BOOKS

Jeppesen has a gift for balancing accessibility with lyricism, and the laconic speech of teenagers with philosophical density.”
Punk Planet Magazine

“”. . . [B]oldly strange, funny . . .”
The Advocate

FARMER’S ALMANACK

Hey old man, give me some love.
Squeal like a pig into the pig void,
a satisfying shadow appears over there.
Clear-minded distillation of facts and fluids,
yellow eyebrows harking backwards oh
the speed of an owl. Until we find ourselves
doting over obscure banalities, how many
gallstones make a wolf howl?
I forgot.

Then again,
the story’s deeper than it seems. For
hamburgers and joyrides, the frosty majesty
bleeds or collides yet to instill within
powderlike manifestations: garlic-infused
pig juice on Saturdays.

Whomever the corpus runs
over, tell him you saw me with Larry
fleeing. I never wanted
to forget you, but I gave in
to substance however meek
the endowment tasted. Caffeine
helps when no one else unloads;
sprayed on to the droplets, the cloud
dislodges its promising harness:

Institutionalized glee.

“An affecting meditation on identity and escapism.”
Dazed and Confused

“Heidi James’ prose, at its best, sings.”
Will Self

“Ingenious.”
Dazed and Confused

“I can’t recommend the work of Heidi James highly enough. .. macabre and deliciously black.”
Laura Hird

“Original and intriguing.”
Guardian unlimited

Salome winks her shellac eyes at me in the street lamp darkness and jiggles her tits in my face. She lies on the bed, her face next to Dickies and starts licking his eyes, his lips, his cheeks, whispering with her vagina; he is rocking his hips, dry humping the bed in his thwarted frenzy. Salome gets up and kneels with me between his legs. I do nothing until she tells me to. She scoops her fingers into my cunt to lubricate them, before turning and inserting them in Dickie’s anus. Dickie curls his back towards his head and wants more, Salome laughs at his straight boy enthusiasm for arse fucking. ‘Have you got a dildo babe or a vibrator?’ I shake my head, then remembering the day I arrived here reach under the bed and pass her my grandmother’s thick rod of rubber, still uncleaned since the old girl used it. Salome rams it in his hole, his cock muted under his body but he is panting and wriggling as if he is about to come and pushing back against his toy cock. He shudders and lays still, his shoulders flapping as he recovers his breath. Salome kisses his face, leaving the vibrator in his arse, while she offers me another line of coke.

It is rare to come across a genuinely original voice in fiction, but Bard Cole is just that.
– Sebastian Beaumont, Gay Times (UK)

A master of confused longings, clear-eyed chronicler of ambiguous desire, purveyor of desperate acts of love. He charts the course of badly lived lives with great economy and wit.
– Paul Russell, author of The Coming Storm and Boys of Life

The way these stories face the fucked-up music of lies, sex, loss, and social injustice, and maintain their curiosity and style, is a really new, rare pleasure.
– Dennis Cooper, author of Frisk and Period

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He gave her a long, juicy taste of his magic lollipop. It was an all-day sucker. She gobbled down the sweet nectar. She would never be satisfied with just a taste. She wanted all of it inside her parched, hungry throat. This is true. She really liked lollipops. On the other hand, one thing she disliked a lot was penises.

Billy was the smallest player on the team, but when the guys kicked back to play some more relaxed games, he showed what a great receiver he could be. Even when he got pounded over and over, he sprang right up, ready for the next guy to have a go at him. He loved nothing better than getting a workout and building up a sweat going head to head with the big guys. By the end of that session, he was wet from head to foot and boy did he feel sore. The soreness gave him trouble later that evening, when he went to a gay sex club and fifteen guys ran a train on him. Billy made a mental note never to play football and bottom at a gay orgy on the same day.

