Viral Cat Press

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*Contributors' Bios Coming Soon.

“A Poignant Feeling” (art) …...................................................................................... Broy Fleurimon

“The Forfeit Primipara” (poetry) …............................................................................ Ray Succre

“Bad Connection” (art) …........................................................................................... Broy Fleurimon

“Thoughts After a Stroke” (poetry) …........................................................................ Chris Crittenden

“Triangulism: Summer” (art) ….................................................................................. Jamie Martinez

“To Be Fastidious” …................................................................................................. Teresa Schartel

“Triangulism: The Kiss Master” (art) …..................................................................... Jamie Martine

“Postcards to Michael” (poetry) …............................................................................. Sergio Antonio Ortiz

“An Empty Fortress” (photography) …...................................................................... Jordan Ewert

“Tornadoes in the Parlor” (poetry) …......................................................................... Donal Mahoney

“Genetics” (poetry) …................................................................................................. Chris Crittenden

“Rabbits” (art) …......................................................................................................... root 222 arts crew

“Meal” ….................................................................................................................... Teresa Schartel

“Horses” (art) ….......................................................................................................... root 222 arts crew

“Political Animal” (short fiction) …............................................................................ Karen Greenbaum-Maya

“Charming Bill” (poetry) …........................................................................................ Donal Mahoney

"Winter's Tale” (mixed media) …................................................................................. Christine Newkirk

“David Lynch at the Messiah Sing-Along” (poetry) …............................................... Karen Greenbaum-Maya

“Un Lourde Secret” (poetry) …................................................................................... Sunil Narayan

“root 222 arts crew time lapse” (video) …................................................................... root 222 arts crew

“A Carcass Home” (poetry) …..................................................................................... E. K. Gordon

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“Birds (L)” (art) …........................................................................................................ root 222 arts crew

“Moonless Woods” (poetry) …..................................................................................... Chris Crittenden

“Deleted Scenes from a Conditional Future on the Outskirts of Civilization” (photography) ....... Jordan Ewert

“It Happens Under the Whole Din of the Bar” (poetry) …........................................... Ray Succre

“Disgruntled Client” (poetry) …................................................................................... Karen Greenbaum-Maya

“I Fell in Love Last Week” (mixed media) ….............................................................. Christine Newkirk

“Smarts” (poetry) …...................................................................................................... Ray Succre

“[ORIGINAL] Parrot Sings Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” (viral media review) ........ Victoria Goldenberg

"Birds (R)" (art) ................................................................................................ root 222 arts crew

“Helping Verbs” (poetry) ….......................................................................................... Howie Good

“Something Like Pure Again” (poetry) ….................................................................... Teresa Schartel

“Madonna and Child” (mixed media) …...................................................................... Christine Newkirk

“The Same Room” (poetry) …...................................................................................... Marietta Calvanico

“Innocent” (illustration) …............................................................................................ Broy Fleurimon

“Fresh, Tinned or Frozen” (poetry) ….......................................................................... Donal Mahoney

“The Armchair Theologian” (poetry) …....................................................................... Michael Mira

“Jet Pack Technology” (mixed media) …..................................................................... Brian Whiteley

“A Friend's Probable Sentence” (poetry) …................................................................. Frances Raven

“Street Art Silhouetted Skier and Black Cats” (photography) …................................ Karen Greenbaum-Maya

“How Great It Is” (poetry) …....................................................................................... Lee Stern

"Abstract Robot" (art) ....................................................................................... Dennis Young

“Harmonious” (poetry) …............................................................................................ Erin Gregory

“Nola Tattoo” (photography) ….................................................................................. George Cordero

“The Corner” (short fiction) ….................................................................................... Susan Handschiegel

“Dream Boat” (mixed media) ….................................................................................. Brian Whiteley

“*you seduced me” (poetry) ….................................................................................... dId

“Prewar” (art) ….......................................................................................................... Roxanne Baldwin

“Be My Baby” (fiction) …........................................................................................... Elizabeth Dunphey

“Tennis Dad” (play) …................................................................................................. Gary Beck

In no pleasant glen have I placed my youth,

where the nephila brute drank from my veins,

and once I drove, a life ago, my mother to the west wind.

Is there a dale impotent, damp enough,

that breath, breath and breath is broken,

affixed in the air like kale in frost?

When I was eunuch to later days,

and in the first crux of this tantrum man,

where dabbed napkins in mother's hand

swabbed my bleary lips of mess,

I made a farewell-bird pronounce its beak

and tap, tap and tap her from the time.

In her absence, this asylum of years two dozen,

I sail my ceremony deep behind

the same eyes she once gave me in the start.

I lie still, once with the wonder of her spire form,

its whereabout, and its character in my words distorting.

I pronounce my beak and beat her looks from me.

People left will forfeit some others, an apparition

of grief for a sunken, seaworthy craft.

the tomb of this moment
doesn't deserve to gulp down
the rollercoasters and carousels
of all that came before.

my skin shouldn't be
dross on deadwood,
cold as a banana slug,
coarse as if mixed with splinters
and paste.

the present has too much power,
greets each humming second
like a mousetrap teasing a neck.
motion caught as soon as born,
stashed in history's telescoping
fogbank.

the self itself a series of clones
paralyzed and strung out:
paper-doll movie frames.
when blood hiccups inside your head,
the scissors slip and you confront
the cruel glue.

