Monday

If Somebody Could Cook This Up For Real We Probably Wouldn't Be Here; So Of Course We're Dedicated.

Good morning, geniuses.

We're moving house this week. Not like the office or anything: like cribs, and we're putting the dogs in the trunk to protect them from car-sickness (the cat is, of course, driving). What we're trying to say is once we've put the satellite dish up and broken a few bones, there's quite a creative year ahead for us.

For you, especially.

The We Eat Legends tour begins in earnest this March, when we send a writer who recently came back from the dead to your school and also the school just round the corner from yours, to speak to you about imagination and stuff. What's in it for you? Some free-time off class, that's what, and the chance to get some fiction published on this site and/or a certain fashion, arts & lifestyle magazine. Not sold? We're bringing catnip, babies.


If the cops don't catch us, we're planning on passing this off as a literary agency too. Write a novel, a short story or something, and we'll go noise up some really important buildings for you. 'Jambalaya' (image not related) is an African children's publisher we hope will preserve the continent's myths and folk tales, and Campus is an international students newspaper coming to a supermarket, an iPad, and a dirty glass near you. If you wear suits and sign cheques a lot, we've got a bagel with your name on it.

We'll embarrass ourselves for food, kill for some good times, and detoxify if you really want us to.Thank God it's almost baseball season, and silly season always.


Tuesday

The Top Ten Things We Think About When We Space Out Towards Distant Planets...

1.All the Kevin Bacon movies we've never seen.
2. Subway rides through outer space.
3. Heaven as a sea of chocolate-chip milk.
4. Buying a zoo.
5. Dragon-racing with Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald - at the same time.
5. A bear-hug from an octopus.
6. The scene in Dumbo where the elephant actually flies.
7. Cheesecake. 
8. Dancing on tables by the beach in Hawaii.
9. A home-run or two on baseball's opening day.
10. Cat videos as diplomatic niceties, in Iran and beyond.

Happy New Year, everybody! - who cares if it's April?!?

So It's Red And It's October.

Some schmo wisely pointed out last Thursday, we believe it was schmo's night at the Schmuckacabana, that we said something early on about accepting under no circumstances whatsoever submissions of poetry, therefore becoming the biggest hypocrites he'd ever Googled in his schmo life. Yeah; cause a bunch of bisexual cat-lovers are all about their standards.

Just for kicks, he called us a bunch of meatheads and took a leak on our shoes. Ah, dentists.

So we're a bunch of hypocrites, and you're a bunch of poets - grab a paper-bag and try not to suffocate; a samurai sword, and hold the onions.

Literature, please, we're begging you. Or else we're gonna have to give you, I donno, money or something.

Thursday

Spider-Man: Awe In Lyrics?

Colm Galum is the author of a slightly misguided book of poems about Spider-Man; Colm Galum is himself one of those slightly misguided poets, still convinced lyrics topple dames, or at least fairly attractive ones.

A lawsuit is likely, as a consequence of our publishing this. Please tell our girls, if you will, that we may be gone ‘til November, our lawyers that we’ll take two years if there’s a chance of parole, and the history books that we had a thing for cats, doughnuts, and legends.

Take it away, Mr. Galum.

I Leap Into Darkness; Spider-Man confronts a new and deadly foe. What makes him the most beautiful crime-fighter ever created, is how terrified he really is…