Tommy started off his English class doing good work & pleasing Teacher, but he just could not keep it up all semester. Disappointed, Miss Brown asked what his problem was — did Tommy need special attention? A more personal touch? Tommy eagerly agreed and for the next two months Miss Brown took the reins and drove that boy harder than he’d ever been driven before. Her one on one efforts made him say with a smile that he never thought he’d enjoy being ridden by a teacher! Ridden hard and whenever he wanted to quit she said no, fighting back and taking him to the next level. And it must be said that Tommy was Miss Brown’s favorite pupil too. It was her last year teaching junior high — she had reached the mandatory retirement age of 65. She gave Tommy a nice pen and pencil set.

Mister Joju hairy potto. A nickel bag of hope. A nickel bag of pussy. A nickel bag of dereliction of duty. A nickel bag of angina. A nickel bag of diarrhea of the mouth. A nickel bag of Mediterranean style consoles. A nickel bag of pork. Squeeze one’s nut. Chasm one’s peccary. Notch-puncture one’s Frenchman.

“Upon reading a book such as this, we can state that this kind of poetry in its essence values revolt. In the case at hand, the personal and social rebellion has a solid base and does not float weightlessly in midair. Irony remains one of the key elements of C(o)urt Interpretations; Mustar uses it with no hesitation, and by intensifying it, achieves its opposite and eventually its annihilation. Irony, which often turns into self-irony, at times overcomes melancholic impulses; their edges are smoothed by an urge to smile. In a sense, the tone of some of Mustar’s poems can be compared to that of the comics in a daily paper: both involve the urgency to update an event, criticism, irony, and humor. Yet neither the former nor the latter comes equipped with an objective recipe to guarantee its quality; it can only be a result of the right combination and an adequate dose of all the constituents, which is something only the best achieve. This, along with the collection’s immediateness in terms of its contents, is why C(o)urt Interpretations raises dust on the shelves of modern Slovene poetry.”
- Robert Simonišek

Depression

How can I not feel tormented
when I – a middle-aged man – am forced to wait
for my verse to mature
while the world keeps turning into science fiction.
I’m so numb
that I can’t feel the mobile phone vibrating in my trouser pocket anymore.
The box, which at the push of a button
can also serve to entertain,
is vulturously broadcasting the funeral of the President of State.
Viewing figures go up when the camera zooms in on accident-charred bodies,
and the meter goes berserk
when the grieving faces of his wife and children appear on the TV screen.
In another country, an earthquake buries three thousand people.
The weight of casualties of war places them mere third.
The computer animation is scratching its head.
Even if we are saved from bird flu by vegetarianism,
from AIDS by sexual abstinence,
and from SARS by becoming homebodies,
we will not escape one-track-mindedness.
I receive an e-mail,
I hope it’s not virus-infected,
saying that the promised land
has just embargoed the import of literature from so-called non-democratic countries.
Should I start building my musculature in fitness centers?
Should I turn into Super, Action or Spider Man,
are you willing to become my Xena
so that together we can save the world?
Is this becoming to a poet?
How much virtual decency this indecent world requires!
I’m not sure whether I should give in,
climb the nearest hill
to watch the freshly fallen snow,
or change the channel instead,
that’s why today, my dearest,
I’m so goddamn depressed.

“Physically a very handsome book, and the drawings and watercolor work by Jeremiah Palecek show an eccentric wit and a pallid dash, and yet the real revelation here will be Travis Jeppesen’s poetry. Jeppesen lives in Prague, and writes in English, like an angel. If JG Ballard had turned to poetry while in the middle of writing Crash and Atrocity Exhibition, he still would have been lucky to have hit the heights of Poems I Wrote While Watching TV.”
- Kevin Killian

Nebulous Spectre

Pieces of matter transformed into holes.
Leave the pieces at salvation’s doorstep.
A million different ways of coming apart now.
It seems like the forevers once knew my sandwich.
Not anymore. So much
Passion in those files, the poisson in our archive,
Our history of lightness.
Deepness dwells inside the running man.
So many different spheres of inactivity competing to combine the two blank factors.
Sanitize backlaunch.
We haven’t slept together yet.
My human warmth blues get me down style.
Splurge into forgiveness; the puppet trope’s battle.

When the buttock soars…

Present escapes flashes of transplanted genus. Know how
Beneficial icy snatches of paradise can be when you’re singing the praises of the whale.
Dark splotches matter deeply.