End of the Year

Well, we've just about wrapped up our first year here at Butchered Switch, and as we calmly survey the offices--the weeping interns, the wretching accountants--we know that everything has gone better than could have been expected. We've had it all, laughs, tears, withdrawal. And our commitment is firm--to continue our legacy of producing the most, best poetry read by the fewest and the craziest into the next year. Salut!

Did absolutely everything
Only in my head Had it goin on
As I did so it happened to me
and I did not speak, was not spoken too.
There were tears running down the street great fancy
Painted circus curtains many murals do contain
And the head of hair of the fray
And the inconvenience Intrusion by the old-man friend
This being me everything jumbles
Coffee rumbles from the shudder
Spilling onto the wood-box top Our table
The spot light splashed they were rocked in a pod-
Cast tone in bronze
Back to back tech technology
Somebody shut those puppets up

Parable of Hope/Mountains of Madness

I know I know what your thinking; isn't this just a bit of plagarism? I mean, this poem is just the text of Mountains of Madness, the H.P. Lovecraft novel. That position overlooks the edits and alterations that have been made to the text. Perhaps the biggest job was cutting out the second and third adjectives and adverbs cluttering the text. Think what you will about Lovecraft's racism, as a writer he had a vivid sense of the motion of a text, and the affects that could be achieved by that motion. He also either did not trust himself, and tarted everything up with unnecessary flourishes and 'color' or he was a big windbag.

Bob Ducca is a very inspirational man and if you google his name I'm sure you'll find some fitting introduction to his wisdom. When I hear him reach his poetry my head swims and for a moment I feel I am back among the smoke and street-cars of 20's Paris.

Parable of Hope for Bob Ducca from H.P. Lovecraft’s Mountains of Madness

Arranged by Michael Newton


We had risen Gradually

Flying over the higher foothills and along

Towards the relatively low pass

As we advanced We occasionally looked down

The terrain the crevasses the glaciers, wind-bared passes,

and the other bad spots

mystery beckoning in the sea of sky

archaic myths the winds swept in

the omnipresent and resonant cave-mouths

the touch of evil glimpsed betwixt their sound

as complex and unplaceable

As any of the other dark impressions.

no human eye had ever gazed those mountains of madness.

Unable to speak behold that realm

Disbelief in senses Finally saw

fiendish violation of known natural law


long before we had passed the great star

and reached our plane

these foothills black, ruin-crusted slopes reared Against the east,

reminding us of those strange Asian paintings

And Nicholas Roerch;

We could not face without panic

The prospect of again sailing by

Those cave-mouths where the wind made sounds

Keyed up to a dangerous nervous pitch We made takeoff Over the nightmare city The primal Cyclopean masonry spread

as it had done when we first saw it

and we began rising and turning

The ice-dust clouds of the zenith were doing all sorts of fantastic things

I tried to keep all my skill and self-possession about me,

And stared at the reddish farther sky Betwixt the walls of the pass,

Wishing I had wax-stopped ears Looking back,

Ahead, sidewise, and upward Began shrieking

Mad Close to disaster

(What final horror made him scream so insanely?)


Hinting that the final horror was a mirage…

Single, fantastic, daemoniac glimpse

Among the churning clouds

Memory had chance to draw

black pit, cavern rim, five dimensions, windowless solids, nameless cylinder, elder pharos, Yog-Sothoth, primal-white jelly, in darkness, out of space, wings, eyes, moon-ladder, the original, eternal, undying,

When fully himself he repudiates all this,

Attributes it to his curious and macabre reading…

But the higher sky was surely vaporous

And swirls of ice-dust do take strange forms,

And Imagination can sometimes be reflected,

Refracted, and magnified in

Layers of restless cloud,

But he never could have seen so much in one instant.

At the time his shrieks were confined to the repetition of a single mad word.