Young pilgrim! – aband’ning all the fond delights,
That decorate thy supper plate,
Bold pilgrim! Rash comrade!
What right dost thou exercise,
In aband’ning once more suff’ring mate?
At haphazard, wanton rate,
You take to flight! Your cutlery clatt’ring,
For he calls again, thy old friend fate;
Nothing else for a moment matt’ring,
Not even th’ full meal thou almost ate.
Though ‘tis early, and not that late,
‘Tis a wicked Halloween evening,
Full of sickly prospect and tenacious cunning,
(From looking at thy TV screen,)
Which must be why you depart running?
Dost thou retire for sleep, young Parker,
In spandex and never soft pyjamas?
I can’t help but imagine armour,
Being quite hellish in the summer…
Do you only dream of villains darker,
Or hast thou real hopes and fears,
Made of real joys and salty tears?
After all these crazy years,
Hast thou lain down thy head and said,
‘Karma: I have my penance paid’?
As Mary-Jane’s well-wishing kiss,
Dissolves, evaporates,
Does super-duty make thee miss,
Thy lover's perforating state?
Do you see her trembling fingers,
Cradling together where she lingers?
Do you hear her solemn prayer,
Beneath those timeless Irish layers?
And does your heart-beat clamber so,
Against a chest that heaveth-ho?
What’s it like to open windows, and then blindly plunge,
Into a silent, plotting darkness,
That soaks thou up like starving sponge?
Mary-Jane at last retreats,
Covers up your clueless meal,
Sees to all the unclaimed sweets,
Since it is unease she feels.
If fear beholds thee, Spider-Man,
You both are one, plunged into darkness;
And if you don’t feel it, Spider-Man,
Then I, with you, plunge into darkness.

For a moment I am the Spider-Man,
Halloween night, thou rooteth wrong!
I am the Giants! the Knicks! the Yankees!
I am the Empire State Building,
I standeth tall and lanky;
Lay down thy arms, I waiver not,
All set to collide and smash thee,
Like a New England Patriot;
Your allegiance stinks,
The stars revile, recoil from you,
While noble moonlight watching thinks,
‘I oughtta place a bet or two.’
Glaze me, Lady Lunar! Sing a hearty song –
Make spiders of those luscious beams,
And cheer with all the pumping throng!
The wind is preoccupied,
And haughty in its fleeting,
Or perhaps my glissade prompts it thus,
As I come to that hot-lit urban aspect,
Where the away team and I are meeting;
‘Trick or treat!’ I shout in greeting,
Descending on a bit of curb,
Just outside a jewellery store,
I accost some odd, sphere-headed man,
His visage lit by nothing more,
Than a glimmer I’ve seen someplace before.
I wrap in web that crystal-ball,
That in costume sweepstakes conquers all,
Then, since I've his vision now impaired,
He rubs my gum off in a fury,
And draws from it not locks,
But legions of regal, flowing hair.
My lungs are like thumping speakers,
Either side of a stereo,
The world turns a blinding white again,
And I re-unite with Mysterio.

I shoot some rope up from my wrists,
Shimmy to ascend,
But can’t, in the milky expanse vast,
Find a point to apprehend;
I can’t make out a trace of home,
My loving crowd is vanished, gone -
Like a light turned off,
To cast a dead and desolate room...
It’s back again, and space refills,
With the Coliseum of my fantasies:
New York, New York, you bless the senses.
My ears suspect fresh fallacies,
For like a lion’s deadly purr,
Comes a quaint, familiar whirr,
Hand in hand with manic laughter;
At once a thousand gonging bells,
A long and painful yarn foretell;
For an eternity I would be the Spider-Man,
But for all these grinning pumpkins,
Lighting up the halls of hell.
The goblin lives!

 *
My City, This To Thee; a song for New York City, and its perennial mastodon.

New York City! thou art an endless carnival!
 Patient nest of the ascendant living,
Willing playpen, of all the hyperactive dead,
Who shun heaven’s tame attractions,
(In favour of thy satisfactions;)
Thy omnipresent Ferris wheels,
(Their lax dismissal of the skies),
Wall Street’s perpetual teddy prize,
For cotton-candy-easy enterprise;
Dare I not mention, Apple large,
Your green and red and yellow skin?
Your own spectrum minute, dainty, and simultaneous tint,
That would put the ripest peach to shame,
And snarl in the face of any orchard;
Drunk with colour, though I’m yet to quaff thy streets;
Oh, thy supernova sprawl!
Brighter than the Milky Way, in nook and cranny, from
Wall to wall!
Still you envelop thy lip, in uncaring drawl,
As if your ageless gorgeousness,
Were a bold investment scam, or not a single thing at all.
New York, you giant cherubim;
Racing to and fro about thyself, in quest of misplaced halo,
That thy lights would soon embarrass,
With their effervescent shine,
And visual lyric that exceeds mine,
For its sheer electricity;
Generated from serendipity,
That gives ol’ Hudson kindly current,
Illuminates thy fingernails,
And dispenses wide its compound accent,
So that all heartbeats sound the same.
Your title throughout the world resounds,
Like a deafening ringtone;
And when the gentle tide brings pilgrims new,
Towering Lady Liberty,
Hoists her eternal flame a little higher,
In friendly greeting, and in victory;
For she claims another heart,
With her omnipresent art,
Ensnaring you in the joys beyond her.
Chief among which must surely be,
That mayoral red and blue resplendence,
Rising up and swooping down,
From its trusty set of slings,
With whose aid it zips about and zings,
Like the neatest bug you ever saw.
New York! theatre of defiant stars:
Where’s the wandering comet gone tonight,
The red and blue one I describe?

