Deep Tissue Magazine 

 
Issue # 1, January 2008 

 
 
 
Deep Piercing Cut ‐ Editor 
Glen Still ‐ Contributing Editor 
A 10K Poets Publication 
   
Front Cover Graphic
Thanks to artist Stephen Viner for the use of his artwork “Lost” on the cover. Steve Viner, was
born in 1970 and lives in Dorset England with his Wife and Daughter Athene. He did one year at
Norton Radstock College studying art and design, and found his way to the magic of digital art.
Steve held a rather successful exhibition in Shaftesbury in autumn 2004, selling several pieces,
as well as illustrating C.D covers and flyers for local bands.

Message from the Editor

Hello, everyone, I welcome you to the first issue of Deep Tissue Magazine. Deep Tissue is a
new e-zine dedicated to bringing you some of the best poetry on the web. It is my wish that
you find the poems in this issue both entertaining and enlightening. Deep Tissue Magazine is a
10K Poets publication. You can find other great poetry on the two other 10K Poets Publications
Eviscerator Heaven and 10K Poets Zine.

I would like to thank all of the great poets who submitted poems for this inaugural issue. I
utterly amazed by the quality of poetry that was submitted. In this issue you will find works
from Roseanne Morales, Celeste, Natalia Beller, Glohorizon, Brandi, Christopher Howell, Wayne
Russell, Crashimp, Benjamin Nardolili, and Beauty’s Beast, Tyler Collins, Glen Still, Christian
Alvarez, Samara, Dan Kellet, Mountain Girl and Jeff Sibley.

Lastly, I would like to thank Glen Still for his insight and exceptional taste in helping me put this
first issue of DTM together. I hope you enjoy reading this first issue as much as we did putting
it together.

Glen Lantz - Editor

Roseanne Morales

The Race Is Lost

Open your mouth
and make me smile;
if only the curling
of a lip in slide.
A raise of an eyebrow,
a twitch of an eye;
it's better to snicker
than cry.

Devo is here;
intelligent monkeys
make light of their shit,
make Darwin uncomfortable.
A idiot's theses,
an imbecile's proposal;
all couched as something
intelligible.

Empty boxes
on satellite,
speaking with no
thought behind them;
Only exist to remind them
of the newest
toilet flush.

A horror movie starring

the human race;
sure to keep you screaming
with night sweats.
My theory's correct,
and lest I forget,
you'll let your thoughts flow
and give it validity.

I've locked up my rifles

and swallowed the key;
for the day I will look
and stop laughing.

Rose Morales is 51 years old and lives in Miami, Fl. She has been writing poetry since she was 7
years old. She has some of her poetry on here: myspace.com/1pissedcat  
 

Celeste
Canvas
taking off her clothes
in a snap-shot-private-act of despair
smearing black prints over
the desirable features
she posed in dismay
of the freedom she relaxed

releasing a pulse of endless nerves

cold and pressing-the view of the camera
tends to freeze emotion
into a single frame
confidence relived in a beauty shot
a semi-serious nervous laugh creped out
motioning the anxiety of each flash

quickly positioning herself away

from a tasteful-shameful display
the photographer approached
with coffee in one hand
and examples of success in the other

she had no choice but to succumb

a vision to become numb
that was his desire
a painted canvas
running through captured colors

You can see more of Celeste’s work at: myspace.com/celestialsfire

Natalia Beller
Waiting
So now by this time
You already know me
Know me inside out
There is nothing I wouldn’t tell you
There is no reason for me not to trust you
And there are a billion reasons for me to want you
More and more each day

You don’t know that I wait here

Wait for you every single day
Just until you call me
And take this pain away
The one that’s now too for me much to bear

Cause whenever I think about us

There is this other thought scaring me to death
I could never have you, no matter what I’d do
Cause the one I love loves someone else
So I’m waiting
I’ll keep waiting for you

Why do you always do this?

