Woke me to cobblestone
Depression remedies with vodka
Inspired early morning shots
Of Silver Lake blue dawns
Before shooting scenes
With the ghost of sad and stoic
Clara Bow, angel now of
No time silent film heaven
And my invisible love on
Nights when the streets
Were empty of women,

Where Chavez Ravine
Evictions and cries of no home
Latino heart of holy Mary
Became my drunken home
Team fans’ dodging of old
Sadness with ballpark beer,
Cheering riot of blue until
Fernando came with his
Mythic screwball, throwing
No-hitter pop-ups, shutting out
All hate of gringo heart with
His quiet ways,
Seeing the lie of countries,
Like a vision suddenly widened,

Where I couldn’t be a hippie
And pet a stray dog’s lonesome
Head without crying for eternity,
And tears of noble failings drifting
In high places, letting go
Of ancient hate, but
Haunting my own living body,
Seeking forgiveness from whores
And whiskey and penance
In hangover mornings not
Knowing where I was or how
I got there.

I gotta get back to LA
To remember the song of the
Prophets who sang to me
During all lost years of drunken
Fucking in the cheap hotels
Of Santa Monica boulevard doom
Washing ashore on the fancy
Beaches of Marina del Rey
Where angels kept me warm,
Wrapped in wings of love,
Whispering softly that I was
An angel too, fallen but not
Forgotten, for LA is the city of
Angels in truth and only angels
Are there living, breathing, walking
The streets, making movies
And playing baseball,
Selling tacos downtown,
The best you can eat
This side of heaven.

©2022 Bruce Fisher All rights reserved.

Bruce Fisher

Bruce Fisher is a poet and actor living in San Francisco.

June 2022 C.M.P. Featured Writers

Another great lineup this month! I’ve got some new voices and poetry from regular contributors in there as well. I didn’t get any art submissions. Thought I’d at least get a few. If y’all have any art or know any artists, send it/them my way. I’d love to start featuring some artwork. Send all writing and art submissions to with a bio and photo. I’ll get back to you soon as I can.

Keep your eyes peeled for the next book release! A chapbook by Will Mayo titled Perfection is Failure. Dropping in a couple of weeks on June 14th. Last month How do you recycle a Siberian tiger? by R. Keith was published on May 24th and is still available. I’m working on the cover for The Mourning Hour by Frogg Corpse at the moment. I’ll announce the release date soon. I also have books by Aleathia Drehmer, Dusty Jaggers, David Alec Knight, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, and a few others in the works. If you’ve sent a manuscript and haven’t heard from me yet, please be patient.

Below is a link to the Cajun Mutt Press bibliography, and this month’s featured writers. As always, huge thanks to the writers and readers! I love y’all.

Write On,

C.M.P. Bibliography:

June 2022 C.M.P. Featured Writers:

I gotta get back to LA
by Bruce Fisher

3 Poems
by Chachee Valentine

by Emma Geller

Crazy Horse
by Lynn White

Melissa (no. 120 of Women’s names sensual series)
by Carrie Magness Radna

Missive to Bob Dylan
by Allan Lake

A Noble Last Stand
by Mackenzie Thorn

cort g110
by Hanna Abi Aki

Unfunny Valentine
by Howie Good

Over Rifle Under Chin
by David Alec Knight

by Nadja Moore

Bring On Spring !
by Ian Lewis Copestick

Pebbles of Desolation III
by Morley Cacoethes

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 05/30/22

Faintly Realising

I hoard yesterdays
as though they might aid today
or take some edge
off tomorrow,
faintly realising
I am living less,
all those minutes
and hours
of the past
eating through
the finite time
left before me.

Faintly realising
and yet still gathering them
to me, as though they are warmth
and I am cold to my very bones.

©2022 Edward Lee All rights reserved.

Edward Lee

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His play ‘Wall’ was part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. His debut poetry collection “Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge” was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.

He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.

His blog/website can be found at