At your favorite restaurant

in New Hope, I tried

the most expensive meal

on the menu.

How could I not

order duck?

With delightful description

Sautéed with pineapple and carrots

in a sweet and sour sauce,

it sounded like Hawaii.

No omnivore with a sweet tooth

would pass.

I waited with fork and knife at each side,

mouth watering,

the waitress presented a steaming plate

in front of my face,

I peered at the poultry,

an inch of skin and fat frilled tissue,

not as I imagined.

I tried to pare the fat away,

it was impossible.

You reassured that it probably

tasted like chicken,

I put it in my mouth.

Juice spurted,

coated my throat,

the fat dissolved to mush

between my teeth.

I chugged wine, then water.

Nothing would hide

that for the first time,  

I’d tasted wild flesh.

i.

Dear Michael,

The secret love

only you and I know about

worries me. It cruises

through Amsterdam’s canals, lost;

it’s in the slow demolition

of the ceiling; the naked children

shaking in the morning dew;

whales coming to die in New York City.

The hunter’s arrow pierces

my most silent sensibility.

My inconclusive poems

are dying of neglect;

and I have a throbbing

headache. Please,

come back home

as soon as possible.

ii.

I’m lifting

you up from the floor

like a feather,

laying you

between two sheets

of my favorite

book,

whose pages

I’ll gradually

seal and

hide away

in the attic

forever.

iii.

You’d disappear into a cobweb

and not even my mouth,

which played

with your groin

and your abdomen,

slid down your hair, your neck,

the surface of your skin,

could bring you back.

iv.

Michael, your departure

was like an unexpected silence

in the middle of Waiting for Godot

that constant longing in K. D. Lang’s music

a lecture on God by Nietzsche…

the existential drinking spree in The Metamorphosis

your collection of Jacqueline du Pré records

eating fish and sticks at dawn

a warm drunk embrace

at the train station on Broad Street

The length of hall between
my bed
and the bathroom
is cluttered, chaotic,
like a microcosm
of my existence,
But, in that small space
of time
from sleep to full wakefulness
It only takes a moment
to know
that a big blazing fire might not be a bad thing.

we started as eggs
and eat eggs, and put our
signature on how
they are made.  nothing
gets born that didn't
offer up its future.
we are germinal
and the terminus.
e. coli our crown.
we polish enzymes,
re-splice their slant.
deoxyribo-
nucleic spin.
we are Organism.
our decrees
spiral through codes,
hunting brain cells
with hungry scopes,
until we find you.

Ears perked

fur up,

the mutt pounces air,

flies down deck steps

like time is on its last second.

The groundhog has emerged

from its burrow,

wants nothing more than to eat,

wants to be noticed as nothing more than a shadow.

It’s too late,

the mutt has seized a roll of back fat,

the blood coats the mutt’s mouth,

flesh fills it.

The mutt is satiated

licking its teeth.

A dog decides to run for president.  He plans to run on character issues:  how he is

loyal, cheerful, tireless and dogged.  His opponent dangles a chicken leg, and the dog

cannot resist.  All the photographers capture the lunge:  “Trustworthy?”  The Secret

Service meets with the opponent because he endangered the dog’s life.  “Chicken bones

don’t kill dogs, veterinarians do,” sneers the opponent, and gets the NRA’s endorsement.

The dog who is running for president prepares for the debates.  His neighbors complain

about the noise.  The dog can’t defend himself without violating noise codes, so he

pledges municipal reforms, which wins the youth vote.  In the debate, the dog running

for president scores big strategy points when he falls asleep during his opponent’s

responses.  LL Bean offers to make a bed for the Oval Office.

The dog who is running for president loves to campaign.  He never tires of shaking

hands and kissing babies and eating local food.  He is always happy to play Frisbee

with the press corps.  The other party runs a smear campaign:  “He can run, but can he

govern?”  The footage shows the dog chasing a car.  Fortunately, they don’t realize that

the dog is neutered.  If they did, the dog running for president would surely have to

defend his combat record.

: : :

I heard him fussing his way through the altos,

scraping chair after wooden chair,

demanding to sit next to someone

who knew the score.

He told me he planned

to become an Episcopal priest

when he retired from his career.

You have to know the right people, he said darkly,

remembering who had thwarted him,

and you have to spread some money around.

He sang mostly in falsetto,

hooting on the high notes as counter-tenors often do.

He damned the mezzo soloist—

no passion, no feeling at all;

I myself have sung those arias

so many times I’ve lost all count.

His voice wasn’t half-bad, and he could hit his notes,

but he didn’t know the music as well as he thought,

and he jumped the cues for entrances,

darting in early, spooking other altos so

All they Like Sheep did go Astray.

And after we’d sung, he had no pleasantries,

just handed me his business card.

“Call me if you ever need a lawyer,” he said,

and headed up the aisle.

