"Learning To Speak Spanish Cats Like Martyrs" was published in 1990, sharing pages with BZ Niditch, Thomas Wiloch, and the infamous John M Bennett. I guess when they say “experimental” this might be what they’re talking about, though in 30 years of living in the small press world I have noted that many editors who say they are looking for “experimental” work are not really looking for actual experiments, just kinda experimental. I don’t even like the term “experimental” because it sounds like you don’t know how it is supposed to turn out or something. This piece was rejected by just such editors but found a home where it looked normal - Greg Boyd’s Asylum magazine.
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Learning To Speak Spanish Cats Like Martyrs
9:44 AM
they carried him through the smoke from their fires to a place between 2 trees where they hung him by his heels from a wire and beat his head into a sweet clump of red cabbage with cricket bats. 5 years later they do it again. Drums. Aspirin stops the drums.
9:49 AM
the part about the drums was a lie. It was people. Hundreds of people standing around like drums.
9:50 AM
Sunset. Horns.
9:51 AM
the part about the horns was a lie. It was smoke. It was raining. It was concrete. Anything but fluid. Jewels.
9:52 AM
It wasn't him - it was me. It was me they carried through the smoke. They beat me with strands of cabbage. There was a sound like a firecracker. Or the phone rings. Or sunrise. That's the only truth. The sunrise smells like wet dogs.
9:54 AM
the part about the truth was a lie. It was 2 clowns in big blue shoes that flap when they walk. Your dreams are furniture. The clowns rearrange the living room. They carry the furniture through the smoke from the fires.
9:56 AM
there is a liquid blue world with well-reasoned men who've sat on rocks beneath dark moons, guessing that what it really is is fingers come out of the sky and probe our entrails for spirits and pull cords of threadlike psyche bloodied with the stool of the blue world from our fires.
9:59 AM
but it wasn't really moons. It was sour. It was like oil. Like transmission fluid. Like the skin of a tamarillo. Like red cabbage.
10:00 AM (it starts to get hard)
these are actually liquid green men who shit rocks and moons and poke phallic fingers into their eyes. bloodied from staring up at the sky and the sun above the threadlike blue world...
10:02 AM
where a lie reasons like rocks and moons in the stool of threadlike men who hear voices in the clouds and see FACES in the psyche spitting TRUTH TRUTH TRUTH out of the sky they've poked until it bled of stink like a blue world.
10:04 AM
the part about the lie was the truth. But not smoke. It was rain. Like clowns. Like horns. Or water flowing out of a tube on the side of a horn. Or spit. Like rain.
10:05 AM
but not really horns. More like FACES like fingers that pull away, green, from the liquid voices of well-reasoned clowns who shit blue worlds.
10:07 AM
(the part about the spit was a lie) It was smoke. It was a dream. It was anything but true...
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Learning To Speak Spanish Cats Like Martyrs
Share this post
"Learning To Speak Spanish Cats Like Martyrs" was published in 1990, sharing pages with BZ Niditch, Thomas Wiloch, and the infamous John M Bennett. I guess when they say “experimental” this might be what they’re talking about, though in 30 years of living in the small press world I have noted that many editors who say they are looking for “experimental” work are not really looking for actual experiments, just kinda experimental. I don’t even like the term “experimental” because it sounds like you don’t know how it is supposed to turn out or something. This piece was rejected by just such editors but found a home where it looked normal - Greg Boyd’s Asylum magazine.
-----------------------------------
Learning To Speak Spanish Cats Like Martyrs
9:44 AM
they carried him through the smoke from their fires to a place between 2 trees where they hung him by his heels from a wire and beat his head into a sweet clump of red cabbage with cricket bats. 5 years later they do it again. Drums. Aspirin stops the drums.
9:49 AM
the part about the drums was a lie. It was people. Hundreds of people standing around like drums.
9:50 AM
Sunset. Horns.
9:51 AM
the part about the horns was a lie. It was smoke. It was raining. It was concrete. Anything but fluid. Jewels.
9:52 AM
It wasn't him - it was me. It was me they carried through the smoke. They beat me with strands of cabbage. There was a sound like a firecracker. Or the phone rings. Or sunrise. That's the only truth. The sunrise smells like wet dogs.
9:54 AM
the part about the truth was a lie. It was 2 clowns in big blue shoes that flap when they walk. Your dreams are furniture. The clowns rearrange the living room. They carry the furniture through the smoke from the fires.
9:56 AM
there is a liquid blue world with well-reasoned men who've sat on rocks beneath dark moons, guessing that what it really is is fingers come out of the sky and probe our entrails for spirits and pull cords of threadlike psyche bloodied with the stool of the blue world from our fires.
9:59 AM
but it wasn't really moons. It was sour. It was like oil. Like transmission fluid. Like the skin of a tamarillo. Like red cabbage.
10:00 AM (it starts to get hard)
these are actually liquid green men who shit rocks and moons and poke phallic fingers into their eyes. bloodied from staring up at the sky and the sun above the threadlike blue world...
10:02 AM
where a lie reasons like rocks and moons in the stool of threadlike men who hear voices in the clouds and see FACES in the psyche spitting TRUTH TRUTH TRUTH out of the sky they've poked until it bled of stink like a blue world.
10:04 AM
the part about the lie was the truth. But not smoke. It was rain. Like clowns. Like horns. Or water flowing out of a tube on the side of a horn. Or spit. Like rain.
10:05 AM
but not really horns. More like FACES like fingers that pull away, green, from the liquid voices of well-reasoned clowns who shit blue worlds.
10:07 AM
(the part about the spit was a lie) It was smoke. It was a dream. It was anything but true...