Friday

Onward, Spaceship, Pretty Please?

Anybody seen X-Men: First Class? Turns out looking for fresh new writers is a lot like looking for fresh new mutants - no offense, boys and girls. Even the make-believe Jonathan Franzen ban we imposed on our social pages doesn't quite seem to be working out; but my God, our social pages.

We're pleasantly astounded by how many scholarly strippers with opinions there are on Twitter. On Facebook, we're just throwing food around - arguing about Afro-Latino Spider-Men, and names for non-existent bands we'd like to start; and we're also turning Canadian. When nobody's got anything smart to say, we just wander around pissing off the privacy controls.

If another recession's happening, like right now? We're more helpless than a salad. More short stories? We're working on it, you adoring audience you...

Tuesday

Masuku

The 'masuku' is an optimistic-looking act of God that grows freely across tropical Africa - on an evergreen tree of unisexual flower, and other things naturalists like to say. Mel is a delightful lady in glasses we met at a book-club once, who terrifies even us, somewhat, with her creative intensity, and who sees sunsets on these orange beasts. Without further ado...


The brown fruit was piled in bucketfuls outside the farm gate. A third vehicle passed by, leaving a cloud of red dust, and as Chela waited she wondered whether she would reach the market in time to sell. She sucked on the large seeds, and stared at the yellow pulp of the sweet wild fruit as she split open the next golden yellow ball.
The baby moved on her back. He had been feverish in the night and now slept fitfully, relieved only by his mother’s rhythmic rocking.
The familiar rattle of the neighbouring farm’s old van sounded from a kilometer away and Chela sat up hopefully. As long as the milk urns left a little space for her to sit, she’d be able to put her harvest into the back and her wait would be over. Kelvin would not leave her by the roadside unless there really was no room. The van slowed down as it approached, its faded blue paint blending perfectly with the early morning sky.
‘Mama, let’s go.’ Kelvin jumped out of the van dragging with him a large paper box. ‘I found this for you. All this fruit will go inside.’
He began shovelling the masuku into the box with his hands and in a few minutes, Chela helped him lift the large box into the back of the van. She climbed in to join the other farm-workers, as the van headed for the small town market.
Less than an hour later the blue van drove off the road, downhill to the central bus stop and the main market place in Kabwe. A group of marketers rushed to meet the van with various containers, making it difficult for Chela to remove her load. She sold a few packets of the fruit in twists of old newspaper, as Kelvin poured the farm milk out through a funnel to serve his customers. The activity round the van subsided; with the help of her friends from the vegetable section, Chela balanced the large box on her head. She stopped only to leave a bagful of fruit with Kelvin, and then made her way to where she stared a stall with her aunt.
As she prepared the small pieces of fruit for sale, her aunt chatted nervously about the latest problem to befall the vegetable section. The market sellers had been rounded up the day before and told that  there would be new rental prices for their stands.
It was always the same, Chela thought to herself. Every three or four months the market management would come round and say how they, the sellers, had to pay for this and pay for that, all these brand new charges from the government - but nothing in the market ever got better. The drains were always blocked with rubbish and the council police continued to harass the women for free produce, even though they paid their daily levy. She fingered the few brown notes she had and hoped that today would bring at least enough to get a tonic for her baby’s cough.
She watched the newspaper sellers dart amongst the crowd across the street, and recalled the headlines that had changed her life forever. The bus tragedy… “Horrific,” the newspapers had called it. She’d lost her family in that fateful accident. The bus had been washed off the highway and took every single passenger in it to their watery grave. Even in the rising heat of midday, Chela felt a cold shiver run through her slim shoulders, and unconsciously she gently squeezed the right foot of her four-month old baby. A new generation. Her parents and younger sisters had been coming back from a funeral when they met their death in the accident. Her difficult pregnancy had been the only thing that spared her the journey.
Her mother’s and father’s families gathered together over the next week. A mass burial was necessary as white-coated local hospital officials warned they didn’t have the capacity to hold over a hundred bodies for any length of time. Bewildered and out of place in the crowded council hall, where the recovered bodies were laid out only for identification and nothing more, they joined other families in filling out  all the endless, necessary forms. Both families tried to spare Chela more trials as she mourned.
Joshua had left the farm the same day news arrived of the accident, deserting her and the unborn child. By the time her relatives had gathered for the funeral, the issue of a possible marriage, and a father for her child, was pushed far into the background. She’d moved back into the family house with a cousin – a week after the burial, she gave birth to her son.
Her cousin had done everything she could, but after a month she had to go back to the village and her own home. Chela limped slowly back to health, and once she was back on her feet she was back in the market, selling with her aunt.
A little cry indicated that Joel was ready to feed. She slung him around from her back and suckled the little boy, unrelenting in inviting customers to her small stall. No time for memories now.
All the farm workers had lots. Most of them grew maize, but not having a man to help concentrated Chela’s efforts on nurturing the masuku trees that dotted the farmland and beyond. Every day, Chela nurtured the wild trees, cutting back the dead wood and rescuing the seedlings from the harsh elements of the dry season…

