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:
http://www.craterpress.co.uk/ Crater 27: June 2014. Tim Atkins, Complete Petrarch. Atkins Collected Petrarch / Petrarch Collected Atkins. All of Petrarch translated / transfigured / transplanted by Tim Atkins - a hallucinogenic, euphoric striptease of a traductory odyssey. 550 odd pages of pure lyric gold. £16 + p&p
Coming of age 3d glasses scary breast story over at Referential Magazine. Olive and Prue waiting lady like in church for their last picture show. Faye Dunaway. Textured and layered with word pleasures. The awesome Dani Sandal.
Chris Kraus' I Love Dick is opening a space for me to exist in. To move around in. She says,
"Reading delivers on the promise that sex raises but hardly ever can fulfill- getting larger cause you're entering another person's language, cadence, heart and mind."
And that's when I feel most alive. Expansive writing. Expansive reading.
But the so called personal is there. And that's what NY School poetics, Eileen Myles, Michelle Tea and others have given me. A space. A permission. A recognition of the complexities of being male. I've never been an insider of those big powerful worlds of writers and artists. I hadn't felt completely at home inside those insulated walls of power. The towers of HSBC or the towers of Cambridge university.
"Because we rejected a certain kind of critical language, people just assumed that we were dumb" says Alice Notley. These spheres. These permissions. In Revolutionary Letters, 1971, Diane di Prima wrote "I…
It's still hard and the world is a completely different place with loss of this size.
We were so close growing up and then were reconnecting again after I left the U.S. and traveled the world for seven years in attempt to make new home. I'd made the circle. I was coming home. And I wanted to be close to Aaron. And then suddenly within two years he was gone. An overdose. He was doing well getting clean but then there was that last fatal shoot up.
That's the story.
What does it mean?
I got the call while living in crap flat in North London with black mould that wouldn't leave etc. My sister Shantell called from the U.S. I got descriptions of how my step dad found him on the floor the next morning when he was picking him up for work. Near the door. Swollen and blue.
I didn't want to think of him suffering. The door was locked so he could shoot up in private. Was he trying to get to the door? Why didn't I call him when I was in London. What could I have said?
Got some poems in the new issue of Ofi Press Magazine from Mexico City.
Including one for my brother Aaron ("Piper Down"). Tomorrow he will have been gone for 2 years.
It's still hard!!! http://www.ofipress.com/sleasemarcus.htm
HERE COME'S UPTIGHT. POSTERS GOING UP ALL AROUND BRISTOL!! A LITTLE LESS THAN A MONTH (4TH JULY 2014) AND BRISTOL IS GONNA HAVE TWO FILM AND POETRY COLLABORATIONS PARTLY INSPIRED BY KEROUAC'S PULL MY DAIRY, QUEER PUNK SUPER JUICY TRANS SPECIES NOISE AND MELODY TEARING YOUR EARS OFF SWEETLY, AND SOME KICK ASS POETRY OF TIM ATKINS, SARAH MAGUIRE, AND MYSELF!!! IT'S GONNA BE TIGHT BUT NOT UPTIGHT. IT'S NOT YOUR AVERAGE POETRY NIGHT!!https://www.facebook.com/events/281250965369429/?ref_dashboard_filter=calendar