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We accept poetry, prose, plays, music, illustration, photography, doodles... Any expression of Art (no obscene, please) that can fit in a A5 or two A5s the most, is accepted.

All the contributions are voluntary, we are an independent media of community interest. To carry out printing and other expenses of the fanzine, we have our beloved sponsors.We do not keep the money!

sábado, 5 de abril de 2014


For Carl Solomon

 I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
 madness, starving hysterical naked,
 dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
 looking for an angry fix,
 angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
 connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
 ery of night,
 who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
 up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
 cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
 contemplating jazz,
 who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
 saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
 ment roofs illuminated,
 who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
 hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
 among the scholars of war,
 who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
 publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
 who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
 ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
 to the Terror through the wall,
 who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
 Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
 who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
 Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
 torsos night after night
 with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
 cohol and cock and endless balls,
 incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
 lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
 Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
 tionless world of Time between,
 Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
 dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
 storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
 blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
 vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
 lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
 who chained themselves to subways for the endless
 ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought
 them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
 battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
 in the drear light of Zoo,
 who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
 floated out and sat through the stale beer after
 noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
 of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
 who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
 pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
 lyn Bridge,
 lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
 down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
 off Empire State out of the moon,
 yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
 and memories and anecdotes and
 and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
 whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
 and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
 Synagogue cast on the pavement,
 who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
 trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
 City Hall,
 suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
 ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
 drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
 who wandered around and around at midnight in the
 railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
 leaving no broken hearts,
 who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
 through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
 father night,
 who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
 athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
 stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
 who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
 ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
 who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
 gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
 who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
 homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
 light smalltown rain,
 who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
 seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
 brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
 and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so [...]

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