John Farley

That Devil’s Music

Satanic jazz artifacts
Dug out of Hell’s Kitchen basements.
A dank and spongy beat,
Endless and incomplete
Thuds out of cold kettle cocktail kit,
Burrows through breast plate and pleura.

At the El Diablo
They clamor for “Gloomy Sunday”
And the turgid trumpet bleat
That hangs heavy on 49th Street
Like a sopping wet rug
Slung over an icy aura.

And the bone man, low and stoned,
Trades fours with Kali Ma
Who bounces on

“Shanklish,” by The War Orphans, Debuts on Argali Records Compilation

The War Orphans, a band on the Sophisticated Ape roster,  debuted their experimental composition, “Shanklish,” on a compilation called “Dream Topography,” put out by Argali Records. It was a reaction to atrocities in Syria. It’s dark and noisy and brutally fun. We think it lies somewhere between early Butthole Surfers and John Zorn’s Painkiller. Check out the whole comp and download it for free. This track will also be streaming on Sophisticated Ape Radio.

Shanklish,

Walt Whitman

Native Moments

  Native moments—when you come upon me—ah you are here now,
  Give me now libidinous joys only,
  Give me the drench of my passions, give me life coarse and rank,
  To-day I go consort with Nature's darlings, to-night too,
  I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight
      orgies of young men,
  I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers,
  The echoes ring with our indecent calls, I pick out 


Four Haiku


Ill on a journey;
my dreams wander
over a withered moor.


The sea darkens;
the voices of the wild ducks
are faintly white.


Now the swinging bridge
is quieted with creepers
like our tendrilled life.


By the old temple,
peach blossoms;
a man treading rice.

Companion art: “Introverted Circumstances” by Jared C. Balogh Read more >>

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Sign of Four

The Science of Deduction

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and Read more >>

John Farley

The Lovers

Thirty feet tall.
Each of them 
A house of love.

Pale pachyderm legs
Hold fast to fickle Earth
While crooked bones rise like prayers
That ache for Heaven.

Flush, ablush,
She cranes to the moon,
And he kisses her neck
Right along the trench
That bubbles with her rising sap.

Companion Art: “The Lovers,” adapted by John Farley. Original image Read more >>

Sherwood Anderson

The Dumb Man

There is a story.—I cannot tell it.—I have no words. The story is almost forgotten but sometimes I remember.

The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women, of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My tongue would be torn loose—it would rattle against my teeth.

The

Charles Baudelaire


One must be for ever drunken: that is the sole question of importance. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time that bruises your shoulders and bends you to the earth, you must be drunken without cease. But how? With wine, with poetry, with virtue, with what you please. But be drunken. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass by a moat, or in the dull loneliness Read more >>

Kahlil Gibran

The Madman

You ask me how I became a madman. It happened thus: One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen,—the seven masks I have fashioned and worn in seven lives,—I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting, “Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves.”

Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their houses in fear of me.

And when I reached the

%d bloggers like this: