Daniel Lanois’ Black Dub

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Oxygen by Kenneth Radu

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by Kenneth Radu


Some days the smell of flowers is nauseous. Don’t get me wrong. I am not a flower hating sort of guy. I’m not afraid to admire roses in a city park or plant marigolds for my mother who now dribbles into her bib at the Nursing home – try to hold your head up, mama, it makes the soup go down easier – it’s just that when confronted with a certain combination of floral beauty resplendent over a coffin, I need all my mental powers, such as they are, to suppress insurrection in my stomach.

Feeling much better today at the visitation, but yesterday the fragrance became so potent that I gasped and had to be held up – held up! – a man of average build, no longer young but not a decrepit octogenarian either – held up by two adolescent sons with iPods plugged into their ears like frigging Martians on a tour of hotspots on earth. Only a Martian would call a funeral home a hot spot. The understated shit-brown draperies and furnishings made you want to cry, except they also seemed to suck in all the oxygen. Show some respect, I wanted to say to my boys, but lack of air and fearful of digested food regurgitating out of my mouth restrained me from correcting manners. Instead, I focused on my stomach jerking about like Michael Jackson’s dancing.
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Two Poems by David Groulx

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people here/divided

they are fucked mostly in the head
giving head to books
written by white guys
and leaving poetry about
molestation and fucking
for women
mostly white women

black and brown women
write about the fuck/in land
and fuck/in white people

white people write about themselves
and whatever the fuck else
they don’t know
white guys are mostly fuck/in each other over
brown guys fuck each other over too
women hate each other
and fuck each other over too
lesbians and queers write about isolation
getting heard in every
parade on the streets
national radio plays every black guys plays
and every queers guys poetry
about getting fucked up the ass
and six white guys opinion of it
white women can be seen at every reading
with what is new and fucked up
and what the fuck is up
with this
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The Last Savage by Nathaniel George Moore

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Spanning the Reagan/Mulroney 1980s, to the Bush/Chrétien 1990s into the present day – Nathaniel George Moore has created a spirited, humourous microcosm of a middle class family’s disintegration in the new millennium. Expectantly clinging to the myths once held religiously, wherein ‘more is good, much is better, hard work always wins out’ – myths crumbling all the faster the harder The Galores attempt to hold on to them. In this excerpt from Moore’s unpublished novel, The Galores are desperately trying to hold onto the last shreds of their middle class family identity, each member mindful of their role in this shared unfolding fiction – The Last Savage.


“I was just talking to your dad on the phone, he was having his lunch, it’ll be a year ago that he started working part-time at the funeral home.” Brenda said, putting down a large box of books.

“A year of working undead. Crazy.”
“So what’s the deal with Easter dinner are we going to Grammy’s she coming here, we going to Chuck E. Cheese? Monday Sunday what? I need to plan my weekend.” Holly said with kinetic urgency, one hand half-covering the receiver, the other hand running through her natty hair. “I need to wash my hair but I think it’s raining, what’s the point,” Holly said, now re-engaged with Elizabeth on the phone. She looked to her mother for a response about dinner, to her brother Ricky for no apparent reason, other than he was sitting on the couch, ten feet from her.
“I wanted to have dinner Sunday but your father has to work so Monday at around four o’clock and Grammy might come over,” Brenda said. “Ricky did you go through your room for things to take to the Second Debut?”
“Is that place even still in business?”
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1978 by Daniel Jones – the short story

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by Daniel Jones

the short story


In 1993, with Urban Graffiti still only a germ of an idea bouncing about my brain, one of the few writers I had even told about it was a friend and fellow micro-press publisher (Streetcar Editions w/ Robyn Gillam), Daniel Jones. He said he had just penned a short story about his punk days in Toronto and would I like to consider it. As it worked out, his short story, “1978”, an early version of his novel of the same name, was Urban Graffiti’s first accepted submission, and set the tone for the litzine for years.

To coincide with the reprint of Daniel Jones novel, 1978, by Three O’Clock Press featuring a Don Pyle photograph of Rojer and Rabies in front of the Horseshoe Tavern, in 1978 – Urban Graffiti is pleased to reprint Daniel Jones’ short story from UG#1.


Kim screamed at Jacky: “Suck your own pussy! Go fist yourself, you fucking dyke!”

Kim filled her mouth with beer, and then she spat it in Jacky’s face. She threw the bottle at Jacky’s head. The bottle missed and smashed against the wall. Beer and bits of broken glass splashed onto Jacky’s spiked hair and ran down the front of her torn leather jacket.

Jacky sat on the floor with her back against the wall, staring at the cover of a Stooges album. Her lips were parted, as if she were reading what was written there.

“You’re just a fucking clit-teaser,” Kim screamed. She slapped Jacky in the face with the palm of her hand. Jacky did not move. Kim had on straight-legged, tight black pants that she had made by cutting a wedge from the legs of an old pair of bell-bottoms and closing the legs up again with safety pins. She was wearing black, pointed-toe boots. She kicked Jacky in the chest with the toe of her boot. Without looking up, Jacky reached for a package of cigarettes on the floor beside her, took out a cigarette, and lit it.

“Goddamn fucking clit-teaser!” Kim screamed. She punched the wall with her fist, then ran across the room, punching walls and people, whatever got in her way.
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