Archive for October, 2013

“O, Szépséges Cynronyn” po Ernestus Jiminy Chald

Posted in Uncategorized on October 30, 2013 by Peisithanatos Press

O, gražus maðo,
Io sono le vôtre sa morto
Belə festum sou minun flæsc
Kaj slib değil kuni verlassen mă
Jiskaske tamo n’est pas qualsevol restantaj
Estoy, berēafie af ogni dost                  
Tinc eterne hysbys vai jafn occurrit
Außer pour ȝow
Swa aksepte mój invitació  
Et zahájení ta çiğnemek
Everich kus af mi
Desann zu ogni ostatni seonowe
Мой matáin şi għadam mearg
Ve guztiak mea pusztuló órganos, etiam
Io volo jamais ræste em sülh
Indtil você sunt keresztül
Būtan prendre tuum denbora
Ir odorajxon den ləzzət de każdy mordre
Ko everich rime este þinn
Anda adalah mənim gnawd-manĝi mielitietty.
Il okamžik aš meghalt
Ich nieumyślnie yapılmış anda minjiera
Acum alle þæt este rimanente
De co egyszer était mamaka minni
Ist un czaszka penuh dengan ŝlimo
Eu son malheureux və bulag
Sobre můj körper og dvēsele vobis kan cenare    
Üks tago ni sceal postanejo un fleoge
Ampak viduje esah pudełko lignea         
Ic będą magpakailanman parizete:
Ein stog af kokkupandav ostoj
Forkølelse und forþlúte taħt ŝtono
Nan den nigreco af ezek katakumby
Lè ge gå
Io sceal pasigi örökkévalóság waħdu.



“When I Am Really Me” — Steven C. Scheer

Posted in Uncategorized on October 29, 2013 by Peisithanatos Press

When I am really me, I impersonate
Myself & when I impersonate
Myself, I don’t always do a good job.
Let’s say I am in the supermarket
Among the vegetables, smelling – if not
The roses then the onions and garlic.
I am the man with the gray hair and
Beard. Vegetables are good for you,
They say. They will keep you smelling
The roses, as opposed to pushing up
The daisies. As I pass the wine bottles
I think of days when drinking with
Friends was a thing of beauty.

Clinking glasses, the joys of
Smiles and laughter. Funny jokes.
But then I am elsewhere. In the
Aftermath. As twilight arrives and
The full moon beckons, I am on
The porch, looking out towards
The Ohio. It’s a river, too, you know.
When I was a kid, I swam in the Danube.
These rivers no longer accommodate
Swimmers who brave the whirlpools
And the treacherous currents.

Too many years have gone by
Since I felt secure. Animal fat
Was my middle name. And fried
Foods. Martinis and whipped cream.
That was the diet to end all diets.
And the pounds came off, but
So did my hair. I had to stop.
The new me, slender in the waist
And proud as Punch without Judy,
Never meant to last a long time.

These days I can also impersonate
Myself while reading a poem. Like this,
Which I am writing at the moment.
And I think of all those times
When the “real me” slipped by me
And went on to impersonate
Buffoonery and the professorate.
They said I wasn’t myself.
I spoke with passion, with
Heat and vulgarity. About the
Beauty of words. Their gentility.
Yes, “we are such stuff as dreams
Are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
You know, I do believe that
Even Shakespeare would agree
That if life didn’t exist,
It would be impossible to invent it.
(R.I.P. Uncle Steve:  1942-2012)

“The Day Darrell Missed a Gear” — R. Peek

Posted in Uncategorized on October 28, 2013 by Peisithanatos Press

Click here for more videos from R. Peek

“Hostis Humani Generis” — JM Reinbold

Posted in Uncategorized on October 17, 2013 by Peisithanatos Press

        He saw her for the first time in the boulevard outside the cemetery Saint Louis. The black ribbons of her straw boater fluttered in a frail breeze. The hat’s wide brim and flattened crown amused him, more so than the dainty collar of her bleached cotton blouse or the pleated green-black plaid of her convent skirt. The Sisters of Saint Louis dressed their girls to suggest an aura of innocence and purity. But her bird-like, black-stockinged legs and threadbare frock coat buttoned askew exposed a guttersnipe. He approached her slowly and offered her his arm. She indicated to him, with a slight motion of her chin, an elderly and decrepit nun seated on a stone bench at the cemetery gates. To her he made a generous donation, before he and Mathilde, for that was her name, crossed the threshold of an open sepulcher, passing before the somber eyes of stone children, beneath the inscription, “…and a little child shall lead them.”


(“Yr Hwch Ddu Gwta”–Collage by JM Reinbold)