Marcus Slease (JJ Mars) is a (mostly) surrealist and fabulist writer from Portadown, N. Ireland and Utah.
His latest book is Play Yr Kardz Right (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017).
He lives in Madrid, Spain.
Visit his website for more info:
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House Call 1936 by Dani Sandal
Leather wombs, payments of lamb shanks, still births . .
Dani Sandal plus Kathy Acker plus William Burroughs plus plus plus
House Call: 1936
Beneath naked bulb hung from twisted cord, a black-bagged surgeon stoops to stroke porch dog dozing on bloodied bone. Inside his leather womb, steel instruments, useless as dried teats of this fat-bellied bitch, still smell of vinegar. His sway-back nag waits, an empty cradle, stayed atop prairie plane. Payment of lamb shank, tucked tight in coat sleeve; its sacrificed skull buried deep behind slaughter house. He has soaked the woman's sorrow with ether-drenched rags now burning in fires of cedar bough as smoke slinks from stone flue like drunken angels toward heaven's floor. Barren moon hovers, blue as stillbirth, this quiet night.
This review really hit it for me. I recently read Maurice Scully's _Livelihood_ and Geofrey Squires _Untitled and Other Poems_ is on deck (I love that baseball term. It is baseball, right?)
I think this is from The Nortre Dame review, but I found it via goofle (I mean google).
Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.
By Robert Archambeau
I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…