blood – Cajun Mutt Press

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/24/24

June 24, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Face Painter

There was a sudden sharp sting.
The blood poured out over the concrete.

It appeared black in the darkness.
He couldn’t even be sure it was blood at first.

Then the bastard stabbed him in the face again.
Below the right orbital bone this time.

He hadn’t seen it coming.
Saw the fist and thought it a punch.

Something jumping out of the nearby garbage
and running off with this sudden commotion.

Blood running down into his eyes and mouth,
he threw a winging punch back that connected.

It was enough to scare the bastard off.
Dropping the blade, he remembered that shiny metallic
sound as it bounced off the pavement.

No one there to help,
he shuffled out towards the street.

Collapsing by the waste basket
full of dirty syringes.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Cajun Mutt Press, Dumpster Fire Press, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/03/24

June 3, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Eulogy Menage

Simultaneous terror 
Hair stood on end
500 million volts
 Bolt and Clap are one
Human Communion with
 An impersonal god and goddess. 
His load delivered
 to her surface 
Through blood and bone.
 Painless instant transition 
Is of no concern to them.
As all bodily fluids boil 
Boots burned through 

Bad end to a good day 
In the deep woods 
My Bleached remains found
By a fellow wildcrafter 
Years later
 amidst a huge chanterelle flush

Picked up my skull and said
"Ah the Heretic Vicar, I knew him once!"

_______________________

DEATHSTYLE

Hey kid welcome to the human race
Got your carbon chain shackles and a working cranium 
Prepare yourself to take your slice
Of Gaia's pie. 
This progressive linear resource butchery
Has been our phillistine practice 
in many ways 
throughout hominid existence. 
Rules are :
Consider yourself the last generation. 
 We all thought we were. 
whoever digs the deepest hole wins.
Blinders on stay focused.
 Never mind the noise or chemical smoke.
Give No quarter to the woke.
 Step on toes. Compete! 
It's the 4th Reich
Fuck the liberal elite! 
 Eat their lunch. 
Remain in denial. 
Never play fair or they'll win.
Dig like a pig for 80 years give or take.
If your lucky grab your chest.
Sorry you were born so late
You may BE the last.
No American Dream for your kids.
Bear Witness to human extinction.
30 or 40 ice ages from today 
The cock roaches will say
The monkeys had their chance.

_______________________

I don't know how deep the well.
 the angels won't tell .
they frequently speak through my pen.
 They're here again.
 Provide the only thing that makes me excited about life anymore. 
guided trips through my grey matter imagery. Hamsterwheel chatter..it never stops. 
Goddess forbid if it did 
of what use would I be.

_______________________

Memories of war
Abhorrent acts
On the Killen floor 
Faces live forever in 
Minds eye
Thin veil Rationale
It was them or me.
Thought I could drink away the feelings 
But it doesn't work anymore 
Thousand mile stare 
I'm back there
Like it was yesterday 

_______________________

Whats left after closing time
All the shred and drama done.
Only music fit for listenin
In my arrogant opinion 
 
More stories of the killen floor and my dying day
 played on some slack key resonator 
Preferably a Pegamule with an abalone inlay..don't make it sound no better
Just pretty like a full body tattoo girl 
Curled up around my soul
Might as well dream still
While I'm on this side of the dirt

_______________________

I have a part in all my wrongdoing 
I can no longer point the finger
Serenity exited long ago
Insomnia coupled with amoral thoughts 
Too much late nite chocolate 

_______________________

YAQUI TANKA

Ain't they the same place
Killen floor and prayen ground 
Transition spirit 
Death approaches from the left
Yaqui desert sorcerer 

_______________________

Looken foreward to
  tea with a coven 
adorable michigan druids.
 Dredlocks, snakebites.
Faces tattoo'd
With celtic knots 
And ravens.
Conversation kept light; 
as I'm the only man
 seeking divination advice. 
A misplaced word
 might be
misinterpreted as a slight. 
Resulting in a curse ,Jinx, or hexes 
Cast the bones, read the stone.
Melodic incantation 
Tell me witch! 
What do you scry? 
Does intuition say she's the one?
Do I give it another try?
Or preserve my occluded heart
And say goodbye.

