“Dead Finks Don’t Talk” by Brian Eno

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It’s the deadpan, the world-weariness. It’s the regimental drumbeat and the saloony piano. This song on repeat through my life of the last few months, making sense somehow of my ridiculous despair, my hilarious rage. It’s all there: surveillance, blackmail, pettiness, powerful crooks posing as victims, self-sanctifying enablers stroking egos on the imaginary route to their heaven. Authority snickers behind its hand as it punishes and DARVOs us to oblivion—or so it hopes: more for me, bless my soul.

-Jay Besemer

jay besemerJay Besemer is a poet, performer, artist and editor whose books and chapbooks include Crybaby City (Spuyten Duyvil), Telephone, Chelate (both Brooklyn Arts Press), A New Territory Sought (Moria), Aster to Daylily (Damask Press) and Object with Man’s Face (Rain Taxi Ohm Editions). He was a finalist for the 2017 Publishing Triangle Award for Trans and Gender-Variant Literature. Jay is a contributing editor with The Operating System, and co-editor with Lynne DeSilva-Johnson of the anthology “In Corpore Sano: Creative Practice and the Challenged Body,” forthcoming from the OS in 2018. Look for him on Twitter @divinetailor and on Tumblr

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Contact Jackie Clark: jackie [at] coldfrontmag [dot] com.

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