May 4, 2013
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1:08pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511ykCi37A
(Notes: 4)
  
Filed under: tomas boudreau repentino infrarealism infrarealist writing published publication canadian writer canadian literature literature 
December 31, 2012
The Books I Read in 2012

I read 114 books altogether in 2012. Here is the list, organized by the author or editor’s surname.

The Edible Woman by Margaret Atwood
Silk by Alessandro Baricco
The Damnation Game by Clive Barker
The Hellbound Heart by Clive Barker
Cabal by Clive Barker
My Mother, Madame Edwarda, The Dead Man by Georges Bataille
Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille
The Bataille Reader by Georges Bataille
The Essential Dykes to Watch Out For by Alison Bechdel
Psycho by Robert Bloch
Night-World by Robert Bloch
American Gothic by Robert Bloch
Lucky at Cards by Lawrence Block
Monsieur Pain by Roberto Bolaño
Mind Grabber by Gary Brandner
Factotum by Charles Bukowski
The Asphalt Jungle by W.R. Burnett
The Soft Machine by William S. Burroughs
Queer by William S. Burroughs
The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain
Double Indemnity by James M. Cain
Serenade by James M. Cain
If on a winter’s night a traveler by Italo Calvino
The Outsider by Albert Camus
The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
More by Austin Clarke
The Favourite Game by Leonard Cohen
Beautiful Losers by Leonard Cohen
The Cinema of John Carpenter: The Technique of Terror edited by Ian Conrich & David Woods
Cosmopolis by Don DeLillo
Monolingualism of the Other or the Prosthesis of Origin by Jacques Derrida
A Scanner Darkly by Philip K. Dick
The Obscene Bird of Night by José Donoso
Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Blood on the Moon by James Ellroy
Baby Moll by John Farris
Flappers and Philosophers by F. Scott Fitzgerald
The History of Sexuality Volume 1: An Introduction by Michel Foucault
“Master Harold”…and the Boys by Athol Fugard 
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
The Great Leader by Jim Harrison
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Kamouraska by Anne Hébert
Winner Take Nothing by Ernest Hemingway
Demian by Herman Hesse
Self-Transformations: Foucault, Ethics, and Normalized Bodies by Cressida J. Heyes
The Lost Weekend by Charles Jackson
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
The Turn of the Screw by Henry James
The Metamorphosis and Other Stories by Franz Kafka
The Subterraneans by Jack Kerouac
And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks by Jack Kerouac & William S. Burroughs
The Shining by Stephen King
The Stand: Complete and Uncut Edition by Stephen King
The Long Walk by Stephen King
Roadwork by Stephen King
The Tommyknockers by Stephen King
Gerald’s Game by Stephen King
Dolores Claiborne by Stephen King  
Bag of Bones by Stephen King 
From a Buick 8 by Stephen King
The Talisman by Stephen King & Peter Straub
Green Grass, Running Water by Thomas King
Obasan by Joy Kogawa
The Studhorse Man by Robert Kroetsch
The Nightrunners by Joe R. Lansdale
Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
The Best of H.P. Lovecraft: Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre by H.P. Lovecraft
Tales of H.P. Lovecraft by H.P. Lovecraft
Cape Fear by John D. MacDonald
I Am Legend and Other Stories by Richard Matheson
Monoceros by Suzette Mayr
Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West by Cormac McCarthy
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
White-Jacket or the World in a Man-of-War by Herman Melville
Pierre or the Ambiguities by Herman Melville
The Confidence-Man: His Masquerade by Herman Melville
The Smile at the Foot of the Ladder by Henry Miller 
Quiet Days in Clichy by Henry Miller
Paradise Lost by John Milton
House Made of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday  
My Place by Sally Morgan 
Genre and Hollywood by Steve Neale
Houseboy by Ferdinand Oyono  
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath 
Voyage in the Dark by Jean Rhys
Trap Lines by Eden Robinson
Monkey Beach by Eden Robinson
As for Me and My House by Sinclair Ross
Feral by Berton Roueché 
Conversations with Scorsese by Richard Schickel
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson
Dracula by Bram Stoker
Now and on Earth by Jim Thompson
Heed the Thunder by Jim Thompson
The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson
Recoil by Jim Thompson
The Golden Gizmo by Jim Thompson
A Hell of a Woman by Jim Thompson
After Dark, My Sweet by Jim Thompson
Wild Town by Jim Thompson
The Grifters by Jim Thompson
South of Heaven by Jim Thompson
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
Critical Theory Today: A User-Friendly Guide by Lois Tyson
Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
Diamond Grill by Fred Wah
All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren
The Double Hook by Sheila Watson
The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells
The Valley of Spiders by H.G. Wells
361 by Donald E. Westlake
Some Must Watch by Ethel Lina White

2:22am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yabvM8K
(Notes: 6)
  
Filed under: margaret atwood alessandro baricco reading literature 2012 list lit fiction prose classic literature canadian literature western canadian literature philosophy theory feminist philosophy literary theory postcolonial literature film studies 17th century literature 19th century literature 20th century literature 21st century literature horror crime fiction clive barker georges bataille alison bechdel robert bloch lawrence block roberto bolano gary brandner 
September 6, 2012
Personal Reading: Spring/Summer 2012

The books I read during spring and summer break of 2012 (organized by author).

