We are now accepting submissions for the blog, eBooks and limited edition chapbooks.
Visit the Red Ceilings for more information
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Circle/Line ~ Alexander Allison
New free ebook out now.
Circle/Line by Alexander Allison
Circle/Line by Alexander Allison
Check out the Red Ceilings Press website for our complete catalogue of free ebooks and limited edition chapbooks.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
#wave1, ~ Gareth Durasow
#wave1 ~ Gareth Durasow
New free eBook out now on the Red Ceilings Press. Go there to see this and our complete catalogue of free eBooks and limited edition chapbooks.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Submissions
Due to a lengthy backlog of work that needs to be read the Red Ceilings is temporarily closed to new submissions. Sorry.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Rimbaud Redux ~ Helen Vitoria
New free ebook available
Rimbaud Redux by Helen Vitoria
For this and our full catalogue of free eBooks and limited edition chapbooks visit the Red Ceilings Press website
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
A SOFT THAT TOUCHES DOWN &REMOVES ITSELF ~ David Tomaloff
New Chapbook out now
A SOFT THAT TOUCHES DOWN &REMOVES ITSELF
by David Tomaloff
[rcp cb16] A6 32pp 4o copies
A SOFT THAT TOUCHES DOWN &REMOVES ITSELF
by David Tomaloff
[rcp cb16] A6 32pp 4o copies
Available on the Red Ceilings Press site with a whole lot more.....
Monday, January 9, 2012
List of This Week's Activities ~ Maurice Oliver
Sunday:
Buffalo my hurry-up wings gardening imperceptible earth sky
back in the breast plate of ingredients to create the concoction.
Monday:
Buy a rain statue of Farmer Brown's henhouse after supper whack
warm bee's wax nonagenarian bizarre pink net may be four miles away.
Tuesday:
Telephone my underground aquifer in Walla Walla and leave a message
that says "Psychotherapy is the label printed inside cotton briefs."
Wednesday:
Show my version of Mount Rushmore to my boss at work and then
quaky severance pay pink slip the hollowed bones a nut does it.
Thursday:
Send an email to the looking glass porter in which you casually mention
your love of linoleum floors in a hammock, swaying in a tropical breeze.
Friday:
Invite the gum wrapper over for Labrador pasta of bullets on a merry-go
round with a custom-made noose for desert. Then rear-end the accordion.
Saturday:
Clean out the entire Texas panhandle of Bible belt tarmacs using a
hand-held chorus of hallelujahs blinking their turn signals.
It's a Long Story, Part 12 ~ Maurice Oliver
I have to decide between a haircut or keeping my
doctor's appointment. So I decide there's
no way I could be the child of my parents. Neither am
I a sore scab or hair that falls out in
patches. I feel too energetic, like a brand new dance
sensation just in time Easter break.
Snakes don't lie either. They just sort of crawl to their
next pry and never use the handrails.
Fish are the first to return. I started when I was four,
the alewives making tiny bubbles that
raise to the water's surface. On the eight day it rains.
A Calvary lines up along a mound
on the prairie. Indians, on the other hand, make good tap dancers and a
few times you just
have to rent a U-Haul. I didn't learn much in college but
I did have fun. It smelled like black
pepper and glowed in the dark. My favorite course was
tumbleweed. Milk jugs were a close
second. Puritans lived inside my gym locker and would
beg for a few crumbs of food every time
I unlocked the door. Some would crawl out the passenger window. But it
was the deer you had
to worry about, especially at night. Once I found a carving knife in
the taxidermist. I whipped
out my cell phone and called 911 before it could porcelain embers and
saved the day. I've always
been pretty modest too. My grimace is chili to boot, driven overload to
the nearest bird's nest.
What else? Oh, my childhood story slams the door, then locks the yawn
in jam from blueberries.
doctor's appointment. So I decide there's
no way I could be the child of my parents. Neither am
I a sore scab or hair that falls out in
patches. I feel too energetic, like a brand new dance
sensation just in time Easter break.
Snakes don't lie either. They just sort of crawl to their
next pry and never use the handrails.
