Tag Archives: FLAPPERHOUSE #11

“Ode to a Man Who Says Motherfucker Twice as Much as Any Motherfucker Should” – Poetry by Jeremiah Driver

Strength- Niki de Sainte Phalle, 1973
Strength- Niki de Sainte Phalle, 1973

We interrupt our regularly scheduled dark weirdness to bring you some poetry about family & love. Please enjoy “Ode to a Man Who Says Motherfucker Twice as Much as Any Motherfucker Should,” one of four heartwarming poems contributed to our Fall 2016 issue by our new Poetry Consultant, Jeremiah Driver.

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Aunt Delores lifted off your pinned body;

The contest of pulling recurve bows for poundage,
That you won annually until Bo Jackson

Pulled the measure to the arrow’s end;
And the gentle barters of broken ribs with Uncle Alex.

Blessed are the stories of folly: the man,
With short permed hair who couldn’t swim

So he walked the pond’s depth and reached the bank,
Gasping; the kitten, your wife named Lucy

Whose testicles dropped and you christened Lucille Balls;
The bell-shaped lampshade, with a pink floral pattern

That you put on your head, the fabric balls dangling –
Above your muscle shirt – as you blew the camera a kiss

With wadded lips for a picture that still makes your sister laugh;
And the lyrics to Good Night Irene that you sang, standing

Over Uncle Charlie’s drunken body after it settled on the ground.
Blessed are the raindrops that fell hard enough to drown men

Who couldn’t laugh and dripped from our noses
As we shook hands – two motherfuckers in a horse trailer.

When Grandpa said a guy would have to be queer
and have a cast iron stomach to eat pussy,

You said well then, you’ve got three queer brothers!
Bless be all our brothers.

Blessed is the elbow and fist that stopped quick,
Level with your shoulder when I told you

In the hospital parking lot, that your brother was dead.
Blessed be all the motherfuckers.

— for Great Uncle Denny

{ X } Continue reading “Ode to a Man Who Says Motherfucker Twice as Much as Any Motherfucker Should” – Poetry by Jeremiah Driver

“The Extraordinary True Story of the Unmother Who Substantiated Darwinism” – Poetry by Jeanann Verlee

Fountain of Milk... - Salvador Dali, 1945
Fountain of Milk… – Salvador Dali, 1945

“The Extraordinary True Story of the Unmother Who Substantiated Darwinism” is one of 3 phenomenally flappy poems by Jeanann Verlee in our Fall 2016 issue. To read two more of Jeanann’s poems, plus unforgettable work by 15 other excellent writers, you can buy a copy of FLAPPERHOUSE #11 in print or PDF today!

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IT STARTS HERE, YOU, your swelled & untapped breasts, those plump orbs of goldhoneymilk spewing, spsssssssing, everywhere, like a good summer sprinkler, spsssing & spsssing, drenching your clothes, unending, & soon you tire of changing & resign to the same cream colored dress, reeking the dank sourbitter, & milkclots dot the toes of your galoshes, which fill & overspill, & in your wake, a stream curls its way past your feet, past the curb & the corner grocery, past the bank & the pub & the overpass & beyond, & soon everyone is waist-deep, & behind you the neighborhood cats lurk & sip, & further beyond, lambs & tiger cubs, puppies & their bitches, all lapping up the bounty, & humans too, infants, yes, & men, hundreds, thousands even, on hands & knees, face-down in the riverbed of your milkstream, lapping like work dogs, lapping & drooling, & the river rises, surges, you are the witch of The New Mississippi, carving fresh earth with your brilliant milkfountain, & the chickadees dance in it, & ducks dip down & under & back, & now, too, the fish have gone mammalian & they swim & feast & harvest their fingerlings from the dirt stir of your royal milkbed river banks, & too now the dolphins & sharks, sea-stressed, milkfed, lunge & thrive in the new ocean of your teatmaking, & so, too, cherry blossom roots adapt to suckle nutrients from your ground seep, as do the dogwoods & sunflowers & lilacs & honeysuckles, the fir & pine & weeping willow, & of course hogs & chickens, water buffalo & giraffes, amoeba & ferns, & eventually even the clouds learn to parcel your offering to the sky & rain it down again where whole ecosystems transform to your nurture, & children of all species dance with tongues wagging to catch the milkfall & you, barren as a stone, spill & spill & spill & spill & this goes on & even when you try to die, scientists team with engineers who team with doctors who team with politicians & orders are drawn to keep alive your pulse & spigots because now you are crucial, obligatory, the food of all things, the world’s sustenance, the girl who bloomed.

