Archives For April 2012

What to Expect from Beatdom #11

As many of you know, the next issue of Beatdom marks a very special anniversary. It is the fifth anniversary of Beatdom’s inception. Five years is a tremendous landmark in this industry, and we’re celebrating by bringing you our best issue yet, including four massive interviews with some of the hippest, most Beat names around.

Here’s a list of contents…

“Grizzly Bear” Katy Gurin – short story

“Billy Burroughs: Gentleman Farmer” David S. Wills – essay

“Like Some Blissful Ferdinand” Kat Hollister – poem

“Somewhere Far Beyond” Kat Hollister – poem

“Tender Love Song” Chuck Taylor – poem

“Dick in Dixie” Michael Hendrick – interview

“Hunter S. Thompson: Gonzo Frontiersman” Rory Feehan – essay

“Interview with Al Hinkle” David S. Wills – interview

“Autumn’s Mardi Gras” Robin Como – poem

“You Movement” Robin Como – poem

“After the Deluge” Larry Beckett – essay

“Liberation Under the Snow Moon” Zeena Schreck – story

“Interview with Ann Charters” Michael Hendrick – interview

“The Rain Forest Massacre” Michael Shorb – poem

“William Blake and the Beat Generation” David S. Wills short essay

“Richie Ramone is Back” Michael Hendrick – interview

“Untitled Art” Waylon Bacon – art

The Continuing Story of Truman Peyote

Part One
Truman was feeding Lunchables to Laguna Lake geese when a towering Neanderthal
Slapped him with his country club cane and asked him if he’d read his daily Isaiah
Truman said, “No sir,” and was blasted like Ringo’s drum with just a dash of criticism
The Neanderthal threw Truman a haphazard Rolex before ascending into God-knows-where
But before Truman could pawn it, three beatniks nabbed Truman’s soul
Truman awoke in Bakersfield, taking hits off a lit jerky.


Part Two

Truman was eradicating the zydeco from his iPod one afternoon in Paris

When some fat-fingered book ‘legger called his unhealthy cell

And asked him if he wanted a copy of either Ecclesiastes or Fritz the Cat

Truman accepted the former

After all, he once ganked Brautigan’s razor so counterculture made him queasy

“How much will that all be?” asked Truman as Bitches Brew went to the gods

“Search your heart. There is no try,” said the book ‘legger

A genuine non-sequitur.  And during the dusk of Truman’s lunch hour, too!

Part Three

Truman used to come over to my place after M*A*S*H
In order to poke his mythologies in my neck
This was after I achieved Tommy Lee Gatz’s goals
And became the first Jew on academic probation
My folks walked out on me in order to adopt a studious refugee
Who managed to send me daily death threats on YouTube
Truman would sit at his Commodore all day, trying to persuade the moderators
That as I had written some good screenplays in ‘06
I was worth saving.

Part Four


Truman wanted to register liberal so that he could defeat the draft

But he couldn’t shit on Zionists, teetotalers, and the freedom to choose virginity

So one night in Baghdad, he decided he’d start his own battle

When the soldiers awoke, Truman declared War on Juggalos

And sat in the hot Iraqi sun as Our Troops put each other in body bags.
Part Five
Back when I was in university, a girl on Floor 9 wanted me dead
A made-up clown, she made every day look like Halloween
Every Saturday, Truman would show up at my apartment
And, having left his electroconvulsive equipment at home,
He’d tell me that life is just a cup of root beer
It’s always shorter than you wanted it to be
Might as well reap what you sow before God starts looking grim.

writhing pupils

distinguished gentlemen
gather late at night
in crawl spaces
and fox holes
writing love poems
to the Julies
and Katys
and Wendys

they dance around the page
sword in hand
attempting to tame the ink
like a snake charmer
wooing his slithery enemy

a few are able to control the boa
and the rest are bitten

Chinatown, KL

Orange-clad monk beggar

Pot-in-hand winding

Through crowds, wailing

Complaining not of poverty

But of some existential trauma

Howling to the storm above

And foreigners pushing by

For some form of unknown



His twisted foot sister

Purple headdress crying

Insanity and screaming

At feeding tourists

Drunk with madness

Barking, spitting

A sneeze, vocalized

“Ah…” she says – spits –



I realise as I watch this drama,

This procession of performers

On an all-too-real stage

Winding before

My hungry eyes

That there are no mountains

Only very large piles of rocks.


