The Guild of Outsider Writers

I love this group of fine people. Please stop by to have a look and meet fellow writers, some of whom you'll recognize from Shoots and Vines. Lots of things get done here and everyone works hard to spread the word and encourage other writers. OW was the inspiration behind my zine because of the quality of work I saw there everyday.

Outsider Writers

If you have trouble with the format or questions, send an email my way and I'll do what I can to help you out.

Scroll down Shoots and Vines and on the bottom of the right sidebar is a link to my profile. Leave me a message and let me know you found Outsider Writers from Shoots and Vines.

Hope you all enjoy the group as much as I do.

Notice: Regular Contributors

Regular Contributors will begin in February. Every Monday, there will be posts scheduled throughout the day written by the regular contributors.

Tom Sullivan
Audrey Victoria
Scot Young

If you have already been published in Shoots and Vines and would like to be a regular contributor, please send an email with regular contributor listed in the subject.

If your name is on the list, which I will update in this post throughout January, and you do not wish to be a regular contributor, let me know.

If we discussed this in the past and you agreed but don't see your name, that is because the email has drifted off somewhere. Please shoot me an email.

Thanks. I love the work you all have been sending me. I haven't read a book in almost a month.

Crystal

Featured Writer: Tim Morris Day 3

it's happening


somewhere,
in a sedated florescent glow,
rows and rows of pornography
are being molested
by curious hands...

somewhere,
between guilt-ridden tiles,
a boy fondles himself
in the mirror over a sink...

somewhere,
in the aromatic light of dawn,
a woman fingers the delicate labia
of her entranced lover...

somewhere,
in the drone of tomorrow,
a man on his knees sweats
at an altar, asking for his wife's
quick and painless demise...

somewhere,
in the overwhelming shadow of a cross,
a woman sucks at a bottle of gin
while spinning a razor blade
between her teeth...

all the while
carousel horses dance
to their happy, happy song.

Featured Writer: Tim Morris Day 2

The Prisoner


twilight.

in the rain.

twelve rupees sit heavily
in my pocket
and i can finally
walk the garden
with my head held high,

but still...
i find it necessary
to peel flesh
from around my fingernails
and suck at the blood.

the moon...
ah, the moon,
her virgin hole not yet
pricked by indiscretion,
stretches lazily from
around the corner,
uncertain of her true conviction.

the air,
anesthetized,
lays like lead on my skin
and a hunger swells
in my veins.

fingering the coins in my pocket,
one for each of the twelve pairs
of blood-stained lips,
i find myself at a table,
twisted and tired,
eager to be of use,

but i see the chains,
rusted and sanguinary,
and am afraid,
because the promise
has proven to be fraud...

in the shadows,
soothed by night's lithe fingers,
children dance to kalimba music,
the beauty of their laughter
an atrocity.

Featured Writer: Tim Morris Day 1

It's That Time


the time has come to roll the bones.

nero's ghost is perched on the hill
sawing at an archaic smile.

morphine drips from the moon.

go on ahead and roll them bones,
let's just see what the future's got
before jesus laughs himself silly
watching the preachers play drag-ass
to the grave.

roll the bones and watch them grow
important in the public eye.

we find ourselves wanting to eat the stars.

machiavelli's prince takes center stage
illuminated in a glow of our desire;
a man-beast twisted in a maelstrom
of poetry and lies.

roll the bones...
roll the bones...
place your bets and roll them bones,
dance on the devil's grave.

the war machine grows fond of your face.

the sad old sage plucks his komun'go
in the belly of this gluttonous day.

so roll the bones.
see what you get.
the sun is about to lose its race.

Two Pieces by David Oprava

ITCH

he licks
the superego
wounds
wondering
what his seed
tastes like,
some salty drops
sticky like want,

rolling in tongues
over the barely
fallow bed,
he whispers
to the rough
wooliness
of her words,

are your prickly-
pains
just for me,
or anybody?

Fucking the smell
of the blanket he groans,
shallow bitch,
left him blue-balled
and itching.


TEACHER


I fuck a first grade teacher,

because

if a first grade teacher's
apple pie smile, butter cream hands
and need to care for the infantile
can't make me feel good about myself,

who the fuck can?

davidoprava.com

Ballad of a Rich Man by Tim Murray

If you stay up late enough
(say 4am)
You'll know the answer to everything
Yes
Everything
Because (it seems) the Western mind
Is trained to believe
That knowledge is a mere
Compendium of memorized
Tidbits, dates, names
With the occasional anecdote
Tossed in for a bit of intellectual spice
That being said
Your noggin full of
Categorized Pitfall scores
From Intellivision II tournaments
Should come in handy
In the event that you
Find yourself strolling along
The gray October sidewalks
Of Indiana where
You are sure to come across
A small cigarette smoke filled bakery
Named Sue's
At which time you'll be unable to fight the
Urge to order
A large slice of double chocolate cake
Simply because it is
A large slice of double chocolate cake
And the lady behind the counter
Will seem annoyed that
You actually wish to purchase something
But thru her grimace
She will neatly package
Your freshly baked
Slice of double chocolate cake
In a nifty little plastic container
And she'll slip it into a
Convenient brown paper sack
And she'll drop your
13 cents change
And receipt in behind it
And the belt of
Real live Reindeer bells tied
To the door handle
Will clang and jangle
As you exit
Returning to the
Leafy brown afternoon
One large slice of
Double chocolate cake
Richer
In the Earth


Tim Murray, b. 1977, is a lifelong resident of Northwest Indiana. His poetry blog can be found at www.myspace.com/kidmonk