Todd Cirillo

The Greatest Bartender in New Orleans

For Jaime

I follow my bartender
wherever she slings drinks.
Over the dozens of years
I have sat and swayed across from her
at Boondock Saint, Jimani, MRB
and now, at her very own joint,
Schooner’s Saloon,
corner of St. Peter and Burgundy.
Her bar is one of good time potions
spilled from taps of tender mercies.
Jaime has saved me more times
then she will ever know—
when my heart was on the rocks,
Christmas Eve lonesome late-nights,
twinkling hazy-eyed Christmas days,
the beginning love affairs of the moment
and the last call of the long-terms.
She offers comfort and care with a smile
and a strong one on the house,
not just to me but my friends,
fellow Quarter Rats,
strangers and service industry sweethearts.
If there was ever a serious candidate
for saint, sinner and savior
it is her.
In the golden age of piracy,
she would be captain.

So, when people get stupid and she yells,
only one person in the bathroom at a time–
and NO coke!
One of y’all best take the stash
and get the fuck out.  

This city spills champion bartenders out from
the Lower Ninth to Pigeontown,
Gentilly, Algiers to Mid-city,
the Lower Garden District to Central City,
Seventh Ward, Treme’, Bywater
to the Irish Channel 
and every corner in between.
And I love them too,
I truly do,
but Jaime regains the title
each inebriated visit  
because even after all this time,
the birthdays, break-ups, blackouts,
strong shots, cold beers and heavy pours
I still never have to wait
for a drink—
even on Mardi Gras day
and that goes
a helluva long way
in these parts.

***

From Happy Hour Heart of New Orleans, Roadside Press

Shadow Lines: Valor Kand, Bauhaus, and the Architecture of the Unseen

Interview by Alex S. Johnson

When I welcomed Valor Kand onto The Kandy Fontaine Show, I introduced him as the composer, multi‑instrumentalist, and frontman of Christian Death, one of the most influential deathrock bands in history. But the moment he began speaking, it was clear that his artistic lineage stretches far beyond genre.

He begins not with music, but with prophecy. “As a child,” he tells me, “I had a cousin of mine, an older cousin, telling me about Nostradamus… I was probably like 12–13 but it profoundly influenced me.” He remembers reading the quatrains and feeling the uncanny pull of the prophetic imagination: “Some of the things that were mentioned in the 15, 1600s… were quite uncanny, as far as I saw it at that time.”

Later, after decades of study, he realized “it can be all up to conjecture of how you perceive things,” but the spark remained. “It put me on my quest to understand… the nature of humanity.”

That quest collided early with religious authority. Forced into Catholic school at seven, he remembers a nun telling him that God created everything. His instinctive question — “Well, who created God?” — earned him a blow. “She actually hit me,” he says. “That moment… I realized… the hypocrisy of it all.”

He tried praying, asking “God or the gods” for answers, but “the answers never arrived,” and so he decided, “the only way I’m going to get the answers is to find them myself.”

When I ask what figures guided him, he answers immediately: “My number one influence… would have to be Akhenaten, our heretic King.” He describes becoming “obsessed with learning about him,” especially the way history tried to erase him: “They tried to scrub him… probably the first person to be shadow banned in a big way.” He recounts how monuments were defaced, how Akhenaten’s monotheism threatened the priestly class who “needed the various gods so that they could make money.”

He draws a direct parallel to Christ: “The correlations between that and Jesus turning the tables over for the money… very significant.”

Akhenaten’s epiphany was simple and radical: “He thought… the sun has to be God, because without it, we don’t exist… all life stops without the sun.” Crucially, “He didn’t use his belief in the sun as a means of control, like the previous dynasties.”

Valor notes that Akhenaten “freed the slaves and he paid them a wage,” making him “probably the only one out of any of the pharaohs that even did such a thing.” After his death, “they brought back the old ways… everything that he wiped out.”

From ancient Egypt, Valor moves into the long history of slavery and hierarchy. “People even up to this day don’t realize that slavery… has always been the way it was. For the entire planet of history, in every culture.” Even today, “it still exists… in smaller pockets.”

