Planet of the Arts Vol. 5 no. 1 Fall 1989 Exthyt fron RLYER IV Joan of Arc is the first anorexic, the first of her sex to wilfully prevent her body from becoming that of a woman, and when her English captors examine her, they find she has yet to menstruate. Well, Joan grows very grey with no spirits to guide her, no cellmates to confide in. She abandons her organs: her heart, her liver, a piece of her spleen. Her skin reddens with eczema; Joan, all alone, in the night, scratching... When she hears a faint oozing through the stone pores of her prison- River creeps in like a thief and moistens her feet: “Listen, Joan, I can give you more than your sweet saints: Let me well up in your eyes- Let me run red in your womb- Let me float you away from your impending doom: But Joan will not listen, denies the serpentine trickles, So river retreats to the holes in the stone. Finally her day comes. They tear off her clothes, take away her chain mail. They robe her in white, their prized debutante: Heretic! Relapsed! Apostate! Joan grows delirious, She cries out to the crowd, The skinny witch on the stake, her skin crackling like paper, with neither St. Catherine nor an angel to save her. And when the flames have licked up the last of their immaculate fuel, there remains a faint powder- Not enough virgin left to even fill a small urn, So they empty her out into the waiting River. Sandra Lockwood Vat @ Slane $i) CUBMISSO Words, words, words Are sometimes all that stand between me And true understanding. Something happens. Before I start feeling I think And think And think the feeling to a far away place. Before I can feel it Or it can feel me. Sometimes the thoughts gro v so loud in my head That I can’t hear myself anymore And when I can’t hear myself My life gets sooo difficult. ‘Hard to bear No fun at all. Banish the thoughts that bind me RRdgt can 1 tell you of the bridge i crossed. It was made of wood which was old and most of it was missing, eaten by the hungry stream. I crossed it on a cold October day with my sister and cousin below me. I am sure, the water is cold, the air holds a mood. a deep pool. there is a large rock face rising up with one eye and a closed mouth. These are forgotten mine shafts. Full of empty promise. They still whisper. They want me to shed my skin and leave it on the rocks tangled up in the exposed roots. We passed a herd of cattle on the mountain today and I felt like staying with them for awhile to tell them of Van- couver and of my friends there. I wanted to teach them how to brush their teeth, and how to save coupons. But I got distracted by a leaf which was reminding me of how this moment would pass and become only words on a page or just nothings to cows. little cryptic triggers, like ona hundred old shotguns turned into lamps. \(eVeh. KMOW I look at you and my eyés sweat The heat is such it sears my tongue Illuminates bleak oubliette Entombing laughter left unsung. My instinct catches in my throat My feet pass through fast falling earth Your passing trace trails senses smote Eroding gravity’s drab worth. Moonlight weavings crown fluid stars That flash with each bright, shooting smile Your lovely face heals lunar scars And makes some poet’s night worthwhile. Alan Hindle One table up a man is in touch with the Universe His eyes tread water, they bob and sway, They are drowning in his head. His husky voice snowballs downhill, As laughter, Twigs are crackled in it’s path. His mind is in touch with the Universe It started as a grain of sand in a muffin shop And expanded. He wears a casio that times the decade Since the Belmont tore away the social clubs, Shockingly close to friendship. Since conflict pocketed his campy church. Since his congregation lost the die-hard attitude. It wasn’t just a dream, a zap ; It was discovering how much ministry And how much truth. One table up a man is in touch with the Universe And he hasn’t even touched his muffin. Alan Hindle Conversation Pieces (On a hot summers night in a smoke filled bar) Spare parts? Of what? They call this passion... No, funk...sound piece, quake type, they all called for the tremulous drama, post lullaby for those living hard in pain of that which had stirred their minds and souls to yell and provoke the shriek inward in sheer terror of that which might wake him. ...And shriek until it all explodes into a million pieces where run-on sentences become run-on lives and run-on deaths... and my parents rumba’d in the living room to such archiate jazz riffs, not even aware that this might lead to something, they dared not step further for fear of overstepping the perimeters of a conservative nightmare soothed by Stan Kenton and the Duke’s dreamy cocktail mist... and in such dreamy perimeters we collide with one another, minds wander though in that mist to a place untouchable. ...But not so unreachable! Only a charade, only black webs where everything is stoned and crazed like bats fucking, intense sanity... warm beer, cold feet... Warm beer, cold women, dark night wake type translutionary torpor. Twisted? AF & B.M. Planet of the Arts Vol. 5 no. 1 Fall 1989 Een fon IVER’ IV Joan of Are is the first anorexic, the first of her sex to wilfully prevent her body from becoming that of a woman, ‘and when her English captors examine her, they find she has yet to menstruate. Well, Joan grows very grey with no spirits to guide her, ro cellmates to confide in ‘She abandons her organs: her heart, her liver, apiece of her spleen. Her skin reddens with eczema; Joan, all alone, in the night, scratching, When she hears a faint oozing through the stone pores of her prison- River creeps in like a thief and moistens her feet: “Listen, Joan, I can give you more than your sweet saints Let me well up in your eyes- Let me run red in your womb- Let me float you away from your impending doom: But Joan will not listen, denies the serpentine trickles, 0 river retreats to the holes in the stone. Finally her day comes. ‘They tear off her clothes, take away her chain mail. They robe her in white, their prized debutant: Heretic! Relapsed! Apostate! Joan grows delirious, She cries out tothe crowd, ‘The skinny witch on the stake, her skin crackling like paper, with neither St. Catherine nor an angel to save her. ‘And when the flames have licked up the last of their immaculate fuel, there remains a faint powder- ‘Not enough virgin left o even fill small urn, So they empty her out into the waiting River. Sandra Lockwood SUBN(SSON Words, words, words ‘Are sometimes all that stand between me And true understanding, Something happens. Before I start feeling Tthink And think And think the feeling to a far away place. Before Ican feel it Orit can feel me. ‘Sometimes the thoughts gro v so loud in my head ‘That I can’t hear myself anymore And when I can’t hear myself My life gets sooo difficult. Hard to bear No fun at all Banish the thoughts that bind me BRUYe an i tell you of the bridge i crossed. It was made of ‘wood which was old and most of it was missing, eaten by the hungry stream. I crossed it on a cold October day with ‘my sister and cousin below me. Iam sure, the water is cold, the air holds a mood. a deep pool. there is large rock face rising up with one eye and a closed mouth, These are forgotten mine shafts. Full of empty promise, They still whisper. They want me to shed my skin and leave it on the rocks tangled up in the exposed roots, ‘We passed a herd of catle on the mountain today and I felt like staying with them for awhile to tell them of Van- ‘couver and of my friends there. I wanted to teach them how to brush their tecth, and how to save coupons, But I got. distracted by a leaf which was reminding me of how this, ‘moment would pass and become only words on a page or Just nothings to cows. litle cryptic triggers, like on a hhundred old shotguns tumed into lamps. Vat ¢ Shame Sie? ever. roy ook at you and my eyés sweat ‘The heat is such it sears my tongue luminates bleak oubliette Entombing laughter left unsung. My instinct catches in my throat My feet pass through fast falling earth ‘Your passing trace tails senses smote Eroding gravity’s drab worth. Moonlight weavings crown fluid stars That flash with each bright, shooting smile Your lovely face heals lanar scars ‘And makes some poet's night worthwhile. ‘Alan Hindle One Table \p (One table up a man is in touch with the Universe His eyes tread water, they bob and sway, ‘They are drowning in his head. His husky voice snowballs downhill, As laughter, Twigs are crackled in 's path, His mind is in touch with the Universe It started as a grain of sand in a muffin shop ‘And expanded. He wears a casio that times the decade Since the Belmont tore away the social clubs, Shockingly close to friendship. ‘Since conflict pocketed his campy church. ‘Since his congregation lost the die-hard attitude, It wasn’t just a dream, a zap ; It was discovering how much ministry ‘And how much truth, (One table up a man isin touch with the Universe ‘And he hasn’t even touched his mutfin, ‘Alan Hindle Conversation Pieces (On a hot summers night in a smoke filled bar) Spare parts? Of what? They call this passion. No, funk...sound piece, quake type, they all called for the tremulous drama, Post lullaby for those living hard in pain Of that which had stired their minds and souls to yell and provoke the shriek inward in sheer terror of that which might wake him, ‘And shriek until it all explodes into a million pieces where run-on sentences become run-on lives and run-on deaths...and my parents rumba’d inthe living room to such archiate jazz riffs, not even aware that this ‘might lead to something, they dared not step, further for fear of overstepping the perimeters ‘of conservative nightmare soothed by Stan Kenton and the Duke's dreamy cocktail mis.. and in such dreamy perimeters we collide ‘with one another, minds wander though in that ‘mist to a place untouchable. ‘But not so unreachable! Only a charade, only black webs where everything is stoned and crazed like bats fucking, intense sanity. warm beer, cold feet... Warm beer, cold women, dark night wake type translutionary torpor. Twisted? AF & BM.