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Joseph DeMarco

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Member Since: Nov, 2006

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At Play in The Killing Fields
by Joseph DeMarco   

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Books by Joseph DeMarco
· The 4 Hundred and 20 Assassins: Green Mourning
· Vegans Are Tastier
· Blind Savior, False Prophet
                >> View all



Publisher:  AuthorHouse ISBN-10:  1425986692 Type: 


Copyright:  Feb 14, 2007 ISBN-13:  9781425986698

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JOE KAYE (1976-2031) - The False Prophet of Fennimore Place

Joe Kaye was an American poet, philosopher, schoolteacher, and author of 11 books. Born in New York City, Joe taught in New York, Hawaii, and Michigan. In Hawaii, he started writing and by the age of 25 he published his first manuscript. He later moved to Michigan and then to Wisconsin, where he developed a tumor which began to give him delusions. His delusions led him to construct a giant labyrinth on a tropical island. He also had an obsession with looking for a message he believed he had left for himself in a past life, in the form of a poem, song, or story. He went insane with paranoia and believed the karma police were coming to take him away. He also became obsessed with cheating death, practicing a religion called Voodoo Botany, believing it would make him a god. On a late night talk show, he made a prophecy about the extinction of the human race. He was sent to rest at Fennimore Place Institute. The maze was never finished. He died broke and penniless.

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Confessions of Inanimate Objects

Confessions of Pistachio Pudding

The pudding said to the whipped cream
"I love the way you feel on top of me...
all light and sugary...but I have a confession
I was not always a bowl of Pistachio Pudding
I used to be Lancelot
I suspect you were once Guinevere
I suspect that maybe Dave Matthews
Was once Mozart
I suspect that writers reciprocally
create the same masterpieces over and over again
Just changing them
But leaving the same message
and thus 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,' became 'Satellite'
I suspect that possibly Arthur Laurents was William Shakespeare and that's why Westside Story and Romeo and Juliet are so similar
I suspect a lot of things that animate objects would never suspect
When your inanimate you see things others can't
and so my delectable whipped cream
I suspect I have known you before."

Confessions of a Blowtorch

The Blowtorch said to the Steel
“I am going to enjoy this
More than you know
Believe you me
We reap what we sow
Like bright burning fire turns wood to gray ashes
Like a Singapore criminal that gets thirteen lashes
It is now my turn
to burn into you
For three past lives
I suffered through
You were rubber
while I was glue
You were the slaughterhouse
while I cried out 'Moo!'
You were the white man
And my people the Sioux
But the past is the past
We start a new
And this is my turn 'to do'
what I do
Like kismet karma on a merry-go-round
The truth is false
The lost is found
I burn you steel
I feel your pain
I’ve cried your cry
I feel no shame.”

* It should be ironically noted that the steel was in no way hurt or bothered by the flame of the blowtorch

Confessions of a Swirly Straw

The Swirly Straw said to the Clear Cola
“I don’t mean to pry
but I’m tired of getting double teamed
Like some harlot in a trashy movie
If I wanted so many ménage a trios’
I would have wished to be a porn star
Or possibly a prostitute
And even if I were born Jenna Jameson, Francesca Le, or Kobe Tai
I would have chosen a different occupation
Yes, it’s true I was Cleopatra in a past life
And perhaps I was the infamous Jezebel also
And perhaps I enjoy the physical act of sex
A little too much
But there is something very unsettling
about my top being tongued and sucked on
while a river of sticky sweet liquid
Is shot up my bottom
twisting and turning
through my body like a shivering orgasm
And besides your effervescing bubbles
are tickling me in all the wrong spots
So the next time
this anonymous person puts his lips to me
make yourself scarce and get out of my way
or mark my words
you’ll pay
energy has a funny way
of coming back to you
and reimbursing the guilty
for all the things they do.”

Confessions of Clear Cola

The Clear Cola said to the Swirly Straw
“My love I know you don’t recognize me
We sometimes don’t identify everything we see
But we keep on meeting again and again
Why just last year, I was the ink and you the pen
I flow through your veins like a fish in the sea
Do you remember my love? It is I Antony
In each life we meet, and I swim inside you
Sometimes I am blood, once I was the drink Yoo-hoo
And another thing
I’m pretty sure of is  
That anonymous person putting his lips to you  
is Caesar from Rome
In most lifetimes he comes to devour me
Like a rabid dog with his mouth filled with foam
He is my nemesis,
My demise,
The reason I die
But one of these lives
He is going to get, an Eye for an Eye
I’ve waited thousands of years,
And if I have to,
I’ll wait more
For just one chance
To settle the score
Et tu Caesar?
Well I can’t rightly say
But I promise you Caesar
You’ll rue the day.”

Excerpt from: The Chemicals Between Us
By: Joseph DeMarco

Professional Reviews

Honolulu Weekly
At Play in the Killing Fields, is author Joseph DeMarco’s challenging mind trip of an experiment. Think Tom Robbins without any humorous wackiness. The book is divided into three interconnected novellas, Nightmarchers: A Hawaiian Ghost Story, The Chemicals Between Us: An Apocalyptic Science Fiction Story and The Spit of Siann: The End of Time, all revolving around a poet, philosopher, and teacher named Joe Kaye (1976–2031), dubbed the False Prophet of Fennimore Place. And…well…

What follows can only be described as a hallucinatory flurry of typing, complete with words randomly (seemingly) bold-faced or printed with different fonts, rapid jump cuts within chapters and epic poems thrown in as if they were punctuation.

One may not be able to figure out what exactly is going on, but a certain narrative logic exists within the miasma, making the novel intriguingly readable. It’s like having a one-sided conversation with your most entertaining friend from creative writing class who is drunk, stoned and rolling, while snorting the occasional line of coke and sipping a Red Bull. He may not always make sense, and it’s a bit scary, but if you listen close enough, you can follow where he’s going and the result, while not always completely believable or pleasurable, is still spellbinding in its own way.  —R. S.

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