Serial poem: Sad America pt. 2

The strange hatred for the salesman stems
The pliant stems
from rivers

Did plants ever really understand the salesmen?
The salesmen did not understand plants, that’s for sure.
Old earth biddy flinched, brought the heat
Ice compacted the population
But where it was hot was all desert
Rocking, picking dead skin off her big toe,
Sitting at the crossroads.
Then a lonesome guitar realization sissy
Spacek terrence malik affair, bad lands
Bad Lands sheen of stones in a wind
But this was not losing. ‘Plants’ had it planned out,
Super long-term goals, out schemed the schemers as I said.
But I don’t know nothing nor
can sympathize with the plants
about that…

you know
you have ants
when your house’s radon test comes up positive.
They hide it
In your wall and yor roof
And your floors board
radon bits in their shit.
They eat batteries. They eat poison trash. 
That’s their diet. Diffuse the effects through their hive soul.
And eventually they will consume the house
With help
from carpenter bees and worms and termites.
Ants have as much bio-mass on this planet as humans. I’m just saying.
What if the earth has already begun to rebel against us,
secreting oil, jelly-fish, and slime?
Planetary Age
very different scale
billions of years, and even that’s just stupid

My voice is not human.

Your not
like the others,
we like the same things.

serial poem: Sad America pt. 1


Nature making


difficult mind

the objective



the dead



plants spared America…

a breach, let Fall

winter depths

a horse installed

as puppet king…

in a state

wandering the streets

little food,

frequent dates,

acting class,

14 children murdered and decapitated.

This strange conflict

the best example


the rainforests motivated

finally focus on total


only way to

control the company.

Charlie Manuel

born in an American automobile in the winter to a woman named June father, was a preacher, the third of 11 American children,

a four-sport star American star … suicide note asking that he consider the Pittsburgh Pirates, Detroit Tigers, Minnesota Twins, and New York Yankees,

signed with the Twins out of high school in 1963 for $30,000.

Major league career

Manuel's baseball career took off America wild, popular, tenacious dubbed "Aka-Oni" (The Red Devil) he hit fans and teammates

He was on pace to break the Japanese Most Japanese felt it would be an insult on June 19, 1979, he was beaned by a pitch

The pitch broke Manuel in six places. He wore a dental bridge as a result doctors inserte his head and removed his face.

Manuel immediately began playing again, worried family. The Buffaloes were struggling to stay

Manuel wore a helmet with an American football facemask.

He was voted the first American to receive his son His contact allowed it, but team officials were incredulous

that Manuel would leave Manuel returned It was the best season in Japan. Manuel won no awards that season.

He was considered one of the best imported baseball players to Japan in those days, along with brothers Leron and Leon Lee and Randy Bass.

He returned to America to work the farm systems, under his tutelage, the Tribe led America three times (1994–1995, 1999)

becoming the first Indians' fired over a contract dispute. Manuel was the Wild Card.

the wild card did have certain positives that boded well for next season. Slugger Runs was the club's ace.

He got off during the Phillies' post-game press conference America following Philadelphia radio repeatedly questioned Manuel

about that controversial afternoon a dramatic finale: collapsing in the American Colorado Rockies.

Manuel finished got off slow recovered quickly peaked on the final day guided to his ring after years of close calls

He reached contact back-to-back He defended his decision noting that on three days' rest:

America worked the dugout with a colostomy bag

beneath his jacket.

Because of the Phillies' 2008 NLCS five-game win,

he was able to attend his mother's funeral.

He currently has a fiancée named Missy.”


down the street
we are hung
in the park
clouds move
a little hole

nothing be
true that
history does
not judge,
he left me
I can only,
we never had
more fun,

your parents
are downstairs
we baguette in your bed
then ‘I’ resume
nothing be true.

the lines
ought to
that creates its ‘moment’
but I’m here
he should be happy,
we isolated ourselves from the community,

this completely
asymmetrical problem,
the moment when power,
the face goes
you loser,
the hat flits
down the street
to land never,
playing the radio
a little earlier
every evening,
you cream
my bed

downstairs eating breakfast?

Everyone wait.


fun should be happy.

Tydrus pt.2

When he had grown,

completed his training,

Tydrus went to his uncle

who secured him a boat

and stocked it well so

that none could say

it lacked for men or weapons or larder

sent Tydrus out, of his leave

to gain fortune and increase the worth

of the value of his name

“So that it will spread,” said Uncle,

“to your cousins, my sons

and your brothers and your uncles.

They will be seated better at feasts

wherever they are in the world.

That is the value of worth,” said his Uncle.

“How can words travel so far so fast?” asked Tydrus

“Some of my people are far flung across the world.”

Uncle laughed. “You will see.”

and Tydrus did

travelled up the seacoast to the ice

down to the edge of the sand land

where they make black men

and out to the deep, nothing but water.

He saw and heard so many things

all through the veil of uncle’s laughter

and laughed himself, once he knew

as fast as ships travel

tongues travel faster.