Everyday there is something you say that makes me feel so certain
Why do you always do this?
Don’t you know how a love fooled feels?
But you do those things voluntarily
There is nothing I say or do to force you to
And everything you say sounds so sincerely
And I believe you

But then this bell rings and you leave

Leave me to go to the one you love
And every time you leave my heart breaks
Every time a little more until it’s gone

I don’t know how long it’s gonna last

And you’re the only one to mend it
Please come to me and save it
Don’t let it fall apart

Until you’re here I’ll keep waiting

Waiting for you here
Natalia was born in June 29, 1987 in Kazakhstan. When she was 4 years old her parents moved
to Germany hoping to start and get a better life in the new country. Growing up she has
always been curious about words and body language. She loves spending time watching others
and thinking about things others never think about. Natalia started writing poems and songs
when she was 12 years old. It was the only device for her feelings and the only way to deal
with her problems. You can find Natalia at: myspace.com/miss_mae_west

Christopher Howell
Barroom Brawl

dark barroom sitting quiet, alone in a booth

staring at silent mute TV sitcom slamming one after another
I was 8 when I met him
sitcom mom mouthing out I love you's to sitcom son
I remember the first time it hurt
another goes down hard
grit my teeth and breathe, blow a hot vodka breath
I wince and shudder
conversations bleed in and out as my attention jumps from place to place, thought to drink to
the table across the room to pop-tart commercial to crumpled paper
the cripple on crutches talking loud and friendly
a regular
he told me this is how a father shows his love
the booth beside me people are looking at me sideways while I scribble and finger my next shot
getting myself ready for the burn
I'm gonna drink myself under the table tonight
in just a few more drinks

If a Father is a boy's model for God

what does that say about God?
the last one goes down smooth
 
Christopher Howell is 28 years old and is a North Carolina Bum. He has been writing bad poetry
since he was in High School and has since continued in that tradition. Anstey drunken drivel is
how he would describe his style. He asks you to decide for yourself. You can find more of
Christopher’s poetry at: myspace.com/sickheart2
Glohorizon

This Consequence

the kids are running

in the hallways

throwing cupcakes
at passing cars

recording girl fights

on their cell phone cameras

cutting at their arms

in bathroom stalls

masturbating
into the urinals

fifteen year olds

talk about crack
like its candy

what consequence
can they be given
that isn't worse than
what they've already done to themselves?

Evo Me
there are no urgencies
in these voices
no
no
no
their hope sits perched
upon the highest branches
then
floats
off
on the breeze like a melody
so
so
so
melancholy
with heart ached stained memories
they close their eyes to dream
and recite stoic prayers into the morning

You can find more of Glo’s poetry at: myspace.com/sundroprays

Beauty’s Beast

The Tool
In the room of a thousand glares,
Eyes love me more passionately
Than their hands would ever dare.

I am an instrument
In the shape of a woman,
Used as a tool
For a Prick's fulfillment.

I've bared witness

To the kiss
Of the phallic fist.
Reserved virginity
Was lost In it's midst.

The bed forever empty,

As my heart
Is in it's forced prison.
Put into the grave long ago,
Is the hope of love
Never to be risen.

A violent death,
In the room
Of the secret child.
It is only the heart,
That grieves man
Born savagely wild.

For more poetry from the Beast’s Beauty go to:  myspace.com/_beautys_beast_  

Benjamin Nardolili
Outside
I live here,
Beyond the city,
Living on the crumbs
Cast by generous strangers.

I have it,
A dirty mark
That is cut inside me
And keeps the strangers away.

It is not
Sickness of the skin,
No, I am wrinkled and sagging
Like any other old man outside.

Once I tried
When I was proud
And younger too, filled
With hate, to fight back

I was not
Strong enough to move
The walls of the city back
So that I might enter and live.

They say I
Am cursed,
Born with a disease
Which trembles downward.

Though the means

Were cut off, to be safe,
They banished me to this place
So that I might pray and be healed.

I think that
It is working,
I have lost
So much temptation.

Benjamin Nardolilli is twenty three years old and lives in New York where he looks for work and
inspiration. He is originally from Arlington, VA. His work has appeared in Perigee, Thieves’
Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, The Houston Literary Review and Perspectives Magazine. He
maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com
Wayne Russell
Alone
Bitter twisted and alone
this is probably the way that it was meant to be
it's better off that way
it makes more sense
wolfs howling baying for my blood
phantom's, phoenix's, knocking at my door
at the stroke of midnight calculated like a dream
but that's all in the past now
let it go
time to heal
time to dream and to fly to new heights
broken glass sends shivers up my spine
when held within tight grasp of my hand
a blood letting
there will be sometimes
some goddess broke into my dungeon my asylum
and robbed me blind
now she is wandering the frozen ramparts of crystal like dreams
forest dark with chaotic thought
where mad people roam
looking for a home
anywhere but here
bats in a cave
fangs to avoid
dripping with elements of blind vision
that no one can explain
not even on a good day

Wayne Russell is a poet that originally hails from Florida in the USA, however now resides in
New Zealand with his wife and two young children. Wayne has been writing poetry since the
age of 18, and does so for both therapy and love of the art. You can view more of Wayne’s
Poetry here: myspace.com/thezodiacpoet
Brandi

You’re a good Bitch dear mother of Eden

Slither slither
dear Mother of Eden do come hither
slither slither

dear Mother of Eden do bleed for a week,

and may your sons
murder one another
for greed.

Slither slither
Dear Mother of Eden I've got the
gun,
Do pull the trigger,

Slither slither
Eat my apple atomic bombs.

Oh snake, Oh snake
Father of mountains brought low..
just for one taste,
But I musn't eat your shrapnel
pie of apple confection
It will be my desecration.
Oh but Father you do sing a slithery song
of longing,
One bite
will be of delite.
Tastes so good father.

Slither slither
Oh Mother Eden, Oh Eden
My sexy minion
you are mine.
I will poison the minds of your generations
I will gather them together to blood baths
and holy wars I wage on my arch rivals stage,
and I will teach the people of honor to say
it is in his name
While I slither, slither under the rocks
of their scalps and mastermind
these vessels I have intoxicated
with power and glory
forever
and I will say
Amen
Let it be done..

Slither Slither
take one more bite hun
to ensure the failure
of humanity.
You're a good bitch Dear Mother of
Eden.

Just having fun here with the idea of the things that an insecure person
might ponder???
Why don't you like me?
Is my bottom too BIG
my mouth too
Loud
My legs to
Short
My thighs too
!!!! THUNDER!!!
Does my fire
BLAZE burn your comfort?
Does My Book
irritate your Revelation?

Why don't you like me.

AM I A BEAST?
can you smell my FEET

Am I stupid.
Do you hate what I EAT

Why don't you like me

DO I smell like fresh farm defecation
Do you think I caused the ozone's depletion?
Is it my lack of education
and I don't know about Bukowski--
oh mercy me.
My abundance of degree?
and oh for heaven sakes
IS IT MY POETRY?

You can find more of Brandi’s poems at: myspace.com/brandidanyell

Crashimp
AN OXYMORONIC TALE
It is true;
Excitement
Stimulates
Every vital emotion.
Yet I prefer
The infinite wonder
That pries open
The doors
Of imagination
Beyond all realms
Of possibility.

Picture then
My kisses,
Washing across
Your ashen face
Like a soft wind
On a summer’s night
As you rest
So peacefully.

I hear the call

In your sleep,
An eternal whisper:
“Take me as I am.
Do with me
As you please.”

I envelop
Your hand in mine,
With a reply so pure:
“Follow me
Into the darkness
As you seek the light.”

I promise
That before the dawn
Can blossom
You shall savior
The sacred delights
Of my immoral canon
For I am always ready
To help another
Into the shadows
Of their liberty.