The Damnation Game by Clive Barker
Cabal by Clive Barker
Night-World by Robert Bloch
American Gothic by Robert Bloch
If on a winter’s night a traveler by Italo Calvino
The Outsider by Albert Camus
The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
A Scanner Darkly by Philip K. Dick
The Obscene Bird of Night by José Donoso
Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Winner Take Nothing by Ernest Hemingway
The Turn of the Screw by Henry James
The Metamorphosis and Other Stories by Franz Kafka
And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks by Jack Kerouac and William S. Burroughs
The Long Walk by Stephen King
The Tommyknockers by Stephen King
Gerald’s Game by Stephen King
The Talisman by Stephen King and Peter Straub
Green Grass, Running Water by Thomas King
Obasan by Joy Kogawa
The Studhorse Man by Robert Kroetsch
The Best of H.P. Lovecraft: Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre by H.P. Lovecraft
Tales of H.P. Lovecraft by H.P. Lovecraft
Cape Fear by John D. MacDonald
I Am Legend by Richard Matheson
Monoceros by Suzette Mayr
Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West by Cormac McCarthy
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
As for Me and My House by Sinclair Ross
Feral by Berton Roueché
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Dracula by Bram Stoker
Now and on Earth by Jim Thompson
Heed the Thunder by Jim Thompson
The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson
Recoil by Jim Thompson
The Golden Gizmo by Jim Thompson
A Hell of a Woman by Jim Thompson
After Dark, My Sweet by Jim Thompson
The Grifters by Jim Thompson
South of Heaven by Jim Thompson
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
The Double Hook by Sheila Watson
The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells
The Valley of Spiders by H.G. Wells
Some Must Watch by Ethel Lina White

7:51pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511ySv8gj4
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: Mike Thorn albert camus burroughs canadian literature classic literature clive barker dostoevsky fiction h.p. lovecraft hardboiled hemingway henry james horror italo calvino john d. macdonald jose donoso joy kogawa kafka kerouac literature lovecraft novels philip k. dick raymond chandler reading richard matheson robert bloch robert kroetsch stephen king western canadian literature 
July 25, 2012
Perdition Heyday

Cloudless heat: the sun bawdy and swollen, blazing rays on the cast.
Two guys, wet and junk-sick on the rollercoaster.
Mark, 22.
Ray, 25.
/ that celestial sensation is what we’re after man I mean I’m talkin some astronomical shit here man /
The mouth gapes a mad jester smile. Lop-sided and red. Contorted, farcical, obscene.
/ for real man there was a time when I couldn’t tell you the difference between a subject and an author man not even shittin you man and now I’m lost in some kind of psychosexual reading of my own existence man you know what I mean are you feelin what I’m sayin man /
Ray’s head dipping into the ether, bald spot exposed in the sunlight. Cotton candy cacophony. Carny complacency. Stereo synchronizing screams of uncredited extras.
(Def.: a state of utter bliss or potential mania. Side effects may include leaking yellow liquid with unpleasant aroma, lesions or other forms of bodily infection.)
/ you’ve been warned motherfucker I’m gonna hurl /
The ride is now malevolent. Tracks coil serpentine and plunge into Hades. Death-cries and dismay rent the air.
(Entry fee: $20 or $50, all rides included.
Have a fun day.)

3:25am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yQ38qqH
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Mike Thorn writing fiction my writing my poem my poetry poem poetry prose poem prose poetry my prose prose creative Canadian literature Canadian lit Can lit Internet poetry IP drugs hell nightmare nightmares 
July 21, 2012
Gunfire