Fish are the first to return. I started when I was four,
the alewives making tiny bubbles that
raise to the water's surface. On the eight day it rains.
A Calvary lines up along a mound
on the prairie. Indians, on the other hand, make good tap dancers and a
few times you just
have to rent a U-Haul. I didn't learn much in college but
I did have fun. It smelled like black
pepper and glowed in the dark. My favorite course was
tumbleweed. Milk jugs were a close
second. Puritans lived inside my gym locker and would
beg for a few crumbs of food every time
I unlocked the door. Some would crawl out the passenger window. But it
was the deer you had
to worry about, especially at night. Once I found a carving knife in
the taxidermist. I whipped
out my cell phone and called 911 before it could porcelain embers and
saved the day. I've always
been pretty modest too. My grimace is chili to boot, driven overload to
the nearest bird's nest.
What else? Oh, my childhood story slams the door, then locks the yawn
in jam from blueberries.
Maurice's poetry has appeared in numerous national and international publications
and literary websites including Potomac Journal, Pebble Lake Review,
Frigg Magazine, Dandelion Magazine, (Canada), Stride Magazine (UK),
Cha Asian Literary Journal, (Hong Kong), Kritya (India), Blueprint Review,
(Germany) and Arabesques Review (Algeria). His fourth chapbook was One
Remedy Is Travel (Origami Condom, 2007). He edits the literary ezine
Eye Socket Journal at: http://eyesocketjournal.blogspot.com . He lives
in Portland, OR, where he works as a private tutor.
and literary websites including Potomac Journal, Pebble Lake Review,
Frigg Magazine, Dandelion Magazine, (Canada), Stride Magazine (UK),
Cha Asian Literary Journal, (Hong Kong), Kritya (India), Blueprint Review,
(Germany) and Arabesques Review (Algeria). His fourth chapbook was One
Remedy Is Travel (Origami Condom, 2007). He edits the literary ezine
Eye Socket Journal at: http://eyesocketjournal.blogspot.com . He lives
in Portland, OR, where he works as a private tutor.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Stille Nacht ~ Sir Simon Howard
So we hustled a creature into a car slamming doors the storm and the cold etc. And drove through black night and glimmersilk day etc. Then we ordered a creature out into that strange calm with flakes of snow falling in our heads. And we felt so heavy and weightless. And there was this smell of chips and she puked up her guts. And for several days we were asleep or dreaming of sleep and my eyes had turned to glass and my feet to seaweed. So we fucking uselessness of art aesthetic theory above vulgar objects of use scraggy neck lips like medicine. And he lay face down on the earth howling for the sheer hurt of hurt and gulped booze and puked up his guts and even puke and shit and piss are recuperable as art loveable as materials of pornography. Then we lifted our exhausted heads from the ground and looked up into the vast blank of a night sky and stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth. And we went into a small shop and bought some Christmas cards and for several days smelling of chips the day black as her pale throat in love making her lips thin and. Slamming doors the storm and the cold. And we walked out into the middle of the field and begged them to shoot us to put fucking bullets through our fucking heads. And we drank supermarket vodka on the train out of there etc. and some cunt looked at us and we said we’ll fucking throw you out of the train and night came along the tracks silkglimmering and so beautiful it made us pray. And for several days we were like in a dream only we had nothing to eat and our guts ached and she crossed the bridge to the other platform and the train pulled in and the train looked so small from where we were hanging from the rafters. And there was this old fellow collected the cards of prostitutes from London telephone boxes 16 years ago and he would walk out into the early winter mornings sockless in his shoes and read the messages out loud and we gulped booze and crouched in underground stations and listened to the echoes smelling of chips and the pure wordless snow.