I fasten
The leather clasp
Around
Your virgin neck,
My collar now in place.
Your hands bound tight
Behind your back,
Your leash
In knotted friction.

Your body lays

Straddled
Across my knee,
Your warm breath
Crystallizing
In the cold air
Through every moan
Of pleasure
That escapes
Your pouting lips
With each thunderous note
Of my bare hand
Upon your naked flesh.

My desire knows
No bounds for you
No limits.
My whip now
Blazing across
Your velvet skin.
Your body 
Taken,
Twisted,
Marked,
Disfigured.

You are drawn

To the fire
Burning within
Because
And in spite
Of this.

Your ultimate fantasy;

Your supreme submission
Crashimp was born in Sydney, Australia where he has lived all of his 35 years and began writing
earnestly at university. Most label his ink as 'dark' in nature; where as he simply describes it as
'life'. He works in hospitality and travels the world regularly, immersing himself in foreign
cultures from which he draws his inspiration. You can find more of Crashimp's ink at: myspace.
com/impetuosity

Samara Howel

Pious Fraud
 
Eat
Sleep
Work
Awake
alive
Baby and child portraits line dusty shelves and newly empty corners, elucidated by dull 40
watts.
Vacant love seat & seat less chairs.
Snow TV mind at,
4 in the morning.
Invisible, unremembered fingerprints placed history on walls.
Work
Awake
Edited lie
Papers collected to insurmountable pages piled high

FUCKING Garbage

It was this time a year ago I had wished to die. Transition into a moving coma state.
Sleep
Eat
Still alive
Drowsy eyelids, lovesick choke hold.
Picks up 100 pound preprogrammed number.
Dial tone every time.
 
I am 24 year old lover of poetry. Reading is a passion of mine as well as writing. I have dreams
of sharing my words with the world. In my early teens I used to write a lot, for years I have put
down the ink pen, until my recent heartache with divorce. Visit Samara at:
myspace.com/SamaraR
 
Tyler Collins
A Savior In The Digital Age
Not a crumb has been absorbed by your starving mouth
That slings bullets to my white flag ears,
Yet you're bellies bulging with a baby boy
Who's been attached to wires for thirty nine years
In an old condemned basement filled with horoscopes
And fortunes from fellow walking-dead-
Filled with asbestos that's absorbing into
The sponge sunspots of your hairless head.

Meanwhile the televisions cast flash images

Of televangelists saving souls for bags of gold
And John O'Sullivan had a price on both of his heads
Yet the newspaper stated they were already sold.
In the next column someone screamed the statement
That maybe Jesus was born prematurely
Because the world needed a savior in the digital age
Some form of a platinum calf we all can see.

The side of the roads filled with wooden crosses

That created guard rails for waves of traffic
And the faces of the victims who were their seeds
Were locked away in photo albums in the attic
Along with unwanted children who had no names
And only came outside on Christmas eve
And as soon as they tasted the watery snow
They were banished and forced to leave-

In the same manner that you left to the wired city

And forgot all about what life was all about-
And you drew bathwater expecting a tub of blood
But the sight of crystal water made you shout
Into the mirror that was once your mothers
That was once her lovers and it broke to reveal
A medicine cabinet containing bottles of life
That would kill your death and cause you to feel.

Tyler is eighteen years old and from Kentucky. He is currently a freshman in college, majoring
in English. He writes poetry and short stories in his free time. Tyler states that he currently
has no direction in life, and has no clue as to what he wants to do in the future.
Glen L. Lantz
Sink
The water overflows
spills over the sink
fills the puddles
on black and white tiles.
Deterministic drops
they have purpose
in their abandon
freefall form.
We are barely
held together
as they fall
listen to the sounds.
If you are lucky
you can see the splash
like a junky’s laugh.
Between
is the silence
anticipation for the next
bouncing off.
We amuse each other
with poison extracts
funny and rough
drenched again.
I wash the sleep away
and look into the mirror
never recognize
the stare.
Each day
I seem more different
as I wash away
more of me.
I wonder
about the points
my crimes
are silent.
I watch them
circle down
like a clockwise dance.