This is the first in a series of poems being written about the young 'hero' Tydrus, a big strong lad with a stroppy chin. Who is he? What does he do? Want? Is he a hero or a lover? Can he be both?

Tydrus comes from far away, what is he doing in America? What does he think of America? It's hard to tell, these ancient heros are so hard to read.


Tydrus watches Jersey Shore

Thinking of Savannah.

He must get to her. She is lost

to him he knows.

Does not want to hear does not know

his mind.

He is the ocean she is across,

she is Leda and he watches Zeus.

This is so wrong.

So perfect, the Jersey Shore,

Vinnie calls Angelina a dirty hamster.

T.V. world distracts, confuses Tydrus

Flys in the face of symmetry. Felt good

recognizing the symmetry

The symmetry as a level to be entered,

an ever -present level,

so so

Wonderous or no, no

Tydrus realized,

to conjure no by thinking. No, that’s not it.

(Apt to getting carried


Tydrus’ thoughts break.)

Angelina throws water on Vinnie.

(A new show called ‘My Generation,’ debut on ABC.

MTV would like it

were Tydrus to say

the Jersey Shore could also be called that?)

“You left a tampon on the ground.”

“You’re a dirtbag and your penis should fall off because you’re disgusting.

I’m a single girl, I do want I want. Just shut the fuck up get out of my face.”

Tydrus sits and watches Jersey Shore and thinks

to return to Savannah as soon as he can.

but didn’t have enough treasure to return chin firm,

to pay off the boat his uncle had loaned him.

Vinnie and Paulie D met two rare roses,

wife types at the clubs last night.

Called them first thing

during their morning phone jam.

Both girls acquiesced to dinner at a little restaurant.

Spent the day together

getting their hair buzzed buying new clothes,

nice clothes.

Talked to the camera.


Girls you didn’t just bang but spent time with.

Wined and dined and got to know,

took home to meet your parents.

Lo and behold,

both got stood up.

They were so sad.

It was sweet. And so dumb.

And didn’t Tydrus pine for Savannah? Was he big, strong?

A tan monkey?

‘I look retarded, I got a hair cut,

flowers, made a reservation.’

The symmetry is arbitrary, not wonderous


The old people say that stale beer is the best moss fertilizer. This remnant, this piece of a lost total system of knowledge, is our best consolation in this world. Similarly, this poem, which was discovered through a process of digital randomization(throwing darts at a computer) on top of a mountain(blindfolded on a heap of clothes) is a picture of a near-by world that makes sense but not to us. And why not? And who are you? Such attempts to become lost are now the only mynifesto's yet to be written. Also it has to do with clothes! And I hate to tell you this but those pants are not flattering.


You amount fear me.

A worm, some trashy dark time.

Spends time to toke on time

deep suck

a red

dark trash can.

That’s how fucked up my man can be.

Used to be talented.

Caught up some sort of strange loop.

No plan or concept

so wonderful yet deep

can be accessed unless he gets fucked up.

We salute that man

reveals a secret moon.

That’s what Timey told me at school.

When we get down we just feel.

We don’t know.

Maybe we shouldn’t get fucked up.

Timey told me wet was a death,

Faucet we let run.

You thought about wet.

That time process.

Only way forward through? Yes

that’s assumed.

Time, burden of an angel.

We’ve become

European Son.

Steed through

heavens of dust.

Story a wolf about where does that come from?

Formerly sleep.

We fuck

to clear you.

Background of a large turtle.

Three legged dog three legged man.

Ohh baby

we thought beefheart could save me.

We thought C.A. could save me.

Cat Power could have saved me

though we have to go all-time way down.

Root of wet.

Don’t want to be cornered.

Not even heaven. Beyond

that sphere now. We’re around a boy.

Time a flute as he to time.

Sage brush yet walks daddy.