The branch manager swung out of the office doors and the cashiers sat up expectantly behind their booths.
‘Ladies, lots of work to do this morning. Doors open!’ he called over his shoulder at the guard at the front.
He stood six feet tall and he was immaculately dressed as usual. It was general knowledge in the banking community that he was one of the most sought after bachelors in town. His customary morning greeting over, he moved back into his office and closed the door gently behind him. Investment and saving had been his business for the last seven years, and with a lot of hard work he had managed to avoid some bad risks, easing his climb quickly up the promotion ladder.
The buzzer rang, and the grey-haired woman stepped comfortably into his office.
‘Too many pretty girls out there,’ she laughed and continued. ‘I’m not staying long.’
The visitor reached into her large bag and drew out a flask.
‘I just wanted you to have a taste of the first fruits of the season.’
Joel knew what it was. All his senses imagined and anticipated the familiar honey-coloured liquid in the silver container.
They talked for a short while. There was so very little to say. A lifetime had taught them both that it was infinitely easier to just agree with each other.
The village children had teased him mercilessly as he grew.
Your mother is masuku. You eat masuku. Masuku boy. Masuku boy…
She found herself alone and rearing her son, sidelined because of her determination not to marry.
He learnt soon enough that they laughed even more when he cried, and so found his retreat in a voracious appetite for reading. It did not surprise his teachers when he wound up the highest scorer in the district, after the public school leavers’ exam, with the choice of any college in the country.
As he finally waved her off from the front doors of the bank, a regular customer approached him.
‘Mr. Kalaluka, is she one of your customers?’
‘Yes,’ Joel smiled. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Of course, doesn’t everybody? She’s the biggest producer of wine in the country. Runs that farm a few kilometers out of town.’
‘Taught me everything I know about investment.’ Joel said, slapping his customer on the back.
‘Smart lady,’ continued the customer. ‘Who would have thought that a little village girl could have seen so far into the future?’
He left the customer still muttering to himself and stepped back into his office. Taking a polished glass from the wooden counter he poured the fresh fruit juice into a glass, and turned back to his work.