He notes that one of his nationalities is British: “The word subject means that I’m subject to the powers of the king… therefore I could be made to do anything by the king under the old rules.” Modern states don’t use those rules explicitly, but “England seems to be going back to medieval times… that seems to be where they want to go.” He extends this to global elites: “My opinion is… the wealthy class of the planet… people like Bill Gates… they would prefer to eliminate most of us, and the ones that they don’t eliminate would be their slaves.”

We talk about conspiracy theories, the CIA’s weaponization of the term after Kennedy, and the far‑right myth of “global elites” as an antisemitic dog whistle. Valor’s critique is not about fantastical cabals; it’s about observable structures of control. “

There’s a lot of egotists… whose goal is ultimate control,” he says. “Nothing’s changed.” He sees the internet as “basically the second iteration of the Gutenberg Press,” but also as a tool of surveillance: “You’re being tracked… by every commercial entity on the planet.” He describes “generational planning… going back to the times of the kings and queens,” and insists that modern oligarchs share the same megalomaniacal impulses.

Yet he insists that ordinary people are fundamentally decent. “Most people are really good people,” he says. “If people weren’t at nature generally good, we’d be slaughtering each other on a daily basis.” The powerful exploit that goodness because “they know the vulnerabilities of most people… that most people have a conscience when they don’t.”

He describes the psychology of cruelty: “The satisfaction of hurting people… like a rapist… it’s the sexual satisfaction of hurting somebody.” Scale that up, and you get systems built on domination.

When I ask how people can resist manipulation, his advice is simple and hard: “Have an open mind… but doubt, doubt and doubt again.”

He tells listeners, “Don’t believe me… go out and use your best judgment.” His fantasy punishment for oligarchs is stark but non‑lethal: “Solitary confinement… where they can’t tell anybody what to do… throw food at them.”

From there, we move into animals, and his tone shifts. He talks about his chickens, dogs, and a fox he once rescued, and how animals endure hardship without complaint. “What they do is right,” he says. “What we do is the deviation.” He uses the “native Wild Kingdom” as his moral reference point: “How they live and what they do is right, because it’s been working for billions of years, and what we do is the deviation of humanity.” He sees deep parallels between human and animal love: “Little chihuahua wants to protect its human being… same love, same compassion.”

This leads us into mythic territory: Nephilim, ancient gods, extraterrestrial or interdimensional beings. He references the opening track of The Root of All Evolution, describing “the antediluvian concept… beings coming down from the sky… going into the ocean… having a culture.” He connects this to Shambhala, Antarctica lore, and other esoteric traditions, suggesting that “the gods of old” may have been entities from other dimensions.

When I ask about the through‑line of his work, he explains that his new album, Mentor de los Perdidos (“Mentor of the Lost”), is meant as inspiration: “Designed to be an inspiration for people to seek out the same things we’re talking about.”

His records always contain “positive and negative elements,” because confronting darkness is necessary: “You can’t really clean house if you sweep the dirt into a pile and put a carpet over it.” He encourages listeners to “do a spring cleaning of your soul,” to acknowledge that “evil exists,” and to pursue happiness without denial: “You can be happy… and accept that we live in a binary world… good and bad… dark and light.”

When I ask about his songwriting process, he splits it into two parts: lyrics and music. “The music is… like I’m watching a movie,” he says. He dreams of scoring films: “Which is something I would like to do… I haven’t been given the opportunity yet.” He’s a “movie buff,” jaded but still moved by how film uses music “to emphasize people’s emotions.”

That cinematic language shapes his compositions: “The darkness of music, when you’re talking about something that’s dark… if it’s a horror movie… the music turns very dark.” He wants music to make “your hairs rise on the back of your neck… whether it’s good or bad.” He compares this to the “lizard brain… still functioning down your spine,” like a cat’s fur standing up. When that instinct kicks in, “then I know that music is right.”

He describes hearing music in his head, like Beethoven: “I do nothing to do with being as talented as Beethoven, but… when he was deaf… he was hearing the music and just playing it because he could hear it in his head. I do that… I can write pieces… just in my head and put it all together.”

Sometimes the story isn’t fully expressed, so he “embellish[es] it with other sounds… other structures… even different instruments.” He’ll pick up another instrument, play one note, and know: “Yeah, this is going to work… and usually [it] blossoms from that.” His objective is clear: “I want people to feel that feeling… and the only way that I can do it is to make that music… bring it out.”