You can find more of Glen’s work at: http://www.myspace.com/glenny_the_poet

 
 
 
Glen Still
dog god
i take this hit
i'm not ashamed
then it comes into me
i feel like god
feeling like he should fuck with a few minds
i feel like i'm special
considering
that he would choose mine

i take my dog for a walk

and god is walking me
asking me
why don't i talk
why can't i express my feelings
i just want to reach up
slap him in the face
remind him
i'm just what you think i am
but i'll get over it
give me a little space

bet your ass i will

i'll never be so
held up in this state of mind
that i need a bone
i'm free
too free
to ever be your victim

Glen Still is the Founder of 10K Poets. He’s been writing poetry since he was seven years old.
He is the Managing Editor for 10K Poets Poetry Zine. At age fifty, he feels like he’s just started.
You can find more of Glen’s work at: myspace.com/glenstill10kpoet
Christian Alvarez
Ms. Taken
i need help
as a chord rings out
everything i care about
is in a constant state of goodbye
even this
is yesterday
everywhere is anywhere
everywhere
i see dead people and close my eyes every night
i know the west won the sun
i know my kick will shout the
paid devil out
soft like a thought
clear like your culture
dropped and broken
slipped and watched fade away
the sound in my ears is equal opportunity but unspoken
picked up taped together
a new
if not to win but to make same mistakes again and lose
and then.............
that’s when i wonder just what the fuck it really takes to pace passion?
how to live and die in fashion?
naked and screaming
asleep
awake and dreaming
lost and found
the bass is in my chest and
this situation rides and slides
changes and rearranges itself up and down from side to
and back
and i can’t even keep up
i had to walk away and now all i want is to come back
attack and validate
mate with fate
life is exactly what i just made of you

miss taken id
Christian Lawrence Alvarez has been an artist all of his life, but his writing sparked after a short
tour with Saul Williams. His influences range from Burroughs to Subtitle, Lemon to Charlie
Parker. Born in the bay area and has been pretty much on the road for the past 6 months.
You can find more of Christian’s poems at: http://www.myspace.com/christianalvarez

Samara & Glen Still

 
Washed Dirty
Tell me you'll,
yank,
grab, pull onto, hold my hair.
With locked, hang nail drag forced fingers.
Sinking into the depth
Parting waves like Moses,
great tides.
Ring around the, pocket full of..........
Let ME walk in the straight and narrow.
Redefined by Genesis, separated by Revelations
No clear in the beginnings,
no cleanable endings.

You will cling to the apple in Eden

I come god walking
Tempt you to bite in something
Red & throbbing
Deep in longing
The gates will open into a new beginning
The snake will slither acting out the rhythm
In the first spoken words from your glossy lips
Will resemble a half open kiss
Your head pulled back hair in my hand
Whispers that just drift
Screaming in unison
"oh MY god"
Dan Kellett
Center Dead
Something of a slash dance,
This trampling in circles on the outskirts,
Of grit and form,
Where the ends of my intuition fray,
Become center dead,
Of a spit target stumble,
And I grieve in my swamps of pestilence,

Long lived and germ spread,

I'm staggered by the human capacity,
“To un / relate
To alienate,”
Its own bloodline,
Shrugging with bottomless eye,
Immense smug,
Colossal miscalculation,

man = superior
man > animal

Yet skyward sought domination,

Infects,
And an infested earth,
Crawls,
Plenary power of the undeserving,

I've split the center of the man with the blade,

The coward of prim stance and 'Olay' shout,
And the tea pot whistle brings me joy,
Down in this pit,
A smirk,
The simple stroll through my own castle day,
Slipper foot,
Wide breath in small town,
Deep thrust and devil sounds,

And come on by,

To see,
The slit,
Of heart,
And the rise,
Of soul,
And how wrath leaves not a stem to stand,
proper is closing in.

