*`!THE HOLD!`*
Issue 15 January 16, 1999
-------------------------------------------
1998 by Shadow Wall Press
All works copyright their individual authors
Well, I knew I shouldn'ta read The Dharma Bums, and now I'm a Buddhist. Hey, you read it and see what happens, Mr. Unimpressionable. Don't worry about The Hold, if that's what you were thinking. I won't change it any more than I usually do. Speaking of which, I'm changing Graffiti from a simple "letters section" to a bitching wall. Here's the deal. You beautiful readers give us a topic, and Dolo, Cait and I discuss it and print the conversation. Sounds like a blast, huh? Of course it does. The only problem might be getting you gorgeous people to give us something to talk about. Sometimes I wonder if you aren't all figments of my imagination. Naw, if that was it you'd all have liederhosen and purple feathers and be flying around with bat wings whistling Beethoven's 9th. Lousy Beethoven.
Other than that, this issue is dedicated to the fight against censorship. After experiencing a hefty dose of it at the hands of school officials recently, I asked Dolomite to come up with the most foul, uncouth, and utterly incomprehensible garbage he could. I think the results speak for themselves.
Contributors:
Dave Gitomer
Cait Collins
Daev
Columnists:
Dolomite
Cait Collins
Editor: Daev
RANTING
Well how the fuck are you sports fans!?! I hope that you all feel so fucking
fine that you could fuck the nearest fucking bitch, cause I do! That's what
happens when some of Columbia's best fucking wake up shit (no not cocaine)
hits your nervous system at two in the fucking morning. I guess those asshole
doctors and bitch-ass nurses were right that coffee has a lot of fucking
caffeine. Where did all of this damn caffeine come from you may ask? Well,
I, the Great Dolomite, will tell you if my fucking fingers can stay still long
enough to fucking type.
It all started last night. I was at a local shithole called a café when I
was quietly sipping my fucking coffee that that cunt rag of a bitch waitress
served, when I noticed that some fucking politicians were planning to censor
the last great enterprise of free fucking speech: the Internet. Well fuck
you, you God damn, tree saving, pussy licking, whore fucking, animal raping,
shit for brains politicians! I hope you all fucking die in some horrible
fucking fire in the middle of the fucking Arctic and some fucking polar bear
rapes you in the fucking ass. You bunch of bitches think that your shit don't
stink and that you are so above us average fucking pricks that you can just
fuck us over like some cheap whore that you probably fuck every night with your
tiny cock after you take some fucking Viagra for your impotent fucking self.
I hope that you are hit by a fucking semi the next time that you step out of
your local whorehouse or fucking porno theater, you fucking hypocrites.
The fucking idea that you would, let alone could, censor the entire Internet
is beyond my fucking comprehension. I hope that you fucking pricks wake up,
move the fucking horse's head away from beside you, and open your little
puckered assholes so that you can take that big ass, fucking ten foot fucking
pole out of it, you fucking pussy. Let's see if you get re-elected by us
computer users. You better not let me find you in some dark fucking alley,
you fucking cocksuckers. I will rip every fucking appendage from your fucking
body in less time than it takes ole Bill to fuck the newest intern.
If you are going to try to censor me you fucking pricks, then you have
another fucking thing cumming to your fucking minds. I will not be censored
by anyone. I will swear every chance I get in spite of your fucking tries to
pass censorship over the fucking realms of the great fucking Internet. I am the
hero of the soon to be censored. I am the epitome of non-fucking-censor.
Plus, I love reading those little porno stories on the Internet, as well as
seeing the porn pictures that go along with them. I love hearing about how
some pimp took away three girls fucking virginity in one mass fucking. I love
reading about that. If you think that you can censor that, then you are the
most fucked up bitches in this great fucking country. In fact, I will write
every one of you fucking bastards a letter, complete with an attached porno
story, to show you the fucking force that you are fucking with.
After proclaiming this all out loud, I noticed the date on the paper. I
guess that café doesn't get a newspaper daily, or even monthly. Oh well, so
very fucking much for some fucking outlet for my fucking coffee buzz. Oh
well, all that talk of fucking and porno has made me get a fucking stiffy.
Time to take care of this problem. Be back here next issue for another
Ranting, or be fucked. Either way is good, unless you are in prison. Then
the latter of those choices may not be so fucking great.