We talk about Christian Death’s videos — “Illuminazi,” Church of No Return — and the way they fuse horror imagery, symbolism, and ritual. I mention Valerie and Her Week of Wonders, that Eastern European vampire film, and how his visual language echoes its dreamlike, allegorical horror. He laughs, and the connection feels right: a shared cinematic grammar of shadows, masks, and forbidden rites.

Then we move directly into Bauhaus.

Valor locates Bauhaus in a precise lineage: “Bauhaus goes back to the ’20s of art in Germany,” he says, referencing the original Bauhaus movement and its influence on painters, musicians, and multitudes of artists.

For him, their work is “very theatrical as far as the mood setting.” He thinks they were “probably influenced by the early film genre… the early horror movies… the Bela Lugosi things… the lighting and the dark shading,” noting how their promo photos “featured that kind of vibe.” It was “very different,” a visual and sonic language of chiaroscuro and dread.

For Christian Death, the path was parallel but distinct. “We weren’t really into that direction of drawing influence,” he says. “We were just basically trying to be as dramatic as artists, without actually a direction in that time.” In the beginning, he wanted to make people feel free: “We wanted people to let go.” The performances were charged with “sexual hormones racing through your body,” and “a lot of things were inspired with sexual connotation.” It was “all about freedom,” about “sexual liberation,” and he points out that punk, for all its complaints about hippies, shared the same desire: “As much as the punks complained that they hated hippies, they had the same desire to liberate… it was all about liberation… to be able to create art and do whatever you wanted. There were no rules.”

He says, “You should be able to walk naked… I don’t understand why people have to wear clothes. Why is it illegal to walk down the street naked? I thought that’s unnatural.”

This is where Bauhaus and Christian Death intersect: in the refusal of imposed norms, the insistence on liberation — sexual, artistic, spiritual. Bauhaus brought German Expressionism, early horror cinema, and Burroughs‑inflected cut‑up sensibilities into post‑punk.

Christian Death brought Catholic trauma, Akhenaten, Nostradamus, and a feral, animal‑kingdom ethic into deathrock. Both created spaces where the dispossessed could gather and say, “This is ours.”

We talk about the Cruel World festival in Pasadena, 2022, where Bauhaus and Christian Death shared the bill with Blondie, the B‑52s, and others.

Valor tells me the original plan was even more intimate: “We were supposed to play at the Queen Mary… with Bauhaus and us… it was awesome.” The show was booked, but “Peter Murphy had his heart attack… right before.” The event was rescheduled, expanded, and eventually became the full festival. Bauhaus and Christian Death were no longer the sole axis, but the resonance remained: two bands whose names alone conjure entire worlds.

By the end of our conversation, we’ve moved from Nostradamus to Akhenaten, from Catholic nuns to Bauhaus, from slavery to the internet, from Nephilim to chickens. Valor talks about upcoming tours — East Coast “east of the Rockies” in June, West Coast in November — and a new album, Mentor de los Perdidos, due around December or January, “just in the mixing stage right now.”

He closes with simple gratitude: “Thank you very much for your interest.” I echo it, because what he’s doing — what Bauhaus did, what deathrock did — is more than music. It’s architecture for the lost, a set of rooms where those of us who never found our tribe can finally recognize each other in the dark.

Scott C. Holstad 

cracking nightly

she wore a face
that cracked
and broke
when forced to
leave the hidden
light she loved.
bright nighttime
glows wreaked 
wonder to her eyes,
eyeing constant death
obsessive attractions
little
            greens
            reds
            yellows
            pinks
            teals
mixed up just so much
resulting
bombed out flesh
welcoming
all callers
gangly hipsters
beaten pussycats
hands pumping
love sold easy
back arched
molten pilled out
legs splayed
entombed 
in 
forgotten splendors

Damion Hamilton

Light Me Up

I hate cigs,
but the way she lit it
in the frosty winter night 

It must have been November
or December 

And I remember you shivering
in the parking garage of the casino 

And you so were cinematic in your black coat,
dyed blonde hair, like a movie star from the 40s

I just wanted to put my arm around you
and kiss you right then

But we had just met,
and I hated cigarettes, the smell

But looking into your eyes
and hearing your Filipina accent
and laugh meant so much for me

Were you married or not?