: : :

Mdvanii spoke to her brushed chienne when he

whimpered at the sight of a still empty bowl: “Il est

toujours par voie de douleur que l'on arrive à plaisir”

To be given grapes and bread is a reward not a

privilege

One must starve for as long as his master deems fit

Mdvanii is the master of all couturiers! 

Her coiled black whip is made from the skin of

deceased orphans

Oiled each day by her esclave’s sweat

It shines under the dusty ceiling light

With one lash she frightens her shivering putain  

Aldric begs for a lengthy bruising by the chipped

paddle

Unfortunately, Mdvanii will not relax her firm hold

on his body this time

She is in control of the narcissistic esclave’s ego

Its skin is punctured by the heels of her ruby-studded

shoes

A few nights ago it dawned on her: great pleasure can

be achieved if one walks all over this vermin’s chest

Ripping bits off the skin with her glue-covered red

heels 

He will scream as a torrent of blood flows down his

chest

A poor old German seamster being forced to endure

heightened torture!  

Dragged by his owner across the muddy floorboards

Aldric’s hair is pulled harder with each grunt

The scalp rips off of an unwashed head every time!

Mdvanii reminds him a good designer never succumbs

to arrogance: afin de connaître la vertu,

nous devons d'abord nous familiariser avec le vice  

The room is made out of solid steel to keep the crying

of a belittling artist sealed

It is un prostitué’s screams of enlarged pleasure

drowning out the neighbor dogs’ barking

Mdvanii puts cotton balls in her ears when the nipples

of her fat cochon are stretched to the waist by two short

chains with unpolished hooks

This toy is attached to a block of cement stained covered

with his tears  

Aldric cleans dirt off the floor with his tongue, exposing

his scarred derrière

His chest swells and dries till skin sags from the bones 

A pêche freshly picked from the nobleman’s garden

becomes mushy right before the farmer’s eyes

Perhaps Mdvanii is a domestique, tilling the soil of

centuries worth of bitter pride 

It must be broken and put back together so the world

will lower their heads in respect

Flaming torches shall no longer melt the king’s palace!

Instead, they will turn on the noblemen for betraying

their loyal domestiques!

Preaching of false notions for an ideal reality  

A calm muse sits in her chair to read a newspaper on

politics

She is interested in the behavior of noble rulers and

tyrants

To her their power lay in the twisting and beautifying

of the people

Everyone becomes a victim of another person’s ignorant

mind or the partaker in the fruits of carefully constructed

labor 

It is a world so tightly wound yet absorbing all the

sweets and stale bread one can get their hands on

Functioning as a monstrous machine with oil flowing

from one end of the pipe to the other

Devouring the human essence as if it were un gâteau

aux fraises

A field covered in white balls of joy disappear with

each grab: l'ordre social au détriment de la liberté n'est

guère une bonne affaire  

Our dear Antonia tortured by self-destructive authority

A poor Austrian girl who simply wanted to fit in

No one could stand looking at the images of her dressed

luxuriously like Déesse Vénus

She was a symbol of unfiltered disgust

The clock struck midnight and Mdvanii must retire to

her opal chamber

She bids goodnight to Déesse Diane for her friend

Remains hushed when the screams of Aldric fill

fill the foggy streets of Paris

He finally falls asleep despite having not been fed

scraps of old sandwiches 

Our grande dame never tires herself of debasing elite

couturiers

She is a humbled secret covered in diamond dresses

Only those with greedy claws can unveil the violent

nature of a cursed muse

If they are daring enough to rip her skin off that is! 

Nearly a century ago, her dominating Charles died

leaving her empty of satisfaction

He taught her to be quiet and grateful for his kindness

In her heart she always yearned for the excitement all

women experience when visiting a new boutique de

marque: lecteurs sensual excédentaire pitié chez

l'homme

It is the only jewel she held onto during her escape

when he lost himself in glasses of bière 

Mdvanii begin to hop from couturier to couturier, noticing

the chic girls were too involved in their looks

Their blue purses and fur-coats were the new trend of

Paris

Decades ago, all of a sudden a rainbow splashed the

imagination

Everyone had to own velvet gloves with gold sewn

into the edges or shoes adorned with a diamond rose

on the front 

Mdvanii sighed in disappointment at how obsessed

the city became with her new lover’s collections

There is more to life than luscious garments or jewelry

made of black pearls

By nature, it is her duty to dissolve the extravagant

culture imprisoning the wealthy people of Paris

The pain seamsters both grande and petit experienced

in the beginning is incomparable to the mutilation in

the end  

She witnessed generations of couturiers indulge in

yards of bright fabrics made of crushed gemstones

for the sake of it

Smiling as domestiques dress them in silk and satin

when their money could be used to feed the starving

children

The artists of Paris no longer remember their simple

childhoods

For they excitedly jumped into the river of fame: ce

n'est pas mon mode de pensée qui a causé mon malheur,

mais le mode de pensée des autres

Mdvanii is a registered trademark copyright 2010 by BillyBoy*. It is used with permission from BillyBoy* & Lala.

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