The drones find crimson salvation,

In pound nailed wrists,
Of The Tri Headed victim,

Even the omniscient can be betrayed

Dan Kellet was born in South Bronx, NY. He considers himself a literary dummy. Outside of the
writers and poets I read on Myspace, he says that he doesn't read. Dan started writing poetry
about a year and a half ago. Prior to that he only wrote lyrics to the music created by a plethora
of local musicians. He has been involved in a few musical projects, all underground with an
emphasis on staying underground. Poetry has been a wildly refreshing stray from rhyme and
structure for him. You can find more of Kellett’s poems at: myspace.com/dk_d

Mountain Woman
Falling
Sometimes I need
paper
screw trees
when I'm falling
falling
on fire
addictions
sex love drink
fall big
you
for me
I'm just falling
some other guy
holds on
I'm pearls from the sea
I know truly
he's addicted to me
so we fall
in shadow
it is not
love
addiction is needy
as is me.

You can find more of Mountain Woman’s writing at: http://myspace.com/ginbenz

Jeff Sibley
Sodom and Gomorrah
New York City.
Mother nature’s frigid asshole.
Where depressed writers go to fulfill hopeless dreams,
whores roam the streets
and crack addicts kill for the high.
Steam,
stench
rise from the hell running below.
The horns blare loud,
the sidewalk is cracked like the last stone after God’s wrath.
Crooked businessmen run the herd of slaves in white collars.
Animals are accosted in the serene country surroundings,
yet not a word is spoken because the sheep fuckers grow the best weed.
Small towns full of poverty
and meth
and depravity.
Babies in dumpsters,
bodies in rivers,
millionaires on murder trials.
Art is bread where darkness rules,
and New York is full of that.

California.
Mother Nature’s pedicure cunt.
Where happy porn stars with low self-esteem go to make a name for themselves by how many
inches they can jam down their throats.
Movie stars run religions,
bringing throngs of people to new beliefs
like the Pope was once able to do before the kid fucking began.
New idols are born every day.
In magazines,
beaver shots,
nip slips,
supposed stolen fuck videos.
California is a demon’s cock sprinkled with glitter.

Both cities resemble the ruins of the past,

but if you buy into stories like that,
I don’t know what I can do with you.
Realize it is human nature that allows these other world forces to affect our lives.
God doesn’t give a fuck about earth.
Earth doesn’t give a fuck about earth.
We’re headed towards an orgasmic splash of blood
that will descend upon the streets of rubble
when our souls become dried period blood
on Mother Nature’s used tampon.

Jeff Sibley is the new poet laureate of back alley bars, bare fisted fights and suicidal drunken
nights.. His live readings have become legend wherever he’s performed. He tiptoes the line
between good taste and distasteful art. Jeff has been writing for two years and has a collection
of short stories, a novel in progress and a full CD of spoken word tracks entitled: Jeff Sibley -
Death, Drugs and Fucking. He is a writer not in search of fame, instead looking for a connection
with the downtrodden. He refuses to live by society’s standards, instead having his own
scripture put out for all to read. As un-PC as they come, you may hate Jeff, you may love Jeff
but you will never forget him.You can find more of Jeff’s poems at:
http://www.myspace.com/johnnydepth13
Francoise

Night Flight

My name is Francoise Emilie Bennett and I am French but living and working in the UK at the
moment. I am 30 years old and a college graduate. My interests are dance, theatre and travel. I
have been writing since I was ten years old. I like keeping journals, nature diaries, writing short
stories and poems. I have written a radio play. I am happy to write about anything but I have a
great affection for writing about childhood and fame. I often find inspiration for writing when I
travel. I like the work of Colette and Violette Leduc, also Charlotte Bronte, Albert Camus and
Sylvia Plath. I have written a book (unpublished) and have been published in an anthology of
verse 'Inspire The Planet'. My url : http:/www.myspace.com/feb121