from jack Magazine....
Deep shit for a 22 year old. Yes, this is a tragic genius, like a Rimbaud
with a Xerox machine. His delicate handbound collection of short pieces,
Suborrhea,
are the words of a loving rebel who produces more media than he consumes.
His words pour out with sadness, his pen flows with blood ? not the lifeless
blood cycling through vampires, but the green vibrant juice of a zombie.
There is something delightful about zombies who are alive, not stuck in
front of their televisions. Perhaps this is his metaphor for the condition
of his southern upbringing: to be born a zombie, but to crank it out in
a sweet 20 years. If only the world could live as much as half his early
life.
from not dead but dreaming....
A truly painstakingly handbound book ? stitched cardboard cover illustrated
with stickers & inlaid with a beautiful stone & mirror shard. There
are over 200 pages of text and drawings. Reading very much like a dream
journal, the prose within provides a literary clip-collage of what could
very well be a mixture of dreams, hallucinations, true experiences, or
utter imaginings. The perspectives from which Suborrhea’s entries emerge
are of an underlying consistent voice, one somewhat dispassionate yet,
at the same time, unwittingly affected by & involved in his environment.
The narrator could well be Brian himself throughout: whether reliably matter-of-fact
or admittedly under intoxicating influences, whether in first or third
person, whether objectively observant or intensely introspective. Some
pieces, such as "Stars & Hearts" and "Sophie," seem to convey a subtle
metaphoric message, lending themselves to interpretation; many others,
however, do not. "Orthodontist" is simply an excellent unique rendering
of a boy’s trip to such same, humorous and horrible, short and sweet. This
is not a collection of "narratives" in the traditional sense; many of these
pieces are open-ended instances of events & observations, while others
are nearly poetic conjurings of characters. However, the pieces do seem
to link into one another with the non-sequential intricacy that makes me
imagine that much of the inspiration behind Suborrhea is biographical.
Life is, after all, the most non-traditional narrative of all.
from Scavenger's newsletter.... (I'm not sure why they think it's poetry....)
Another example of how well art & poetry can work hand in hand is Brian John Mitchell's Suborrhea, a thick ream of poems in mini-digest format, hand-stitched inbetween cardboard covers & hand decorated with stickers & tiny mirrors. At a casual glance, the collection looks rough hewn, like a vital organ was hacked out of a supermodel's chest cavity. But upon closer examination, you realize that the blood is still pumping through said organ, occasionally jetting out of some ethereal vein, splashing into the faces of all who come into contact with it. The poetry is alive, people. Which only goes to prove you can't judge a book by it's plain brown covers. Of the poetry itself, much of the work takes on a very freewheeling narrative appearance that is stuck somewhere between poetry & prose. Yet the rhythm of each piece plays out like the material came from such pens of such small press luminaries as Wayne Edwards, Todd Moore, John Grey, & Bob Cook. The stuff is reality based & hard hitting, but it is a reality that is twisted & bent through Mitchell's unque vision of what a poem should be. & often the result is a poem or prose fragment that cuts to the bone as you try to pick it up off the dirty floor of your brain, like the beginning lines of "eye" ("She knows where monsters come from & she can teach me how to meet them. She knows everything that's written & some things that aren't yet. It's like she's me with five years experience.") & "Scholar" ("I'm addicted to strychnine & people think it's the filthiest habit in the world. It doesn't even get you high. It has no euphoria, just nasty side effects."). Pretty mean stuff for a writer who has such a knack for fluidity. Then again, it would have to be nasty for Mitchell, wouldn't it? After all, the poems in Suborrhea are visceral little missives dedicated to madness & the odd little quirks that separate us from one another, dividing our souls into walls of flesh. This is poetry with a truly fringe element, folks, & you shouldn't let the $15 price tag scare you off. Because it looks as if Mitchell has carved out a piece of his inner core & pressed it between a ream of nice pearly-white paper. When was the last time a poet did that for you?