Dolomite
THE FORUM
RAINY NIGHT AT BOOKSTORE POETRY READING
in the bookstore, a small crowd gathers
thinned by the rainstorm or the troubled
traveling. there inside amongst the giants
between the midgets and snubbing the
populist hawkers: they sit. this sparse
crowd huddles near calendars of dogs
and wise platitudes, they mass, watching
without expectation and quietly accept
and await their new home. Shakespeare
sheds a saline tear and Twain utters a
cynical laugh. this is not raft on the river
material. the podium is in place, the
chairs sprightly aligned though unoccupied.
this small crowd gathers in search of....
what would Warhol say? this is it, the five
minutes of fame or flame, both seem
appropriate. the featured poet shuffles
her papers, a nervous sort of rustle.
beneath the lights, she realizes no more
are coming to hear her handiwork. acceptance
can be brutal. the husband smiles meekly.
the hostess eludes a forced smile and
sorts through some lists. the small crowd
gathers and awaits the opening bell.
the show must go on.
Dave Gitomer
email: dogentao@villagenet.com
websites:
http://villagenet.com/~dogentao/index.html
http://members.aol.com/freeme123/index.htm
--------------------------------
**mowing the snow**
they
sit at
coffee tables
in afternoon
kitchens
sipping
April showers
cinnamon
tea
and they look
out
windows
draped
within
winter clothes
inside
icicle eyes
and
watch
the blustering
clouds
shake
like angel flakes
and romantic harlequin
romances
and the snow
drifts towards
the stairs
of summer skies
and as we
in L.A.
lean on
the sunshine
and sand
men built by the sea
we'll shovel
bullshit
piled too
high
while the rest
of you
mow
the
snow.
©cait collins 01.02.99
**you're the best thing
that ever happened to me**
you're my poem without a flow
that's been read again and again
you're my diamond head
with a simulated brilliance
you're my picture window
that I could never see through
you're the best thing that ever happened to me.
you're my sun and the moon and the stars
without a sky to shine them through
you're my guardian angel
glowing like the devils halo
you're my wringing rainbow
soaking the heavens in your fiery depths of hell
you're the best thing that ever happened to me.
you're my sheet of lightning
streaked without a thunderbolt
you're the blast of gunshots
triggered through your laughing eyes
you're Christ's cross
that I was meant to share
you're the best thing that ever happened to me.
yes dear, you're my everything
I've never imagined
you're my everything
I've never dreamed of
you're my everything
I've never desired
you're my greatest love poem
I've never written
and at one time
you convinced me
that you were
the best thing
that ever
happened to me.
fuck you, dear!
cait collins 01.07.99
----------------------------
Anti-…
Darkness swarmed over the
Throne of God a long time
Ago, for me. The pain is
Never ending, the sun lies
Black and dead. I've fallen,
The blood has dried to a
Trickle; I cannot crawl over
Or through the mire of hurt
Without it affecting me, turning
My heart, my brain to poison.
My
Advisors
Tell me I've been poisoned and that
I do it to myself, but their tongues
Speak only half-truths, for I was
Born to suffer, and that is
Truth incarnate.
So little of what we observe is
Actuality.
Do we see/hear the words
Pouring forth? Are they
Truth? I wish and hope, but
My future is predestined,
Per my parents' belief,
And that is denial and death,
The deepest pits of hell,
The thorniest of crowns,
No sympathy, simply
Guilt, pain, anguish, and
Lament. Call me your
Anti-Savior and I'll take
On your pain too.
Some Call It a Sickness
The blood in my hand is
Warm,
Matching my pulse,
It is thick and dark
And it runs down my
Arm, my back,
My knives
Feel their pain
Do their duty,
I die
Before my eyes
Within my dreams
Every single night.
Growth
Everyone's telling me I need
To change my appearance -
That I unnecessarily look
Menacing to people.
It's the shaved head, goatee,
Black leather jacket, black
T-shirt with blood dripping
From it, black jeans, black
Doc Martin boots.
Well, now I'm supposed to
Turn into some preppy punk,
Internalize my feelings of
Aggression, regress to 10th
Grade when I underwent the
Same bullshit.
They say this is to save my
Life and the lives of others -
Otherwise I simply invite
Hostility and confrontations.
What they seem to ignore is
That this, if in fact true, does
Not bother me in the least.
I'm happy to kick the shit out
Of anyone who doesn't like
My jacket.
Then again,
Maybe that's the attitude
They're trying to eliminate….
Scott Holstad
-------------------------
heres a poem for the hold....
plastic knights riding horses
in brain washed hotel rooms
of their lords command
among beer bottles and mirrors
pipes and needles cover the walls
in splatters of vomit and fluid
urine in the corner
the mark of a naked man
who bore this hell
in a dream state last night
the worlds only word was heavenly
and now the high has disappeared
and left a shell
to be kicked by another day
of the working mans shit
alone and wreaking on sweaty sheets
among the others in their own daylight
and heres another...
jagged openings or clean and dry
holes we will not fit into
all n everyday of our lives
we can see but cannot touch
but for some where we are able to choose
entering and taking their winding paths
to wherever they may lead good or bad
turning back is impossible
except for the many new holes just around the corner
each leading to a new minute by minute destiny
Goo
The Rest of This Issue - Lost