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|  A long time ago, in a seditious reactionary rump far, far away, I once partook of that glorious grad skool invention, the independent project. At this particular paper mill, they were deliciously, über-ironically called 'Special Problems'. (Truly, few imaginations could fathom the surfeit of such like throughout this squalid outfit.) The instructor, of record, in this exercise was nice enough to supply a few signatures and duly perused three re-written chapters of my first novel, which had just been a Semi-Finalist in Amazon.com's Breakthrough Novel Award. In the course of this mise en scene, I politely asked Mr. Instructorman how he might navigate going about representing the novel's central theme, the psychosexual identity of a teenager. A gay teenager. Why, the boffin umbraged, how could that possibly be a thematic or marketing issue? Being that the republic was at the time still in the clutches of a certain neo-con junta, I considered his prompt one of those questions that rather answers themselves (clearly forgetting acadum rarely believes in answers to anything, much less ones provided by those with a pulse). After some pause, mostly in search of oxygen, I countered by asking the man how many first novels with young gay central characters he'd seen make the last decade's lists. I'm still waiting for a reply. (It will come as absolutely no surprise that this august ivorian was soon after tapped to deliver instruction in this auld outfit's first-ever 'professional' writing section. When queried by a poor enrolled soul about the 'value' of online publications to students beginning their careers, this extremely modestly published careerist replied, in paraphrase, he was kind of unsure about a lot of online things and such, but, you know, a few places were getting kind of OK, and, well, in ten or fifteen years or so, some of them would maybe be regarded as good as -some- of the print journals.) I'm loathe to speak ill of the dead, but I foolishly thought a university was supposed to be a marketplace of ideas, not a taxpayer-lavished ossuary where ideas go to die. Ach du liebe! Danse Macabre has been kicking around in this here ether for about three years now. So, you know, maybe in, like, twelve more years or so, we might too be entirely dependent on hard-pressed taxpayers to back-scratch other outfits into subscribing to our journal, actually move a couple of dozen copies on the conference circuit, and fill secret cupboards floor to ceiling with unsold back issues. Meanwhile, we'll stick with the thousands of readers from all over the world who pop in monthly, often during their lunch breaks (seriously, our OfficeLive research indicates this) or before bed. Peruse the sumptuous works & fabulous bios of our contributors and you'll see how we've made it to our twenty-seventh issue, why we're now able to present a new issue monthly, and where you'll always savour the livliest in online coloratura letters. Devour our international literary buffet, luxuriate in our array of classique supplémentaires, relish our exclusive gallery of macabre illustrations by Tyson Schroeder - Totentanze: It's all yours, amis. Sincèrement, Adam Henry Carrière An Online Literary Magazine™ | |
| The Dance Of The Dead
I spin and I spin in this place within
this tarnished beds embrace, weighed down
by regret and held by the threat of an endless night.
Shortchanged by the rights and the wrongs to jeer
the sad ease of those glad tiding's songs, led here
to this place of careering returns with no clear inner light.
The beast who is least will not miss
like the man who is most a love's kiss,
yet while the world turns around on some hallowed ground the two shall meet,
but out of the grey zone, alone,
unperturbed, passing you by once my own
unseen and unheard not a nod or kind word on the street.
I'll pay the piper you'll sway
in your tuned into womanhood way
in the hall where The Lord Of The Dance and The May Queen tread
lightfooted while from that endless night I hear
a funeral march , the bride draws near
the beautiful damned to be wed at The Dance Of The Dead.
You'll stumble and rise but I'll fall
an old wolf in a fox-trotters ball
when strangers with lutes in cheap Jack Of Hearts suits signal start
and we recite in sublime nonesuch time
what's been told of my ocean cold line
the undead who fate from a black gallow's gate cast a cold, cold heart.
Don't shake me awake I pray
in that hour of bass drums and heartbeats that play
measure for measure the thud and the pound of that fathomless score.
Your lover discovered you've danced
far away from your wall- flower stance
with wings on your feet and love's song to sing sweetly for you ever more Mike McNamara Toten-Tanz ein Deutschespoesie Sie brauchen kein Tanz-Orchester;
sie hören in sich ein Geheule
als wären sie Eulennester.
Ihr Ängsten näßt wie eine Beule,
und der Vorgeruch ihrer Fäule
ist noch ihr bester Geruch.
Sie fassen den Tänzer fester,
den rippenbetreßten Tänzer,
den Galan, den ächten Ergänzer
zu einem ganzen Paar.
Und er lockert der Ordensschwester
über dem Haar das Tuch;
sie tanzen ja unter Gleichen.
Und er zieht der wachslichtbleichen
leise die Lesezeichen
aus ihrem Stunden-Buch.
Bald wird ihnen allen zu heiß,
sie sind zu reich gekleidet;
beißender Schweiß verleidet
ihnen Stirne und Steiß
und Schauben und Hauben und Steine;
sie wünschen, sie wären nackt
wie ein Kind, ein Verrückter und Eine:
die tanzen noch immer im Takt
Rainer Maria Rilke 
Issue XXVII ~ Totentanze ~ Volume Four, Number Seven Danse Macabre An Online Literary Magazine™ Copyright © MMVI-MMIX by Adam Henry Carrière / Stonesthrow Publishing LLC. All Rights Reserved. 
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