Anaaron
The club is famous or maybe infamous. It’s more like
going to an art show than just a strip club. It’s way too disturbing &
interesting to be pornographic. There’s a girl right now walking on the
runway pumping her arms, spinning them around (she must be double jointed)
to the techno beat; but I hardly even notice she’s naked because there’s
this image projected on the smoke around her that makes her look like she
has a second right arm. Maybe it is pornographic, because the idea of a
girl with three arms really turns me on whether she’s naked or not. I really
can’t tell which of her right arms is real, but as she gets closer to me
I get more enthralled by her face. She looks so strong & empowered
& deified. She could dominate & destroy anything. She’s like a
god or at least an angel revealing itself to kill you or at least destroy
everything dear to you. Her hair is black & looks like it’s made of
vinyl. It only comes out above eye level. It’s been shaved closer than
to the skin because the pores are gone. Maybe she’s been electrolyzed.
Then she’s gone.
The next girl comes out on to the main stage, sliding
across it effortlessly as if it’s teflon. She’s wearing these glass shoes
to make her taller, but even with the heels & the stage she still gives
off the cast of being human. She lifts up her right arm & rising on
the stage is the word "Anaaron" (presumably her name). It looks like a
cross between comic book onomatopoeia & a neon sign & there are
tracers of it to the floor as it rises to be level with her head. The audience
applauses & the name fades as she walks onto the stage’s tongue. There’s
nothing spectacular about her. She looks really typical & safe, the
kind of girl who was in your english class in high school & never turned
your head. She has black shoulder length straight hair with bangs. I think
I’m in love.
I can’t believe it when after the show I actually
get up & go to talk to her. She’s sitting at a table with the girl
who seemed to have three arms earlier, but only has two now. "I liked your
shows."
"Thanks, we’ll be going now," the three armed girl
says as she stands up. She’s probably a foot taller than me. She puts on
her coat & then helps Anaaron with hers. Anaaron isn’t wearing her
glass shoes now & is comparable to me in height & I think of myself
of short & troll-like, but she’s more like an elf. I’m wishing I had
something more I could say to her to get her to see me as more than just
some sexually motivated fan, when my head starts to hurt.
It’s from the center of my forehead at a slope toward
my left ear ending above the center of my left eye. I give a little gasp
of air & then touch it with my right hand. I’m holding my hand a couple
inches in front of my face & my fingertips have this thick half-coagulated
blood on them. I look up for help & the three armed girl is already
gone; but Anaaron is staring at me, her jaw slack & her mouth slightly
opened. "Help me," I’m whimpering as I cover the wound with a cupped right
hand.
She takes my clean left hand & leads me through
the club, through the backstage, & out a door to a vacant but well-lit
alley. It’s cold enough to see my breath.
"Let me see it," she says in a voice as commanding
& gentle as a mother’s. I sit down leaning back against the graffitied
brick wall & take my hand away. Both my hands are pressed against the
asphalt; tensed, trying to send some of my pain into the ground. She’s
touching the skin around the wound softly & my whole body’s going a
little tense. "This might hurt a little." She’s looking straight in my
eyes from three inches away & I want to kiss her. She puts her fingers
on the sides of my head with her right thumb above the cut & the left
thumb below it. I squint my eyes shut. She’s pulling her thumbs apart &
I want to scream, really scream; I never have before. I don’t scream though,
because I don’t want to look like less of a man to her than I already do.
Then I can see her again through a bloody hazy mess & she has a paper
thin fiery halo two inches long wrapped around her head an inch & a
half above her eyes. Behind her, presumably from out of her shoulders are
these broken wings. The whole wings aren’t even there. It looks as if they
were cracked & then twisted off at the break to keep them from coming
out of the shoulders & make her mistakable for human (leaving something
to remind her of what is lost). The feathers are matted together by this
pus fluid that looks like it’s still leaking out of the ends of her wings.
She’s holding me still by the shoulder with her right hand & takes
some fluid from her right wing with her left hand & smears it over
my bleeding third eye. Everything’s black again & the pain’s gone.
I feel her kissing my forehead where my third eye was & I open my eyes
to see her neck & hair. She has these two little inch long scars on
each side of her neck halfway down from the jawbone. She pulls back away
& says, "Sealing it shut." She stands & lowers a hand to help me
up.
I don’t know what to do or say. I’m enamored with
her but scared. "From the corner of my eye, you almost look human." I’m
not even sure what it means; it’s from some song.
I’m not sure I’d say she’s crying, but water’s coming
out of her left eye. I pull her against me to hold her, trying not to touch
the wings that I’m unsure even exist. "Thank you," she whispers. I’m not
sure how long I hold her.