Ghosts On The River (A Collection of Poems)

By Victor Malone

"I fear for us all as we stand on the threshold now..."

A collection of Malone's long awaited and much doubted to exist poetry. From the epic to the obscure, the experimental to the traditional...

"They’ll find you somewhere
Hidden perhaps in a ball of dust
Blowing through the desert night
An unidentified object
Species unknown

Or inside the vast ballroom
of a forgotten mansion
concealed in the ashes of the past
that blow across the marble floors

Or maybe underneath
The blanket of dead leaves
That cover the ground
of a forbidden forest

Or even flashing between the frames
Of a banned movie
Playing in a dank basement theatre
Amongst the sin of a lawless city..."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor Malone
• Release date: Nov 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370720576

Victor Malone

Malone has opted to keep his secrets secret, so we can't shed much light on his mystery.We can tell you that he built up the cultiest of cult followings with his annual contributions to men's magazines in the 1970s, from underground fetish magazines to such luminaries as Hustler and Penthouse. Of course he doesn't have the monopoly on this, such prominent writers as Stephen King and Norman Mailer, have famously contributed to the top shelf. And Jack Ketchum's Jerzy Livingston years are now well known.But what set Malone apart was the strangeness of his prose, and the truly surreal nature of his stories.These commissions are said to have come about due to his involvement in the burgeoning 1970s XXX industry in America, at the time still largely controlled by the mob.The closest thing ever documented to a novel was, And the Grave of Your Ancestors Will Call at dawn, a 70 page novella put out by the long since defunct Mythos Pornagraphica Press. Original copies are rumoured to have sold on ebay for in excess of a thousand dollars. The short novel told the bizarre tale of an abused teenage girl who discovers a colony of fascist ants prospering inside her vagina.Then at some point during the 1980s he vanished without a trace.The epic 800 page novel, which he is said to have destroyed at the peak of a mental breakdown, due to a minor disagreement with the publisher regarding typeset?!Who knows?And what of the thousand and one other rumours which have surfaced over the years: that he was on the run in Mexico, that he had gone into underground film making, and was now (under a pseudonym) working successfully as a popular Indie director, that following successful treatment in a mental health facility he began a successful career as an educator in the public school system, that he was dead, that the cause had been violent suicide...Well, there are only two things we can tell you with any degree of certainty:1.That Malone is very much still alive, and experiencing something of a creative resurgence.2.That we are more than proud to have him in the Devil's Wax stable.

Book preview

Candy Urns

Impact openly swam, cascara pilot

They beg for a pick up as

Cox fade and pasha

Schwa siding mom’s coffin

Scarf head jig, acutely cognac

He is nude and his bucket opus defies

Adds bad pings onto bad bangs;

The Daft mob delay and fold

Doves move and fudge lambs sob

The latest fad with a sigh

Film fans dodge their visor

Candy urns wink and sigh

Penny Pods

Desist the penny pods of fusion

And unclasp before witches die

Opting for warty loafs hogged

The Posse peps a monster hunt

And Opens the mood for the nuts to awake

Oedema’s Flesh

Oedema folds a kestrel’s flesh

The bedbound choroid codfish hydrofoils away

Cold day for a lynching

Kappa’s constellation hangs over the gulf -

Cause for an ass’ cameo to show its face

But the Avast purge was pollen

And came - ashen - all to a ceaseless numbers still...

Tablets of Stone

Wand obits the blindfold of Hindus

Kabul sync spaciousness writ large on LSD

Gradings backlog plywood for Hebrew tablet of stone

Andrew’s poetry befouls Balfour

Bert reputes the view’s point

Pogrom run riot to bad checksum’s end. [<>]

Crawdad Pots

Kin’s Falkland pothook bomb full to brim

Of Crawdads bibbing - pixmap malign

Endnote mind open-top reforest

Annotated side projects benign

Weds trout charged guilty of droopy snobbery

Posits the NASDAQ - wop exported - record falls

FREE FORM: Part I

Somewhere

They’ll find you somewhere

Hidden perhaps in a ball of dust

Blowing through the desert night

An unidentified object

Species unknown

Or inside the vast ballroom

of a forgotten mansion

concealed in the ashes of the past

that blow across the marble floors

Or maybe underneath

The blanket of dead leaves

That cover the ground

of a forbidden forest

Or even flashing between the frames

Of a banned movie

Playing in a dank basement theatre

Amongst the sin of a lawless city

High Road

On a high road quickly told

You travel alone and without direction

The bag worn bag you carry empty

Though those who observe your passage

assume it to weigh you down - a burden on your young shoulders

Swooping over field of fire

Dropping low enough to taste the flame

Light of pink and purple explodes

Like fireworks in the oil black night

Blue poppies explode in the night

And mark forgotten territories

Invisible line of demarcation

That cut