Sleeping's overrated so . . .

Berlin. A few clicks passed the witching hour . . . Skip out on the nightmare -- Way too many TEETH in that grim fandango beyond the wall of sleep for comfort.

A smoke burning. Tea. Unsweetened. No ice.

Finished the edits [short/quick/one a spelling error] on "When A Sigh Visits Skin" . Feels done, but I never know . . . Maybe down the line a reader [or an editor] will let me know?

Puttering w/ "Movietime . . ." -- Made up another batch of fake film titles. Vampireville Gangsterama, Vampire Honeymoon On Planet Alamo, Dr. Funkenstein’s Extraterrestrial Surf Party [I hope George Clinton will forgive my tip of the hat], Necronomicomedy . . . I think I like VHoPA. Half a chuckle for Necronomicomedy, but then I'm tired . . . We'll see after I sleep and eyeball them again.

So, where was I? Black Lagoon Bubba VII, Zombie Scarecrow Geisha-Cheerleaders VS. The Robovampire Assassins . . . YIKES! Somebody please sell me a few Zzzzzzzzzzzzz's.

More tea. Another smoke . . . Can't get Dave Alvin's "30 Dollar Room" outta of my head. Thank god, it's a great tune. Hate it when some dreck I can't stands get stuck there . . .

Berlin. A city of 3.4 million people and it's quiet as hell . . . Except in this cauldron I call a brain . . .

I'm taking a Greyhound on the Styx river line . . . I'm in a noirish state of mind . . . It's a stagecoach -- Burroughs is driving, Ellroy's ridin' shotgun, totin' a machine gun [He expecting Nazis, or a lose herd of zombies?] . . . Robert Johnston is in the seat across from me -- wants to bum another smoke . . . The clouds are stones. How the hell can Bukowski sleep in this crate? He needs a shave . . . Twilight Zone straight ahead. Hell, we're already there.

Sweet dreams to all,

a bEast on the Eastern Front

I'm in a J-Horror state of mind . . .

Vampire Shaolin Valkyrie VS Black Kat Witch-heart and the Soul-eating Robot Mermaids of the Firecloud Swamp . . . Gratuitous cheesecake w/ Xtra WEIRD, mad scientist, SAMURAI & [subtitles?] and buckets of blood, yep. "Movietime . . . With Popcorn" on my plate . . .

Puttering away . . .

‎2 poems today . . . One after a composition by Akira Rabelais, and the other after Plath's "Goatsucker" . . . and some editing . . .

Tomorrow I should finish my new piece, "When A Sigh Visits Skin" .[7 "wildly-fractured" pages of HARD-URBAN, blood & poetics, in Moontown] . . . It's done, but I'd like to eyeball it one more time . . .

A Review of Null Immortalis

I had the very great pleasure of having one of my tales appear in this wonderful collection alongside an array of truly gifted writers. The first review is in and it is a rave. Congrats to Des Lewis for his care and selection of tales and to all the writers who spin fine marvels on the pages of NI.

Here's the details:

First review: http://matthewfryer.com/2010/07/23/null-immortalis-nemonymous-ten/ "I would recommend this book to anybody who enjoys an anthology to savour. The subtleties, the synchronicity, the love of language. It cares not for genre, other than the general blanket of weird fiction, and blends imagination with startling humanity. The stories are ordered so that themes sometimes leak from one to the next, but best of all, they credit the reader with intelligence; there is no unecessary explanation of thread or coincidence. Null Immortalis is a respectful equal, not a weary teacher."

http://matthewfryer.com/2010/07/23/null-immortalis-nemonymous-ten/

Finding words . . .

A city of 3.4 million . . . strutting magpies . . . Die Sehenswürdigkeiten und Unordnung of a new language . . .

But I'm finding words. Tales are forming . . .

The butterflies, dressed in hesitation and feeble, breathe their perfume in the flood-tide cage, but they are of no importance. Their expressions are forgotten towns of unarmed ghosts.

Bile is a dagger, a pirate, a voyage of eats and wings and uneven in wild skin. Spleen, a pin at the entrance of a butterfly.

What confidentials would Ellroy see? What would Chambers, or Bloch, take from gem-like moments on the edge of madness?

A stranger in a strange land . . . Berlin . . . Watching . . . Listening . . . Breathing the alchemic contours and palette of a different Yellow Book . . .

Finding new words . . .

Death's Head Blues

"Lord knows I've got 'em.

Handed in the introduction to Joe Pulver's upcoming collection Sin & Ashes, which is up for preorder at Hippocampus. This old boy will make your brain bleed. Ghosts of Thompson, Chambers and Lovecraft, informed by film noir and that badass James Ellroy...Pulver's the kind of stylist who ties you down and works you over while eerie music plays through scratchy intercom speakers and that one naked bulb on a wire flickers and flickers...And the misshapen thing in the suit chuckles from the shadows while its moll smiles and smokes a cigarette with her ivory holder. There's a big black Lincoln in the front lot by the gate, lights on, engine running. It's late, and getting later."

-- Laird Barron, [from a comment on his LJ blog about his intro to my new collection, SIN & ashes.]

Thanks, Laird. I've now read his intro 5 times, blew me away everytime. Praise from one of the true masters of our genre [and he is!], well, it leaves me reeling w/ delight, and over the moon.