Tag Archives: FLAPPERHOUSE #13

“Shananananananana Knees, Knees” – Poetry by Adam Tedesco

The Supplicant – Oskar Kokoschka, 1914

“Shananananananana Knees, Knees” is one of three uncannily powerful poems by Adam Tedesco in our Spring 2017 issue.

{ X }

CHANCE MOMENTS OF EQUILIBRIUM make it easy
to forget the signs before off ramps do not

mark your location rather destinations
and your sign is not a rabbit but a hole

in gravities where you joined the search
party the days of rage and hate boil down

one plant to change their minds when
swat team vans encircled you the fire would

not speak of danger through a doorknob
to see a father pinned under guns drawn

everything opened for you once and there
is a name for that you say they’re coming

for the children too what burden of balance
swallowing the sweat of hot house glass

while driving from a to b untouchable
by shallow graves or cold frames like

the dune buggies on the beach or sleeping
dogs shot nearby we are not home but coming

soon watch the stars move across night
we talk about the name for how we never

move and the points between all points are
inside of us too between then and now we say

there is a simple explanation for everything
except why we are alive and on our knees

{ X } Continue reading “Shananananananana Knees, Knees” – Poetry by Adam Tedesco

“Kiss With Recorder and Killer” – Poetry by Jane Ormerod

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik – Dorothea Tanning, 1943

“Kiss with Recorder and Killer” is Jane Ormerod‘s hypnotically surreal & musical poem from our Spring 2017 issue.

{ X }

FLOWERS, THE COINS OF THE DEAD,
We take on all that is thrown
Flowers, the corn of the dead
We take on all that is thrown
Flowers, cauldrons of death
We take on all that is thrown
Flowers, the call of the death
We take on all that is thrown
Flowers, columns of death
We take on all that is thrown

thump

 The link of mustard to egret
The minus and forgiveness of bone
Coin purse, the flower, meander
All is away, to take, donate
Cease and care less to the letter
The flowers of postponement
slinking to yes days of shit and anger

thump

There is rainstorm     thump
Longer days, shorter fights
A sweater with back-burning buttons
There is rainstorm and man-known complexity
Hostage scenarios     thump
The dead daubed fluorescent again     thump
The uniformed and uninformed and beautified
The blue, the blowing, the yet-to-be healed
Himberama, the past revolves
Ideals drawn willy-nilly from the box of
do-gooder illusion
The thump on the way to the inside and insiders
The coils, recoils, the insiders left in the cold
The recollected elevation, the rainstorm
Roof tiles, hooves, a mineral-hard memory
of a herd mentality

Himberama
Himberama
Him-himberama
Our light forced rectangular     thump     again
Go out? Maybe not? Maybe drink at home beside
the silencer. Sketch extra lines on the night horizon
Drink so you are simply out of reach
Stop. Stop. That’s right.
Dream of crinolines, baking apples, your numerable mind
Count and then counterweight the past
Your mind made-up like a bed with hospital corners

Happy days?
Do you savor or sweeten them?
Those spoils of the wonderful and blessed
thump
I love to carry half-eaten maple cake, business cards with
misleading detail. The fold of an egg, the average family and
the average goodbye. The average six-thirty pick-up
outside work, the average rib-eye, chops galore

I carry smoke
I carry good
I carry vegetable
Hotels that lose a star every year
This is a big and damning city
Even a small-stringed instrument cannot find a home

These are my keys
thump
These are my personal flowers
thump
I drink in a house mentioned in pages 23, 29, and 95
I sleep in the house mentioned only on the third-to-last page
I will die in the house mentioned early in the second volume
The thumps remain the same

{ X } Continue reading “Kiss With Recorder and Killer” – Poetry by Jane Ormerod

“Picnic” – Fiction by A.E. Weisgerber

Home Movies – Rosalyn Drexler, 1963

“Picnic” is A.E. Weisgerber‘s potent & evocative flash fiction from our killer & cinematic Spring 2017 issue. (Fun fact: “Picnic” was also selected by Michael Ray at Zoetrope: All-Story for inclusion in the super-cool Cafe Zoetrope Short Story Dispenser!)

{ X }

IT WAS DRIZZLY AND FRIDAY AND THEY WERE POOR, so Yves and his new wife Della decided to dig out the 8mm. The projector—Bell & Howell, heavy and gray with a square-handled top—was passed down from the coat closet, followed by the Thom McCan shoe box, holding its small library of little films, each in a yellow and black cardboard box marked with catchall names like Cabin 1960, Aunt Belle, St. Anne, and such.

“Don’t forget to get that pen,” Yves said. “You can mark the one with your cousin in it.”

Della’s cousin, Pat Farelly, was back in the newspapers as his verdict was due shortly.

“Oh. Gosh right. What if they let him go?” Della brought the box into the living room.

“I don’t think he’s got a chance. Did you see the newspaper? those shackles?” Yves set down the bulky projector, unhasped its pebbly gray clamshell, shucked it. “With his limp on top of that?” The threading wasn’t so tricky, but once that lamp kicked on, it had to keep running or acrid smoke would announce holes burning through the celluloid.

With a china crayon, Della added ‘killer’ to the little carton’s subject line, and set it aside. “Remember how he locked all the doors?”  Della always selected the same films, and it wouldn’t be an official movie night without watching Honeymoon, the time the old Falcon got stuck in the snow.

Continue reading “Picnic” – Fiction by A.E. Weisgerber

“A Cat Maybe, Or Breaking” – Poetry by Michael Díaz Feito

Cat Eating a Bird – Pablo Picasso, 1939

“A Cat Maybe, Or Breaking” is one of three fantastically feral poems by Michael Díaz Feito in our Spring 2017 issue, now available in print for $6US or PDF for $3US.

