Reflections Upon A Failure

Hindsight is a rotten, worm eaten cunt. It's rancid discharge, constantly oozing from that tattered and decaying flower, has been passed off as Wisdom, by unscrupulous cunt merchants, since Day One. Or was that Day Two?

I've been around long enough to know this, but it's still hard not to wonder why I even bothered writing for tba. I was already completely disenchanted by the time I'd written my first word, and my first review for the zine proved that I'd have a difficult time getting anything, that I actually wanted to write, published. Instead, I found myself asked to write wiki-lite articles on electronic labels (I know... how horrendously fucking exciting) and asked to write promo pieces for promoters, bands and venues that the editor wished to suck up to. Needless to say, my style doesn't lend itself to such work. After each submission I'd be greeted with praise and enthusiasm, followed (in short order) by the inevitable“I just don't feel comfortable printing this”.

"Fair enough," I'd say, "maybe next month".

For a zine that claims to provide 'a platform for young and fledgling writers', tba shows very little interest in doing so. As for being 'a preview into subversive, unknown and admired creativity', I don't even know what the fuck that means. Perhaps, a 'glimpse into' or 'a showcase for' would be a little more apt. Except, of course, that it couldn't be any further from the truth. Maybe I just don't get it. Perhaps, if I was a writer of the calibre required to write for Pulp Magazine, I'd have had my work printed on a regular basis.

I seem to struggle with The Trivial. It's my main flaw- but please believe me, I'm working on it. Recently, I tried immersion therapy, but after two and a half editions of tba I'd had enough. I fear that I will have to opt for a much more direct course of action- Electric Shock Treatment. The Shoreditch Cure, I believe they call it. Each time the Patient has a thought bearing even the slightest trace of originality, a high voltage blast of current is administered directly to the Corpus Callosum. I hear it feels a little bit like being skull fucked by Zeus.

So, after three months of putting up with it, I've decided to go own way. Please accept this as my letter of resignation. Glad I gave it a try. It was an aesthetically pleasing publication and it might look nice in my 'Portfolio'- or whatever the fuck those snivelling cretin who manage to write for a living carry around with them. But looks can be deceiving. Thrym was very pleased by the beauty of his new wife- until, that is, she revealed- from behind her crimson veil- a Nordic beard and began hammering his purple testes to the banquet table. You can screen print words on to paper, but unless they are even remotely interesting no-one wants to read them. Which is probably why not a single soul has made it this far into my diatribe- and it all started so promisingly too, with it's profanities and oh so eloquent stylings.

I'll cut to the chase. No more metaphors or half-arsed mythological references. I like writing and I like Zines. I feel strongly that the Independent Press is a powerful tool. I believe a writer with even an ounce of courage, knows that making friends at the expense of artistic credibility is not worth it. Not by a long shot.

I want to express myself and work with others who feel the same way.

I'm in the process of starting my own publication based on these principles... and I need help. If you are interested please get in touch. Otherwise, I'll touch you.

Rocks

Man sits on cliff edge, watches the devouring jaws of Poseidon grind against sharp black stone. Three nights without sleep, made manifest in body bag eyes and trembling hands. The prodigal son can not return home. Even if he did, the lock's changed.

Smokes endless cigarette while trying to patch the fractured thoughts into one. The lock has changed. Pulls age old watch, gold engraved, from a torn jacket pocket. Time. The crippled second hand limps in Saturnine circles, each dying click followed by an hour of silence. He smiles for the first time in weeks. Time, an elusive phantom hidden from those who need it, refuses to move when no longer required- a drunken buddha, eyes locked on an unworthy disciple.

Man tosses watch, the relic of a father's father- strangers both- over the edge. Generations lost, history forgotten and hope of the future disappears into the chasm. Now. It's a long way down, but it's even further to get back up- and this is the end of the track. Sisyphus refuses, and with a finger of defiance pointed at Zeus, Jesus, Sigmund Freud or who ever the hell else might be listening, screams "This boulder shall burden me no more!". A laugh escapes his chapped and bleeding lips as he feels the weight for the last time. Let go.

Takes one last drag, pulling himself to frozen feet and legs which shake beneath him. Arms spread like the fallen angel Xaphan, Ocean spray replacing the smouldering abyss. He might have made it.

If he hadn't hit the rocks.