a bellyful of anarchy

EPIC RITES PRESS RELEASE

ROB PLATH

“Some books are written in ink. Some books are still banged out on the typewriter, a glass of beer pushed off to the side, the floor swimming with old papers and books. It really doesn’t matter how you get the words down, if they don’t have the taste of blood smeared on them they’re not going to matter. A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY by Rob Plath is a book written, painted, and glistening with blood. It could easily be placed next to ZARATHUSTRA or LES FLEURS DU MAL on the discrete reader’s book shelf. Or, choose two other important books that carry their kind of power. Whatever, it’s the kind of book that kicks its way through the doors of culture and announces itself as a separate and necessary phenomenon. And, there is no doubt that this book is a phenomenon.” – Todd Moore, author of DEAD RECKONING

cut the ropes

the umbilical cord is snipped but never really leaves us as we grow older another rope ties our hands to money to bosses to the calendar to the hands of the clock etc... & it gets tighter & tighter & it grows thicker & thicker until it’s a python squeezing out what little soul juice we have left then one day it finally becomes a noose & we dangle by it & then we are cut down & dropped in the ground & then more little rope-like things arrive wiggling & alive w/ mouths to eat us up

smoking a cigarette in the womb

an hour before i came into this world i struck a match on the placenta wall lit a cigarette & gathered a cloud in my unborn lung bags like an after sex smoke then my skull crossed the door jamb of the womb & i screamed in my coat of blood when second-hand air of the living hit my nostrils

Exterior by Pablo Vision

a bellyful of anarchy

EPIC RITES PRESS RELEASE

ROB PLATH

poor was never coming up from virginia never coming down from westchester poor was alone in one's own skin poor was coke, alcohol, horses failure, fuck-up, bum, no-good poor was complete silence a face hiding in newspapers, racetracks poor was crying in a dark room poor was a knife at throat, a fight at a funeral poor was knuckles thru windows, doors poor was another woman a hard smack on a cheek already bloody poor was not one kiss ever poor was only touching shoulders coming & going poor was never reading yr son's poems

poor

poor wasn't callused hands, hand-washed clothes poor was words sticking to our tongues like hairs poor wasn't tightening our belts poor was a strap poor wasn't no monkey-money, no donut-money, no gasoline-money poor was hugs harder to scrape up than extra bucks poor wasn't late rent, no rent, collectors poor was separate meals, every-man-for-himself poor was cunt, whore, motherfucker, bastard, cocksucker poor wasn't a broken palm poor was no hand at all poor was a fist poor wasn't going w/out a radio poor wasn't holes in shoes, holes in sheetrock poor wasn't leaky shingles, bad tires poor was no song, no dance poor was no laughter poor wasn't lost job, minimum wage, bill-up-the-ass poor wasn't downsizing, factory closing, two part-time jobs high blood pressure, heart attack poor was no lovemaking thru the walls poor wasn't food stamps poor was no pride poor wasn't nervous breakdown, shock treatment locked up in valhalla poor wasn't loaves of bread from the church poor was flipping the dinner table over poor was kicked out of the house poor wasn't no inspection sticker, no brakes, no spare poor wasn't no vacations poor was no words for a year

a bellyful of anarchy

EPIC RITES PRESS RELEASE ROB PLATH

playing ‘simon says’ w/ death one day you'll play a game of 'simon says' w/ death death will be a bully of course & be simon death will begin w/ easy demands "simon says breathe in & out..." "simon says walk across the floor..." etc... but he'll gain speed & you'll finally get confused & fuck up & then you'll step out of that strange suit of skin & you'll let go of yr organs like you let a sack of apples & oranges fall to the floor & roll in many directions & you'll stand w/ the other losers a crowd of shapes stripped down to the bones but no worries nobody ever wins

before the blood is pulled from our vessels at the end of our lives it's strangers that bury us that clothe us in our suit or dress of death someone who never held our hand pulls the blood from our vessels someone who never heard us speak sews our mouth shut what if everyone who actually knew the dead intimately helped do these tasks maybe our embraces of the living would be warmer, tighter

loitering in my own place

i step outside to smoke & i get this feeling like i'm loitering on my own property as the pines shake their thick brushes at me the wisps go up into the sky like gray mute tongues & whether we accomplish something or nothing, this planet will forget our names

"With a body bag full of bloody memories, broken dreams and tormented visions of the future, American poet Rob Plath trudges through the darkened alleyways of your moral high-ground. His ‘a bellyful of anarchy’ is a tour de force dissection of a world gone rotten." – RD Armstrong, publisher Lummox Press

Exterior by Pablo Vision

a bellyful of anarchy

EPIC RITES PRESS RELEASE

ROB PLATH

302 pages $25

Epic Rites Press

Rob Plath, a former student of Allen Ginsberg, has published seven chapbooks of poetry. A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY is Rob’s first full-length release. Since its release in July 2009 A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY has sold almost five hundred copies and can found in the classrooms of three universities in New York. Rob Plath has acquired a large fan base both on the internet and through magazines and is often thought of as a significant figure who is carving a new path in the post-Bukowski era where underground poetry is without a father figure. Rob lives in New York with his cat Daisy.

A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY is available now through Small Press Distribution at:

www.spdbooks.org.