So we hustled a creature into a car slamming doors the cold and the storm etc. And drove through a blue night and a dull day etc. Then we helped a creature out into that strange calm with flakes of snow falling into our hands. And we felt so happy and weightless. And there was this smell of chips and I puked up my guts. And for several days we were asleep or dreaming of eyes turned to glass and feet to seaweed. Above vulgar objects of use lips like metal. And he lay face down on the earth howling for the sheer hurt of hurt and gulped puke and shit and piss recuperable as art loveable as materials of prayer. Then we lifted our exhausted heads and looked up into stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth. And we went into a small shop and bought some Christmas cards and for several days smelling of chips her pale throat in love making her lips thin and chewed. Slamming doors the cold and the storm. And we walked out into the middle of a field and begged them to shoot us to put bullets through our heads. And we drank supermarket vodka on the train out of there etc. and smiled at us and said we’ll fucking throw you out of the train and night came along the tracks silkglimmering and so beautiful it made us nothing. And for several days we were like in a dream we had nothing to eat and she crossed the bridge to the other platform and the train pulled out and the train looked so small from where we were hanging from the rafters. And there was this fellow collected the cards of prostitutes from London telephone boxes 16 years ago and he would walk out into winter mornings sockless and read the messages to himself and we gulped booze and crouched in underground stations and listened to the echoes smelling of chips and the pure worldless snow.
~
And etc. And looked into the heavens where we were nowhere seen our eyes stiff with ice. And he threw up on the bed and sleep the afternoon viciously cold and the cold radiator up against his throat and so on etc. And there was this smell of chips and this fellow collecting the cards of prostitutes from Then we lifted our exhausted heads from the ground and looked into the vast blank of a dayless sky and stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth telephone boxes years ago and she curled herself along the bench and put her fingers to her mouth and began to pray. Der gestirnte Himmel über mir und das moralische Gesetz in mir. And we looked along the dirty looking field the hut with its ribs beaten in and its guts spilled out we fucking said the snow is fucking jet black and commuters frantically gulping pills are you a symphony orchestra or stepmother / son porn? Crepitus. And the lovers all lived and worked in an eel factory only allowed out by dark to buy darkness with its wildernesses and information plenitudes. No. Pathos. Number. Umbrella. Coordinate. And he pissed the bed in A&E the gleameringed snail on long string of fire and sublimity. sockless and read And the bizarre like all the limbs were interchangeable and leant out the window a few early passersby their countenances the countenances of angels and dreamily. Slamming doors the cold and the And she slammed the window down on her fingers and laughed and they kept looking at us and left-wing politics when all desire is desire of desire and he sliced the tips of his fingers to escape detection. And two of them walked hand in hand the length of the field and across a ditch and the great sun rolling along a path a few yards away from them and the moon with the shakes behind a chimney and a and bought.
There was this fellow he never seemed to be without a friend and they walked all day from street to street till they were out in open country and one of them made pictures and they would stop at houses and shops and go into pubs and try to sell these pictures and not often they sold a picture pictures of everyday objects like children or trees or a robin on a garden fork and at night they would simply die and the next day they would be alive again and then the situation was reversed. For there is nothing that cannot be recuperated, be it a situation or an art that concerns itself with piss shit snot puke with broken bodies dislocated shoulders things abandoned rank food etc. And one night it was snowing and the fellow and his friend walked an empty field mysterious messages in footprints and one of them the fellow who made pictures stopped to wipe the snow from his lips and then his friend was gone and he was alone. And there was a smell of chips and she puked her guts up the underground and other passengers looked at her and she said you want me dead and they said we all desire death like desire desires us and that was recuperated and night night night etc. So with his friend gone he took out the picture he had made and looked into it as snow fell on it and he wished that he could be alone now that his friend who was never without him was gone and it got lighter and was day hard and brilliant and we walked out into the middle of the field and begged them to shoot us to put fucking bullets through our fucking heads. And he wrapped the picture he had made and left us there and it was so quiet it was as though there was that except for the traffic on the road at the field’s edge. Etc. That’s what they were hoping for. There’s no symbolic order against the symbolic order of order, ordure or no ordure. He said I used to love to dance. He said I wish I had a warmer coat. He said it’s gloomy in here we should put the light on. They said did you make this picture? And hit him and kicked him etc. And she hadn’t eaten for several days and it was warmer then and raining.