Dash blinks at the dawn light, scratching white flakes from an itch in his flesh. He crouches on the porch like a patient hydra, finishing the sun-warmed dregs of his Budweiser. Quiet insurrection is his way of life—bombs posing as car parts, guns without serial numbers, smiles that kill. His rust-savaged truck sputters noxious fumes across the driveway. He finishes his beer. / This is your last chance. Do you understand that.—How many fuckin times ya gotta tell me.—I assure you this is the last time you will be told.—Just let me do the fuckin thing, alright. I can handle it, fa krissake.—I sincerely hope you can. This is not something to be taking lightly.—Are we done yet. You’re givin me a whopper of a fuckin migraine here.—Yes, we are all finished for now. You can call me when you have done as you were told. If you do not meet all the criteria of our agreement, do not bother calling me.—We’ve been through all this shit already. How many fu—The conversation is finished. You have seventy-two hours. / Dash drives 30km/h over the speed limit. His gaze spends as much time on the rearview as it does on the road. Four cigarette butts smolder in the cup holder, filling the truck with nicotine fog. He is aware of the Sedan that has been tailing him for thirty minutes and he is aware that he cannot shake it off. He signals. Turns onto the shoulder of the road. He opens the glove compartment, grabs his gun. Tucks it into the back of his waistband and conceals it under his shirt. He opens the door and walks out. A lithe man is leaning on the Sedan, wiping crumbs from the sleeve of his tailored suit jacket. They exchange looks. Static in a moment of assessment. Momentarily neutralized. The Suit speaks: You know who I am, don’t you.—Are you fuckin with me or what. How could I not know.—Well, what do you have to say for yourself.—What can I say. You guys have given me no fuckin room to breathe. I was havin a panic attack when I walked into this fuckin thing.—That’s not my concern.—What is your fuckin concern.—Doing as I’m told to do.—What a fuckin coincidence, mister. That’s my concern too. Looks like we got more in common than we mighta thought.—I’m going to kill you, Dash. Suit reaches into his jacket but Dash has already drawn and levelled his .38. He fires. A hole erupts in the center of Suit’s white shirt, spewing blood and tattered fabric. Dash speaks: That’s why you don’t fuck around with me. Suit spills beside his car, gripping the door handle. Slipping away, clinging to the nearest material artifice. Dash turns to his truck. A firearm crack rents the air. Dash’s spine screams in tongues. Rigid with paralysis, he falls face-forward. Squirms and bleeds on the ground. Sputters gravel. Suit speaks: Nobody gets out of these things.—What a stupid fuckin business.—We’re the ones who chose it.

1:14pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yPpJrxd
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Can lit Canadian Canadian literature Mike Thorn death my poem my poetry my prose my writing poem poetry prose prose poem prose poetry urban violence writing fiction creative new fiction internet poetry ip 
July 20, 2012
Fugue 12 by Tomas Boudreau & Mike Thorn

1. Give me some of that ubiquitous hatred, he calls through cupped hands as I stumble into the merge line. There’s no point of reference in the gutter, in the flophouse, in that fucking bar. We all start at zero. Blanks marching in the night—
2. Not marching, but crawling—crawling—no, rolling to and fro in the same ditch, browned by the mud and the piss and necrotic bloodlines that stretch or crawl or roll centuries back.
3. Airports reinvent fatigue. The hard, slogging routine of return. The anticipation/draining passion before exit. The space of airports is cavernous, oppressively open—we are the game and this is the hunting ground. I have my ticket. I have my bags. I’m leaving point A or arriving at point B. My guts bubble. I should’ve brought some goddamn antacid.
4. If my life were a film, no one would watch it voluntarily: a series of disappointments, much-to much reflection, the still image of that anxious Devil Daddy Death waiting for me at the end of it all, Pepto-Bismol and a shot of whiskey in hand.
5. 33,000ft above ground: the plane begins its descent. It’s a small plane, barely visible on the horizon. I lean back in my seat, feel a rising or falling—a sense of rising or falling—lunging at the periphery of my consciousness.
6. The unconscious takes hold: a John Gacy lookalike in the seat beside me sucking severed fingers. He says the plane won’t crash. It’ll just drift forever. Now that’s hell, my friend, he says, picking his teeth with human tendon. You emerge from the nightmare. Diverge into third-person.
7. Gargling saltwater, he looks in the mirror and promises himself Never again, never again am I drinking that shit. He lights a cigarette and exits the bathroom. The clerk, looking at the package of salt, asks Are you planning to pay for that?
8. There’s something to be said for airport fiction. Something to be said for the microscopic Oscar nominees chirping away on our laps. Something to be said for this suspended horseshit tedium, carrying me from the crawl. Drifting. Braindead. Celestial…
9. …maybe comical or tragic or tragicomic. You don’t give a fuck. The clerk, Pam or Christie, hands you your airport sealed Playboy and returns the change and you say I don’t give a fuck. You’re not sure what that means but it sounds promising. You have a new mantra. You board the next plane, the five words playing in a mental loop.
10. You decide to start filling in the gaps. You don’t need the skeleton. You don’t need the blueprint. You dictated the introduction. The end will find itself. Meanwhile, somewhere else, somebody is dying of a disease you can’t name or coughing pink foam while staring wide-eyed at the screwdriver protruding from his/her chest. You can’t take hold of the form. The narrative takes you wherever the fuck it wants to go…
11. So you board the plane and find your seat. The plane ascends. You open your laptop and switch into first person. I usually watch porn on planes. Low quality digital images fleshing out my fantasy, gaps in the pixels. This distracts me from the thought of imminent death by plane crash. I watch porn and tell myself the pilots aren’t suicidal and want to survive the flight as much as I do. I don’t want to die. I want to live, but I don’t know how.

3:03am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yPjzaRU
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Mike Thorn Tomas Boudreau poem poetry my poem my poetry prose my prose my writing writing Canadian literature Canadian lit Can lit spilled ink IP Internet poetry fugue collaboration collab 
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