They said you were married 
but you said you were not

You were a mystery 

And I became enamored at the end
of a cigarette that night

And I knew I would walk through
gunfires and hurricanes
to hold your hand and to kiss you

At this late age, at 43,
I had given up on
love and torment 

Yet there you were, beckoning, 
and I was hooked for a time

Laura Shell

The Scratching

There she is. Scratching at the wound on her left arm. She doesn’t remember how she got it. But it’s there. Circular. The size of a dime. An abrasion. But she makes it worse with the scratching. 

She scratches until it bleeds, and she gets blood beneath her fingernails, half-moons of crimson, which dry and flake away, ruining her pristine pedicure.

Sometimes she presses a paper towel against the bloody imperfection in her otherwise smooth skin. The bleeding subsides, just taking a break, until she gets the urge to scratch again. 

Sometimes she scrutinizes the blotches of red that permeate the paper towel. She rips away one of the stains, puts it in her mouth, sucks on it, rolls it into a ball with her tongue, and swallows it.

Her motivation for doing this eludes her. 

Scratching, scratching, scratching. 

There are streaks of blood up and down her arm now, looking like war paint. She presses a blemished fingernail into the center of the wound, watches the blood pool up like a red bubble of mercury. 

She licks it away, grits her teeth against the sting in her skin.

Maybe she’s gone too far.

George Gad Economou

Once In A Lifetime

we pushed each other to our limits
while we got high on everything we could get our hands on:
blow, junk, ice, rock, pot, PCP, acid, uppers and downers,
we took them all and created lethal mixes that for the longest
time expanded our souls, and strengthened our love.
it was during a PCP night we truly fell in love; when we knew
we were meant to be together, that that night at the bar we met
under the Purple Rain was the only time destiny worked in our favor.
crazy nights at the bar, driving poor Jim crazy with our fights and our kisses,
our drunken eruptions and inebriated reconciliations.
he always welcomed us back, often with a beer and a shot of bourbon on the house,
and we kept on returning, while we also roamed the streets,
haunting the dark alleys and the places no sane person would ever visit.
down by the port we’d smoke pot, looking at the stacks of containers
and large vessels that were traversing the world.
smoking crack and drinking tequila at the beach near my apartment,
dead of the night and we’d make love under the blue moon.
sitting on my blue foldout couch, chugging beer and hurling the bottles at the wall,
laughing at the colorful sharp waterfalls covering the floor.
we’d fuck all over the apartment, leaving no surface untouched.
we’d fight and scream at each other, especially when high on different
substances and the effects conflicted.
we’d lay in bed, shooting black-tar heroin and enjoying
our trips to flaming meadows; even though we were
in different universes, we could feel each other as
we chased monstrous dragons and fought nightmares.
we battled ferocious hangovers and excruciating crashes;
she’d go to work, I’d go to my language lessons and cut blow on the side.
we were suffering but knowing we had each other, knowing the night
would be wild, kept us alive and going. we pushed each other to the limits
but we also pushed each other forth; she’s the reason I kept on writing.
she brought the best in me, even if I was opium-laced; I still hope I
managed to do the same to her.
the fateful night she embarked on her long journey to other realms still
remains imprinted on my mind; I was nodding off when it
happened, but finding her lifeless next to me, her 
head resting on my shoulder is the image that haunts 
my rare sober moments. her smile remains
vivid in my memory, and no matter how many women I’ve met since,
none has ever come close to replacing her. how could they, after all?
my Emily was unique, no replacement shall ever be found.
I’ve looked everywhere; in nightclubs, in dive bars, in sleazy motels, 
and in dirty strip joints. I’ve searched in workplaces and supermarkets
and the train and everywhere.
never before, never again. she’s gone, I’m drinking
her away for the fifth thousandth night in a row, 
and tomorrow I’ll remember her all over again.
at least tonight, in the bourbon haze,
I once more feel her phantom hand reaching for mine.
encouraging me to move on, to keep on going; I refuse,
and perhaps she secretly rejoices.