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Continue reading “The Extraordinary True Story of the Unmother Who Substantiated Darwinism” – Poetry by Jeanann Verlee

“Charlotte” – Fiction by Nancy Hightower

A Girl Head Behind Spider Web - Toyen, 1934
A Girl Head Behind Spider Web – Toyen, 1934

From our Fall 2016 issue, Nancy Hightower‘s powerful flash fiction “Charlotte” is a dark spin on a classic children’s story. 

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THERE COULD HAVE BEEN A BARN THAT DAY, with giant haystacks and a pitchfork that somehow always got lost. It could have been a one bedroom apartment in Jersey City. There could have been a baby pig so small the mama pig forgot all about it. Or an old pit bull that pissed on the carpet because it couldn’t make it outside in time.

Either way, the dad wanted to kill it.

There was probably a little girl who wanted to save the pig or the pit bull. That kid had street smarts, could work the county fair or Atlantic City and bought her adopted pet a few extra months of life with the dad. The Jersey father might have worked seventy hours a week and had no patience for an invalid pet and headstrong child. They both knew how to hide in a corner, blend into the shadows so the father might not see them. The farmer probably had his own concerns, but daily he eyed the scrawny runt who ate the scraps and yet never grew fast enough. And the daughter saw it. She saw many things, that girl. Some real, some imagined. Who’s to say the spider in the old barn didn’t spin glorious webs into words illuminated by the morning dew? Or it could have been a brown recluse whose ragged weavings she imagined would save her pig from her father’s ax.

Either way, there was a spider.

Continue reading “Charlotte” – Fiction by Nancy Hightower

“Mediocre Company” – Fiction by Michael Seymour Blake

Eggs in an Egg Crate - Mary Pratt, 1975
Eggs in an Egg Crate – Mary Pratt, 1975

In the spirit of the Halloween season, we present “Mediocre Company,” Michael Seymour Blake‘s uniquely disturbing haunted house story from our Fall 2016 issue.

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A few weeks after buying the house, a little two bedroom in suburban Long Island, my husband Marc and I feel like we’re starting to take control of our lives. We spend most of our time setting the place up, settling in, dealing with all the inconveniences of owning an older home. Our savings deplete faster than we’d planned, but we find a way to stay afloat.

Then, there’s the eggs.

Marc has always been in charge of cooking eggs because I can never get them quite right. Eggs are trickier than you’d think. Weekday mornings, he scrambles us some for breakfast, then we go about our business.

One morning, Marc’s eggs come out hard and rubbery. “Sorry, hon,” he says. I tell him he’s losing his touch and he fakes getting angry with me.

But the next morning, it happens again.

Marc says it could be the stove. The stove came with the house so who knows how old it is or how it’s been treated. He opens it up and looks around as if he knows how to fix a stove or even tell if it needs fixing. “Weird,” he says, “everything looks fine.”

The following day, Marc wakes up early and starts preparing breakfast. By the time I get to the table, there’s a mountain of eggs stacked on one of our biggest plates. Marc tells me they’re all bad. We eat the next batch he prepares. Rubbery eggs. Tasteless eggs. Not Marc-made eggs. We load them down with salt, but it doesn’t help much.

That night, I prepare some pasta for dinner. The noodles come out sticky, stiff and undercooked. If anything, I left the noodles boiling for too long. I forget about things like that. But no, they’re undercooked.

“Goddamn stove,” Marc says, throwing a crumpled napkin at it.

We have Marc’s dad’s pal, Ted, over to check it out. Ted knows about things like fixing stoves. He unscrews stuff, opens other stuff, nods.

“Seems perfectly fine,” he says, turning the burner on and off.

We make some small talk. He asks me how my yoga classes are going.

“I almost had a full class last week, seven people. If that keeps up, one day I’ll be able to make it a full-time job.”

Ted says, “Wouldn’t that be great.”

“And my YouTube channel is starting to take off,” Marc says.

Marc had been uploading videos of himself singing popular TV theme songs on YouTube. His last one received 150 likes. He wants to go pro someday.

“Lots of people get their start on the internet these days,” Ted says, washing his pudgy hands, “you guys are too cool.”