Typhoon season in KL’s


Sounds of coughing, rumbling

Sickness in the

Polluted air

Vagrants well dressed

Asking politely

For a break

Tourists seated outside, sipping

Beer, watching them,

Sober muslims

Working, wandering

Smell of something vaguely

spicy in the air

alongside incense

Alongside car fumes

Over shallow sewers

Roasting duck and chicken

Nuts burning

Too many colours to name

Kinds of fabrics

Boggles in the mind

Faces covered

Limbs hidden

Smells and sights combined


B11 Cover

The next issue of Beatdom is nature-themed. Here’s the cover, featuring Arthur Rimbaud:


Art by Waylon Bacon. Beatdom Editor Michael Hendrick conceived the cover based on Rimbaud’s poem,  After the Deluge, and Waylon brought it to life, sort of. Inside Issue 11, Larry Beckett, song-writer and author of Beatdom Books’ soon-to-be-released volume, Beat Poetry, looks at the poem in a new essay. Rimbaud has influenced everybody from Dylan Thomas to Bob Dylan and, who knows, maybe something may rub off on you! Pre-order a copy or pick it up when it comes out in about a week or two. The printer liked it so much that they shut down shop just to read it, so we are waiting to get a copy for ourselves!!!

maybe her body followed

Breaking the surface of the pomegranate
felt like penetrating human skin.
The purple blood trickled down my fingers
and splashed onto the meat of my bare foot.
I saw it falling towards the ground,
and even though there was ample time to react,
I was unable to pull away.
I felt knuckle deep in fresh Jello
or 15 minutes into a hot shower
on a winter morning.
I knew I had to let go,
but my body refused.

Girl in the Bleachers


She used to adore me in the days of short recess
The lean, made-up face, wonderful, beautiful, godlike
But last night after I entered that packed, old football stadium
I saw her flirting behind bleachers of familiar faces
And when she came into my range I took careful note
And when I prepared a conversation

Well-thought up and full of her destinies
She simply turned away as if she had never met me before.

Mad House Blues: Part 4



flower grows

among the dead

bodies of children.

Carrion crows tear flesh

and drink congealing blood

as we danced upon the hill

in a drug-fueled orgy of sorts

around cruxifictial silhouettes.

One by one we were martyred for art.

We became the ultimate martifice

the return

Loneliness rests in the nook of Eve’s arm.
It is the crease opposing our elbow,
the indentation which evaporates
before our covered identifiers.
Pupils are cloaked
and uncloaked for amusements sake,
like gigantic
holy movie screens;
palettes of projected immortality.
The red velvet curtain ruffles up,
momentarily faking existence
before unfurling
with smooth

Loneliness is a beauty mark I had removed,
a cyst I nurtured night in and night out.

But early this morning,
beneath the unchanged darkness of dawn,
the two of us reunited.
The unremembered face,
the miserable mug,
the beast I so proudly defeated
cried into clasped hands beside me.
His tears watered the colorless upholstery
as I embraced him with every muscle in my body.
I dug the ends of my fingers into his tender back
and clutched his hollow spine.
For the first time in years
he appeared beautiful.

Forgotten loneliness is a lovely thing
when you’re driving home alone,
surrounded by the unchanged darkness of dawn.


Our group came, saw our friendship in its prime

We passed July in shambles, through the state

All that geography conflicts with time

The slumber of my revolt cannot wait

You left before I found the chance to ask

Mere chunks of land are acres, miles, long

I’d hate to turn a chance into a task

I’ve got the blues, you knew it all along

I celebrated Sorrow while I dined

These tablemates are not among her friends

Hmmm, nine weeks trickle down my fast-paced mind

She laughs; a mental trinket’s what she lends

A temporary loss should make me pout

Just ask me how happiness came about.