So we hustled a creature into a car slamming doors the cold and the storm etc. And drove through a blue night and a dull day etc. Then we helped a creature out into that strange calm with flakes of snow falling into our hands. And we felt so happy and weightless. And there was this smell of chips and I puked up my guts. And for several days we were asleep or dreaming of eyes turned to glass and feet to seaweed. Above vulgar objects of use lips like metal. And he lay face down on the earth howling for the sheer hurt of hurt and gulped puke and shit and piss recuperable as art loveable as materials of prayer. Then we lifted our exhausted heads and looked up into stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth. And we went into a small shop and bought some Christmas cards and for several days smelling of chips her pale throat in love making her lips thin and chewed. Slamming doors the cold and the storm. And we walked out into the middle of a field and begged them to shoot us to put bullets through our heads. And we drank supermarket vodka on the train out of there etc. and smiled at us and said we’ll fucking throw you out of the train and night came along the tracks silkglimmering and so beautiful it made us nothing. And for several days we were like in a dream we had nothing to eat and she crossed the bridge to the other platform and the train pulled out and the train looked so small from where we were hanging from the rafters. And there was this fellow collected the cards of prostitutes from London telephone boxes 16 years ago and he would walk out into winter mornings sockless and read the messages to himself and we gulped booze and crouched in underground stations and listened to the echoes smelling of chips and the pure worldless snow.
~
And etc. And looked into the heavens where we were nowhere seen our eyes stiff with ice. And he threw up on the bed and sleep the afternoon viciously cold and the cold radiator up against his throat and so on etc. And there was this smell of chips and this fellow collecting the cards of prostitutes from Then we lifted our exhausted heads from the ground and looked into the vast blank of a dayless sky and stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth telephone boxes years ago and she curled herself along the bench and put her fingers to her mouth and began to pray. Der gestirnte Himmel über mir und das moralische Gesetz in mir. And we looked along the dirty looking field the hut with its ribs beaten in and its guts spilled out we fucking said the snow is fucking jet black and commuters frantically gulping pills are you a symphony orchestra or stepmother / son porn? Crepitus. And the lovers all lived and worked in an eel factory only allowed out by dark to buy darkness with its wildernesses and information plenitudes. No. Pathos. Number. Umbrella. Coordinate. And he pissed the bed in A&E the gleameringed snail on long string of fire and sublimity. sockless and read And the bizarre like all the limbs were interchangeable and leant out the window a few early passersby their countenances the countenances of angels and dreamily. Slamming doors the cold and the And she slammed the window down on her fingers and laughed and they kept looking at us and left-wing politics when all desire is desire of desire and he sliced the tips of his fingers to escape detection. And two of them walked hand in hand the length of the field and across a ditch and the great sun rolling along a path a few yards away from them and the moon with the shakes behind a chimney and a and bought.
There was this fellow he never seemed to be without a friend and they walked all day from street to street till they were out in open country and one of them made pictures and they would stop at houses and shops and go into pubs and try to sell these pictures and not often they sold a picture pictures of everyday objects like children or trees or a robin on a garden fork and at night they would simply die and the next day they would be alive again and then the situation was reversed. For there is nothing that cannot be recuperated, be it a situation or an art that concerns itself with piss shit snot puke with broken bodies dislocated shoulders things abandoned rank food etc. And one night it was snowing and the fellow and his friend walked an empty field mysterious messages in footprints and one of them the fellow who made pictures stopped to wipe the snow from his lips and then his friend was gone and he was alone. And there was a smell of chips and she puked her guts up the underground and other passengers looked at her and she said you want me dead and they said we all desire death like desire desires us and that was recuperated and night night night etc. So with his friend gone he took out the picture he had made and looked into it as snow fell on it and he wished that he could be alone now that his friend who was never without him was gone and it got lighter and was day hard and brilliant and we walked out into the middle of the field and begged them to shoot us to put fucking bullets through our fucking heads. And he wrapped the picture he had made and left us there and it was so quiet it was as though there was that except for the traffic on the road at the field’s edge. Etc. That’s what they were hoping for. There’s no symbolic order against the symbolic order of order, ordure or no ordure. He said I used to love to dance. He said I wish I had a warmer coat. He said it’s gloomy in here we should put the light on. They said did you make this picture? And hit him and kicked him etc. And she hadn’t eaten for several days and it was warmer then and raining.
Simon can be found at walkingintheceiling
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