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IN POEM CLASS I LEARN INK BLOTS REALLY WORK BECAUSE WE MAKE THEM WITH OUR OWN HANDS

Of course it could be a butterfly. A jesus face. Two eels. I might also have guessed geese. But then, of course, there they are. Twin fetuses.

Personally I’ve always found fetuses existentially threatening. Go find a medical textbook. It’s a little creepy. Mostly how amorphous they are. That whole bit about ontogeny and phylogeny, too. The entire process of creation, actually, kind of freaks me out. Which must say something about me and my relationship to the maternal experience more generally speaking, some kind of psychoanalytic castration no doubt, but who knows. Not me.

Natasha’s poem only compounds the problem. We already have enough trouble dealing with real babies. But what do you do when they’re ink blots?

It’s funny the first couple of times. These darling fat accidents. Chubby half moons. Soft bellies. Perfect kidney beans. It’s fun. Carnivalesque. I’d even call it cute.

Lately though, as I read more into it, I actually find it quite disturbing. All these subtexts. Potential allegories. Why don’t we just recycle them in big blue bins? What is a child but an ink blot, anyway? Clearly we’re too prudish to go into it here, but think of all the ways.

Yet even if one is too hesitant to plumb the depths of one’s own psyche–contented, instead, with its rippling surface–Natasha’s poem delights. Look how strong the narrative is, how grounded, how it carries the piece; notice the softer assonance, the echoes, the subtler qualities of language that exemplify good prose poetry; the imaginative sensitivity that allows her to catch a moment like this and, more importantly, her willingness and determination to see the piece through. It’s one thing to play with a poem, of course, but it’s another to take the poem seriously, to allow oneself to be played with, to become almost hysterical, to be carried away. And that, I think, requires a certain amount of skill and bravery.

(We also thought it was an awesome title.)

Personally we’ll never look at ink blots the same way again.

To read In Poem Class I Learn Ink Blots Really Work Because We Make Them With Our Own Hands, click here.

To order Four Chambers 01, click here.

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LAKE GUT

The first time I read Tim O’ Donnell’s Lake Gut, I turned my head to the side, made a serious bleugh sound, pretended to throw up and said things like ‘dude,’ ‘gnarly,’ and ‘gross’. It was awesome.

In spirit, Lake Gut is what happens when you take two quintessential features of puberty–eating gross things in front of people for money + sex–and make some kind of hideous literary sandwich. There’s no summarizing it. Not only does saying anything about it give something away–and there are so many things to give away–but Tim’s prose is filled with a rich and quiet poetics that synopsis simply doesn’t do justice. As Chuck, uhm, ‘consummates’ with Holly, for example,

He grunted, froze, let a warm wisp in Holly’s ear.

“Awesome,” he gurgled.

Almost unnoticed, it’s these kind of descriptions–these transformations almost, this vision–that take something merely textual and turns it into real world. And for better or for worse, Tim’s world is framed with awkwardness, confusion, misinformation, undue influence from pornography, and vomit. God help us if it rings true.

To read the first few pages of Tim O’Donnell’s Lake Gut, click here.

To order Four Chambers 01, click here.

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“SINGLE DASHED FOR PASSING, WE TOOK PISSES…”

In the first of our forthcoming efforts to less shamefully promote Four Chambers 01 (Dec 2013), we are proud to release “single dashed for passing, we took pisses…” by Matthew Bisenius. Not only was Matt kind enough to explain certain deeply buried references to erstwhile jazz musicians we never would have gotten, he also provided a picture of the road wherein it took place and an audio version of the poem (with guitar) to boot.

Bleak, stark, a New England Gothic, “single dashed for passing, we took pisses” brought back every petty, pointless act of vandalism we ever committed as pre- and post-pubescents growing up in relatively quiet, isolated areas. We always felt such longing, so separate, so excluded from things. The wind was always cold. We were always missing. Even identifying with nature  only made us more alienated. Boys are drawn to setting fires the way moths are drawn to flames. We, too, were ultimately disappointed.

To read “single dashed for passing, we took pisses…” by Matthew Bisenius, click here.

To order Four Chambers 01, click here.