The stove continues to under/overcook things, but other little problems begin to arise and distract us. One morning, I can’t find my left shoe. I thought I’d left them under the bed because I wanted to wear them for work. Black velvet pumps that are crisscrossed at the vamp. Love those pumps. I ask Marc, but he’s busy trying to figure out how one end of his work pants suddenly became slightly higher than the other.

I look under the bed, in the closet, under the sofa. I look in cabinets, trash bins, the front porch.

The shoe is gone.

“Aren’t you gonna be late,” Marc asks, fishing a tape measure out of the junk drawer.

I grunt in response, checking the refrigerator and freezer.

Continue reading “Mediocre Company” – Fiction by Michael Seymour Blake

Beyond-the-Grave Buzz for FLAPPERHOUSE #11!


Some of literature’s deadest legends are buzzing about FLAPPERHOUSE #11!

“We all look for happiness, but without knowing where to find it: like drunkards who look for their house, knowing dimly that they have one…Flappiness, on the other hand, is quite easy to find: it flies off every page of FLAPPERHOUSE #11 with graceful ferocity!”Voltaire

“The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go…
thank goodness I have my copy
to keep me warm and lucid
and restore my faith in heaven!”
Emily Brontë

“I was so sick last night I
Didn’t hardly know my mind.
So sick last night I
Didn’t know my mind.
I drunk some bad licker that
Almost made me blind.
Then I read FLAPPERHOUSE #11
and I still don’t know my mind
but now FLAPPERHOUSE #11 knows my mind
and all the weird stuff that goes on in there
and now my mind & FLAPPERHOUSE #11 are best friends!”
Langston Hughes

PRINT copies available for $6US thru Amazon

click HERE to order a digital (PDF)copy
for $3US

PLEASE NOTE: Unfortunately we are currently unable to email PDFs immediately upon order. Delivery of your PDF may take anywhere from several seconds to several hours, but rest assured, we will complete your purchase as soon as humanly possible.
We apologize profusely for any inconvenience or delayed gratification.




“artemis” – Poetry by Monica Lewis

The Lovers Whirlwind - William Blake, 1827
The Lovers Whirlwind – William Blake, 1827

For another taste of our Fall 2016 issue before it flies on 9/22, here’s “artemis,” one of five sizzling poems in the issue written by the incomparable Monica Lewis. To read all five– plus poetry & prose by 15 more of the planet’s flappiest writers– you can buy a digital (PDF) copy of FLAPPERHOUSE #11 for $3US, or a paper copy for $6US.

(And if you’ll be in the NYC area on Wednesday 9/21, you can hear Monica perform her work– along with seven other stellar writers– at our 10th Reading at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard!)

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theo and felicity, perfectly, preciously named, because we
would have conceived a tornado: artemis and she would have broken me into
postpartum and I’d have given her a life-long restlessness. I love you
still, and our daughter would have had your sea glass eyes and my wind-twisted,
night flight of curls, skin the color of brown feathered birds, and in her wake, always,
the scent of caribbean salt—but most certainly, a mouth unhinged—sharp & wise & legs always set to go and a hand unrelenting toward any necessary slay – yes we’d have created a warrior in flesh, alit & strong, but instead, I will birth her into words. and she will  outlive our love, our could have, should have never been love. our love that would have quaked
a goddess to earth – one incapable of ever splitting herself into two.

{ X } Continue reading “artemis” – Poetry by Monica Lewis

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #10 / Issue 11 Flight Party

FHReading10PosterWe’re gonna bop like the Ramones & bang like Blondie & twitch like Talking Heads to celebrate the flight of our Fall 2016 issue, FLAPPERHOUSE #11— our New Yorkiest issue yet! It’ll be on WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21st from 7 – 9 PM at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard. Starring NANCY HIGHTOWER, ARMANDO JARAMILLO GARCIA, ALIBI JONES, MONICA LEWIS, ILANA MASAD, ADAM TEDESCO, STU WATSON, COOPER WILHELM, and the late EMILY DICKINSON.

Admission is FREE, and you can buy print copies of FH11 for the special reading price of $5!

(And here’s the Facebook event page.)

Digital PDF Copies of FLAPPERHOUSE #11 Now Available for Pre-Order!

Freaky families, fake Lovecrafts, literary sabotage, coffee-shop assassins, Eucharist-stealing monkeys,  mediocre hauntings, discreet dystopias: FLAPPERHOUSE #11.
SEPTEMBER 22, 2016
click HERE to order a digital (PDF)copy
for $3US
PRINT copies available for $6US thru Amazon