This poem is an excerpt from the original free write of what eventually became "Children Part 2" which is available in the archives...for that larger version it felt necessary to cut this stuff, however it's not to bad on its own...highlighting thus the tensions of editing.

spinning in dark

all three

leave this room

live their lives

forget or not

and fight

battles, make moves

as sinders, blown

by heat out of the barrel

fire to flutter down onto Bingo’s

jeans ‘ooch ooch ooch’

drinking jungle joose

Serial Poem : Uncle Out of His Depth's Home Made Scripture Hour

And the people who fell therein came from a…Hailed those of…as came there

Hailing the standard as it passed… …the lattice of rows…harkening

to… the mixture of colors…of the banners …the standards being reformed…thereby

…to be parted…and this being thus…the cause of the assemblage… and lo

every man of them trembled … foreknowing in their bones…

that…and the lord resolved herself to chasten them of their iniquity…

of the seer who rose to… as if from great distances … speaking full on

through ... the heat of the day, and the quick of them made as to break

from the midst... greeted at the edge by

the dead, lying as they had fallen … and the seer perceived them

despite their being at the far edge of the gathering,

a gathering of all the tribes, filling the valley there called … since…

and the seer spoke to them direct, in a low voice,

saying beware yon corpses oh faithful ones,

do not touch them so as to dress them

or dig so as to bury them, for they are

hateful to your Lord, they are to be

as a warning, forever.

(And the seer did not say this aloud, but her mind was troubled by a buzzing,

‘generations of generations from now the poses of those dead will be holy yoga

to the idolatrous ...(and she knew ... as much as she was shown

so much more was hidden, ... the warp and weave of the lord oppressed her

as hot, a tangled bramble) (and later … she understood that even this

was something shown to her))

And the quick of them turned down their eyes where they stood

came back into the assembly

amazement spread through the crowd, the proof of the lord

in her voice that had been heard and bade

from so far off though she but whispered…


This strange manuscript first crossed the desk of Butchered Switch in a sealed envelope discovered in the back of a knock-off version of a 1942 Encycolpedia Britannica. It appears to be some strange cross of ancient nordic and contemporary Spanish dialects infused with traces of a mystery language the clues of which were provided in a partial key which unfortunately disintegrated a few minutes after coming into contact with the air. The poem bears the inscription "L." and the best of our analysts have inferred that is some form of a Love Ode.

Tiat thitian titenian


fnd enth

logual tylkl woths wothbauo

wopuo o soosh guouo your;

ay ouo dsop uowls ut sogudle

tyd soso eyd soas ut cuyo

sulkr soek theough

slej oid je

lfsoph ejs so paoskeh sobiet

yhe osubn fhelsk dyt

apc rysahz



sokjt helsh shwejs

fojsh ahgyo ytelso



ajodthle ah tuo buytho ah

pauos heos thes you

gyo lewjros poufd jtheo jsof uot


fouto er hous

glekth o oa suoe kethle el sood

upa ethe oaus ejtlhel hsel enq

pep o sulsthel shl fa yao uteh

aoe namens ahou peyos dent

pouq poes houo ahhite wuoj-aulp

theap yosu jalmtlh

oteo ruald mpupase osou.

Thelso uthe sloutje lat

Meop usda notho esht

Tosu shou tosu.

Hosul thap pou thap.

shuogh tmmtho ug

apout rheoaus choudtl


ahad socut tklajlek thapuq

ljpa suwald cse thlah telhs

sle asooock epah thel opsjuca sle

asjt tdha sutl the

sle appspse. Htne mse

hatough iu istjt ipig ejsp

dnso tutse haewid saoc pau’v


jotug ewspa bougr apao

bouis dnarnto s sfuso


Steven King and Jorge Louis Borges walk into a Bar...

The gentle darkness, Law

and Order,

this vision

claims identification


the high

upward swing, traj-Ej

election. not a high five

all summer no-disease

Logic rush

to day’s Fest

of the dead and

the damned



the regulars

the apple i-pod


Ma damn shopping

“purrsistence is my friend,”--A says

to O, “Addicted

to observation…

and to smoking fat joints,” A also observes.

“Time to work, “ says O, as if in response

O’hara, so



w/out gender.

in my fantasy

this lonesome rode a bucking bridge

fell and rose fell

and rose…

…. …

slim bugs

fingers flutter the pages

of books

that have never been,

can never be, hands

warm hands

antique divan

an lit room


as can be,

Mirror stands, heaves rock through the Person.

James Dickey, Elmer Fudd, Howard Hughes Hefner

This poem is old. It is to be read with a soft southern voice.

mah concerns stultified

a pall mall
cherries negative
nerves in the frost
and beyond
snow flakes
the only light
the primary light
memory of the not yet
melted world
of snow
in a room
alone with itself
no one sees
this thought
grow slow
like sleep

that having must lose
and dying cede
the webs
trace mountain
mah movements
the ghost time
dispatch from a far
the opposite