Voracious reader but lately doesn’t have the time.

From an auld Bucks County family of poets (brother and grandmother were both published).

Despite working around the performing arts, Chris didn’t pursue creative writing or performance till a year ago when; through some introspective journaling to cauterize a broken spirit he noted certain phrases had a ring. After attending a fellow poet’s funeral he was invited to read at the New Hope Beats gathering and hasn’t looked back! He now seeks to be published, travels to many open mics and hosts a Thursday monthly read at the Living Room Ardmore. His work has been described as ruminating introspective.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 02/16/24

February 16, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Kitchen Hand

The weekend shift would start at 10am,
the previous night’s mishaps bleeding
slowly from my pores, consuming
both my flesh and the zinc covered
counters that shone smuggly
amongst the unsharpened knives
and the heavy heated conjecture;
always the root of our day’s routine.

The dash of crushed, spilt
ingredients upon floor tiles,
the lights that reflected
from the flames that crossed my wrists,
the nerve endings now too severed to care.
the haze of fatigue across my eyes
like the clingfilm smothering these leftovers,
which we served up as the fruits of our toil.

A splash of blood diluted by dishwater
clashes like car oil in back street puddles.
Once again you await the orders,
seemingly superimposed onto
this chaos, your calm a reflective
flame that allowed me a glimpse
of respite, a measure of grace
that justified the salt stains and meat scraps
smothered across my payslip.

Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, The Abyss, Cajun Mutt Press and others. His fourth chapbook, ‘Turpentine’ was published by Alien Buddha Press. He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press. He also has a poem in Night Owl Narrative No.1:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQVN1WPW

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/15/23

November 15, 2023 James D. Casey IV

your demons are worth it

it’s Tuesday night
and it’s fast food burgers
and it’s dirty old underwear
and tornado sirens that rip the silence

and it’s a perfect time to talk to your inner demons
let them know they still matter in your life
that you haven’t forgot them
just because you held on to the same job for two years

the little bastards are so insecure
and possessive
humor them
get drunk with them
cuddle with them in your trash dump recliner
and call in tomorrow
use some big wind damage for an excuse
that’s believable enough
and your demons are worth it

rules for living

hear everything but believe nothing
keep your old f250 out of the ditch
water the tomatoes before the sun rises too high in the sky
and never swap the wrecked and rusted carcass
of a ‘67 Camaro that you don’t own
for a used Smith-Corona Super 12 electric typer
and a bus ticket to Clovis N.M.

you got to have rules for living
but you can’t let the power mongers define all the rules

bury your poems in a deep desk drawer
and don’t let them out until they scream and wail
wipe the sweat out of your eyes with a bright colored bandana
ignore all the people that claim they can save you
cherish the few that never tried
they are the true angels of the earth

and when you find that you need to bend your own rules to flourish
remember that the real art lies in the angle of your bend
and the grace with which you apply the torch

words rough as 40grit

you can spit
you can stomp
you can cuss
you can cry
but you were born with swarms of words
entangled deep in your DNA
unruly words
cantankerous words
words rough as 40 grit

you can scream
you can piss blood
you can blame the whores of Babel
but you’ll never pass for normal
and no matter how many sloppy stanzas
you pour down the page
you’ll never make your mother proud

you can howl
you can pray
you can blow the devil in his darkest den
but your fate is your fate
and you’ll stew in your life forever

but you’ll set those words free
or they’ll chew away every pocket of your soul

Preacher Allgood lost his bio in a bet on a game of nine ball. The bastard that won it threw it out his window in the parking lot and a gang of raccoons ran off with it.