{ X }

SOME PIGEON’S WINGS REST
ripped,
                  framing an empty
oval of sidewalk where its
body would be.

                                    Food, the
stripped joints even gory
like that look like food, I
feel,

          but the feathered arcs
splayed seem living like they
would fly at a touch,
                                              or react
to another thing’s movement,

the cold maybe, or barking.

It’s singular, worth a nod.
                  (See the space between, and how
                  easy, violent the crack along
                  that fine cartilaginous border is.)

Then today I stepped into a
stringy crunch,
                                    and stuck
to my step lifted a smaller
pair of otherwise
                                        identical
wings except younger. I
shook them   off the tread
and the question, Is what

kills the birds watching now?   passed

into then out of my mind,
                  because I was so late for lunch.

{ X }

MICHAEL DÍAZ FEITO is a Cuban American writer from Miami, Florida. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Acentos Review, Axolotl, Big Echo, The Future Fire, Hinchas de Poesía, Milkfist, and Petrichor Machine. You can find more of Michael’s work at michaeldiazfeito.com and follow him on Twitter @diazmikediaz.

Beyond-the-Grave Buzz for FLAPPERHOUSE #13

#13

Some of literature’s deadest legends are buzzing about FLAPPERHOUSE #13, now available in PRINT for $6US via Amazon & CreateSpace, and as a DIGITAL PDF for $3US via PayPal.

“There is simply no  room left for ‘freedom from the tyranny of government,’ but there is ‘freedom from the tyranny of threadbare thinking & mediocre literature,’ and it is FLAPPERHOUSE #13!”
– William S. Burroughs

“What terrible tragedies realism inflicts on people… and thank goodness for all the wonderful weirdness within FLAPPERHOUSE #13!”
– Fyodor Dostoyevsky

“See the bright beams of heaven’s revolving light
Involved in sorrows and the veil of night!
The goddess comes, she moves divinely fair
with copies of FLAPPERHOUSE #13 to share!”
– Phillis Wheatley

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #14 / Issue 13 Flight Party

We’re gonna project our souls lightspeed into the future as we celebrate the flight of our 13th issue with our 14th reading! Wednesday night, March 22, 7-9 PM at the always-hospitable Pacific Standard, 82 Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn.

starring:
LISA MARIE BASILE
GREGORY CROSBY
MICHAEL DÍAZ FEITO
ALIBI JONES
ADAM TEDESCO
A.E. WEISGERBER
ABIGAIL WELHOUSE
&
the late KURT COBAIN

Admission is free, and you can get your paws on print copies of our Spring 2017 issue for the special reading price of $5!

(Join the Facebook event page here.)

“Torture Game” – Fiction by Ryan Bradford

Clouds on Screen at a Drive-In Movie – Diane Arbus, 1960

The following SNEAK PREVIEW of our Spring 2017 issue, FLAPPERHOUSE #13, contains MOVIE MAGIC, SEXUAL SITUATIONS, and EXTREME HORROR, and is NOT INTENDED FOR IMMATURE OR UNCOOL AUDIENCES.

Now that y’all been warned, we present “Torture Game,” Ryan Bradford‘s fiendish fiction about a dark date-night at the drive-in.

(If you like what you read, you can pre-order a digital (PDF) copy of FLAPPERHOUSE #13 for $3US via PayPal and see it fly into your emailbox by the Vernal Equinox. Print copies will be available on Amazon & CreateSpace real soon…)

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THEY WERE IN EACH OTHER’S PANTS WHEN THE FIRST TWIST OCCURRED: the man wasn’t a protagonist. He was in cahoots with the killer. He, himself, was a killer. Perhaps worse than a killer, because he used likeability and charm to earn trust.

“Oh shit,” Lou said. “Oh shit oh shit.” He shivered as Nancy finished him. His fingers, crushed numb by her waistband, had stopped working. They breathed hard in the stale cab, listening to the film’s muted sound through Lou’s shitty speakers. Their arms crisscrossed into each other’s undone clothing.

Lou rested his head against the seat and let the blood return to his extremities. “Damn, girl,” he said. He hooked his finger, still inside her pants, and Nancy jumped. “Want me to finish you?”

“Nah,” she said.

They pulled away from each other. Nancy rolled down the window, put her arm out, and flicked his mess off her fingers. Pacific wind filled the car. The air felt electrified somehow—simultaneously comforting and buzzing.

Lou sniffed his fingers, still wet with Nancy. She laughed and slapped his hand away from his nostrils.

“Don’t be gross,” she said.

He wiped his hand across his jeans and then reached for the back of her head. They kissed again—sweetly, this time. The passion had run its course. He watched the movie out of the corner of his eye. On the screen, the killer slit a woman’s neck and she screamed, watery.

Nancy moved away from Lou’s lips and rested her chin on his shoulder. She had never liked horror movies, so she stared out the back window.

“You notice that car before?”

Lou turned and looked. The drive-in on the weeknights was their thing because it was usually dead. They could drink, smoke, fool around in the backseat, and not worry about the kids that usually dominated the lot on the weekends. Nothing killed a good buzz like the screams of wild children running between the cars. Tonight had been less populated than usual. The news had predicted rain. There were three other cars in the lot when they arrived. This old, brown Cadillac parked behind their car had not been one of them.

“No,” Lou said.

“I don’t like it.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know.” She paused. “It looks like it’s pretending to sleep.”

Continue reading “Torture Game” – Fiction by Ryan Bradford