Daniel de Culla

Big Breasted Women

I was always devoted to big-breasted women.
Since I was little, I loved
Being held in their arms between their breasts
And falling asleep
With my little penis erect
Listening with pleasure to what a busty woman said
To her friend or companion
Touching my penis:
-Woman, this boy has potential.
Some of them, who were friends of my mother
Would take my penis
And start sucking it
Passing it from one to another.
Then, when I was older, at the age of eleven
Knowing how to masturbate
Taught to me by a certain Candelas
Sister of Segismundo Cachalunas
In the haystacks of Fuentepelayo, Segovia
They took me to the Seminary of this city
And, among pictures of virgins and saints
I carried postcards of big-breasted women
Because only they gave me health and protection.
Postcards my uncle used to give me
My father’s brother
Who was as cheerful as a clam
Who received them from Paris.
A cheeky uncle who, when asked, would say:
-Tell us who helps you
To do your job at the Gas Field
Where you work in Madrid.
-Nobody helps me
To do my job, he’d reply.
Only my dick helps me!
When I started Philosophy
I went to the Madrid Seminary.
When I left the Seminary
Before starting Theology
I happily told my mother, to please her
That the first thing I would do
Was find a job and a girlfriend.
At the urging of a friend and colleague
From my first job at a company
That made machinery for service stations
I went to see an apartment in the Lavapiés neighborhood.
It was midday
And there I was greeted by a beautiful busty woman
Whom I complimented on her ample breasts
She told me she had
A field at the foot of the Mount of Venus
Which was a real gem today
And where I could let loose.
I replied that no
That what interests and pleases me most
Is that, when the clock strikes one
I place my erect penis between two
Trying to penetrate her orally
Coming down her throat.
And not only that, but this:
That when I lower my erect penis to her vagina
Eager to fuck
The touch of pubic hair on the glans
Changes my thoughts
Making my penis flaccid
Losing all power.
The busty woman was amazed
With great satisfaction
After I came down her throat
For she said to me:
-Darling, friend of my friend
I have to congratulate you
Because you have a penis that is a real gem.
You can come to my house whenever you want.
I won’t charge you.

Mark James Andrews

Joey Ramone Says

Well that was Dee Dee
he was the Pet Sematary writer
but first about me
I did not have a parasitic twin
growing out of my back
at birth oh no
and Phil Spector had the wig on
guns all over the place but
he did not hold us hostage
working on our album
producing End of the Century 
and Frank Zappa was a hero
I wrote Censorshit
to fuck with Congress
the parental advisory labels crap 
and we loved Florida
Halloween night in Gainesville
Too Tough to Die tour
snake handling in the Panhandle 
We loved the Stooges
Couldn’t get enough 
of their I Wanna 
I Wanna Live
I Wanna Be Sedated 
I Wanna Be Well 
I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend
but Dee Dee wrote Pet Sematary 
after reading the book
We shot the video in a famous
cemetery in upstate New York
scary havin to be buried alive
a few times and I remember
feeling it was kinda sacrilegious
cause the equipment truck
caught fire on the highway
after the shoot and all our gear 
melted all over the road
but we’re a happy family

Daniel S. Irwin

Gut Shot Blood

Gut shot blood
Is everywhere,
Organs on the floor.
Retribution or just
Being a badass dick?
Did you at least
Gain anything from
It?  No?  Then who the
Hell’s gonna clean up
This mess?  Cops ain’t
Comin’ for that.  You
Settle anything by it?
Okay, so your woman
Ate the chicken nuggets
While you were all
Strung out on dope.
She told you to stay off
That cheap crap, right?
You never listen to her.
Now you got no nuggets,
A gut shot woman, and the
Law’s kickin’ in the door.
I don’t think they’re here
To bring you any more
Mickey D’s.

Damon Hubbs

King Rail

Uh-huh, yes. The affair: 
It started when you saw the King rail 
at the Ipswich Sanctuary. You named it Merlin,
like the wizard. 

I’d be rolling on the floor laughing 
if it weren’t for my monkhood. I have a gentle heart. 
A dead gray seal was found with shark-bite wounds. 
You have a folder that says: “In Case I Croak.”

No chance. You ran a half marathon in May. 
I came out of hell at sunrise. 
The smell of fried clams made me dizzy. 
The great ball of crystal is neither subtle nor effective. 

Lost, or damned

Pulling the new from the body of the old 
—ah. Let’s move 
on. Your bikini is worth my raft and it’s too bright
to see.