Punk Monk Press/Magazine

  -- Kay Hogan Etsy Shop

A Sordid Number  This cliff diving is for the birds. I wouldn't be able to resist flicking since it affords me a gallic cock flag to display on a woman's tee. She is busy doing sensible things doesn't hear me falling. --Colin James

  Neobeatglory  hails from the purest experimental genre: found sound!  Garret Schuelke describes the project:  "I create music by utilizing public domain sounds from Freesound.org and other sources."  The result is a lo-fi collage of  Indie, Punk, and Folk, not to mention "Pop, Blues, Industrial, Experimental, Sampling, Bedroom Pop, DIY, and Outsider Music."- similar to William Burroughs' cut-n-paste ramblings.  The name is also inspired by The Beats:  "Specifically, (the name) references the "Tales of Beatnick Glory" series by Ed Sanders."  Neobeatglory's first album I HATE LIVING IN THE FUTURE is due for release this summer. Listen to the single Fuck Scabs here . 

 The place looked like the Gilman club and it didn't. He kept staring at the crisscrossing beams of thick wood on the ceiling, trying to decide if he was in the Gilman or not.    He stared at the ceiling despite the huge, roiling pit full of moshing punks in front of him. He could not make out any one person in the pit. It was a whirlwind of limbs, jackets, metal studs and colorful hair, as if all of the moshing punks were congealing into one violent, churning mass.    A punk band played. All the musicians had short dark hair and plain white t-shirts. The sound of the music mixed in with the breakneck movement of the pit. He couldn't tell what the song was.    He couldn't recognize anyone in the pit, even though the center of the club was brightly lit. At the sides of the club, people watched the show, but but it was too dark to make anyone out.    He swore the mosh pit started to tilt like a merry-go-round run amok.   Something brushed up against his leg. Looking down

Billy the Kid     We could see the white butts of antelope across from the Kid’s grave, we’d turn south to the Pecos River to fish, swim, and party   I almost died twice there, once by drowning, I dove in and hit a boulder under the surface, my dad rescued my knocked-out carcass before  the river swallowed me whole; years later in   The back of a pickup partying, parked in yucca, mesquite, and creosote bush chaparral, a rhumba  of tangled rattlesnakes attacked from the brush   People leaped out and ran like jackrabbits with  coyotes in hot pursuit, now days after so much  graffiti and desecration to Billy the Kid’s tomb- stone, authorities have put a cage around it   Folks say Billy was so dangerous, even his  ghost might escape, the red caliche dirt roads have hills of petrified wood, crumbling adobe churches with faded white crosses and plastic flowers in  the church yard, tumbleweeds blown against graves. --Catfish McDaris