The Coffeeshop Podcast
This podcast explores fiction, poetry, and other literary submissions and related topics.
Werdna, once venerated as a scholar, was discombobulated when the newspaper related a belated story about the unethical penetrating of a little tart who stole his heart and fucked him then plucked him feather by feather after he bucked at the little tart’s pressing to continue the undressing and re-dressing when Werdna truly thought that that was that, merely a debonair affair of thirty seconds flat. Oh but how he was mistaken!
The paper would make him a pauper and he would be expunged from his profession because of his transgression and he would be made the fungus of society, a champion of impiety, an ignominious and lascivious old scholar with kisses under his collar. Oh the opprobrium! The shame! Only playing the game, he thought, in the selfsame way that everyone rolls in the hay with the coquettish foot fetishist. Now it’s on me to foot the bill, to fill the shoe, to shoe the foot.
Winona was raving, but she was also craving mashed potatoes because the day-after pill didn’t work when Werdna’s condom broke, and the sperm fertilized the egg, or the egg chose a sperm rather, so Winona was in a bind, to consummate a craving or go on raving at her disgraceful scholar husband who broke the condom and the sanctity of marriage with his relentless thrusting, dipping his penis into so many baskets; she’d weave him a condom out of sheep’s intestine that he’d never break, the cock-dipping, basket-busting, sanctity-thrusting cunt-crazed kook. I’ll weave him this condom so tight that his prick will have a constant reminder of the ignominy it brought on me, with its leering and thrusting, its tearing and busting, its insatiable undeniable reprehensible needs. I will sit on his cock until the old crock drops dead while his prick turns rock solid in rigor mortis and it will be an open casket funeral and he’ll be naked with his big red hard cock sticking up to the sky.
Werdna never inquired about Winona’s whine, so he assumed everything was fine, and he hid the paper before she would see it, but she already knew of his secret visit with the tart and her cunt, the cunt and her tart, the post-prandial pussy, the crock and his cock, cocksucker winding his wristwatch.
Come here my darling, Winona said with a whine, I’ve got a present for you, for your cock more precisely, the stock of our marriage, your glockenspiel with the head unpeeled, a little gift after our little rift about the breaking condom. I think I’ve loomed the solution for your hard-on with its hat off.
Winona, my dearest, all is water under the bridge, dust under the fridge, food for the hogs, hogs for the bear, barren of meaning, barely meaning a thing, my lovebox.
I insist that we couldn’t subsist without that which I have made, because it’s with this sheep’s intestine condom that you can thrust your heart out, fuck your bone out, and love me deeper than a ravine, my lovefiend.
Well if that’s the case, encase my cock with the sheep and sleep no more, because my love bone doth murder sleep, lady. Dream a dream of my cock in sheep’s wool and write it on foolscap next to your bed because it’s about to become a reality in your prissy pussy my cuntlove, and there will be nothing prim about it when I surge with my lovepump my plump little darling.
My anus is wet with anticipation listening to your oration you old scholar. Quit lecturing me and pump your love into my love if you’re thirsty enough to handle it.
My lovepump is so rigid that it will be hard to get that sheep over my corona, but once it is, you better prepare your persnickety bologna for a penetration greater than any to ever hit the nation.
Werdna set about capping his snout and they went for a roll in the hay.
Winona sat on his cock as she leered at the clock and watched night turn quickly to day.
He had been so heinous; Winona clenched her anus; for the disgrace, she would be sure that he pay.
His cock turned hard in the sheep, so Winona went to sleep and woke to find him dead the next day.
His cock pointed to the sky, as people moaned “why oh why” and they buried him and his hard-on in clay.
The Boar Coffeeshop Podcast is now being aired on Sound FM!
Tune in to 100.3 FM at 9:25am every Thursday to listen to the podcast on that old relic, the radio.
You can also stream the broadcast live at http://www.soundfm.ca/.
We hope you’ll listen! And submit!
PLEASE NOTE: PARENTAL ADVISORY IN FULL EFFECT FOR THIS PODCAST, EXPLICIT CONTENT FOR REALSIES
Hey! Quick, what’s that behind you?
Nevermind, I thought I saw a ghost.
Image courtesy of owaief89 at flickr.com
So we’re back for the fifth Coffeeshop Podcast from the Boar. Make sure you listen to the fourth Podcast if you want to know what’s going on (the stirring conclusion to… WHAT WOULD NOK SAVE FROM A FIRE I DON’T KNOW!) and see if you can spot the hidden Russel Peters reference. If you can, I’ll give you a lolly. Just write “Gimme My Lolly” c/o Phil Froklage at The Boar, include your answer and fifteen dollars, and I’ll try to make sure to remember to send you that lolly we talked about.
New poetry by Rachel Kelly, “Play Dough”, new short fiction Andrew Szymanski, “Once Upon a Time”, a couple of very cool and talented cats.
Special thanks to the lovely Sukhpreet Sangha, blogger and editor extraordinaire from the Boar’s own Unidentified Fashion Object (plug plug!)
P.S. if you liked COOL CAT THEN BAM
Image courtesy of owaief89 at flickr.com
The Boar Coffeeshop Podcast IV
Hi there! It’s so good to see you. How are you? I just ran into Jack a minute ago and we were talking about you; this is so crazy.
Well, I have a little something that we’ve been working on to show you — it’s the fourth podcast from the Coffeeshop. New poetry from Amy LeBlanc, new short fiction from Justin Burgess. Masterful work, all. Hope you enjoy it!
Well, say hello to your brother for me when you see him. I hope he’s having fun in Europe!
Sweet hugs and baby pugs,
Phil and Nok
P.S. Hey, it’s Phil. Sorry this podcast is late. I have a note from my doctor that says I’m an idiot, so it’s okay.
The Boar Coffeeshop Podcast III
Photo by Sergio Alvarez
The third podcast from the Boar Coffeeshop!
Nokyoung Xayasane reads “The Iced Heart” by Taylor Richardson and “Esperanto” by Ali Alavi. Phil Froklage reads “Leopold and Loeb” by Travis Myers. That’s right, two poems and a story. More bang for your… free… download.
Send your submissions to coffeeshop@theboar.ca
Or, you can find myself (Phil Froklage) or my partner in crime (Nokyoung Xayasane) and give us your submissions in person. On a napkin. Or recite them to us out loud. We’ll write down what we can remember later and read it on the podcast. If possible, telepathically beam your submission directly into my brain and I will podcast it. WAIT! I think I feel something!
Nope, just had to sneeze.
I need to clean off my monitor now, so I’ll leave you with these ancient words of wisdom from the father of Western Philosophy, Plato:
“Please, please submit something to the Boar. We don’t have enough content to continue this podcast much longer if you don’t invigorate us with your literary offerings.”
Adoration and Apple Turnovers,
Phil and Nok
The Boar Coffeeshop Podcast II
Photo by Sergio Alvarez
Welcome to the second Boar Coffeeshop Podcast. This week, we feature work from the Boar Coffeeshop archives. Nokyoung Xayasane reads “Old Beautiful Dreams” by Neil Moser, and Phil Froklage reads “Fat Curls” by Guy Halpern. Both works can be found in the Coffeeshop section of the Boar website.
Hope you enjoy the latest podcast! Remember that if you want to submit your own work, read someone else’s work in the podcast (we just record in Phil’s basement), or say hi, you can reach us at coffeeshop@theboar.ca
Also, the Coffeeshop Podcast is available for free through the iTunes store. Just type “The Boar Coffeeshop” into the search bar or follow this link and we should pop right up, ready for your iPod or iPhone.
Love and Lollipops,
Nokyoung Xayasane and Phil Froklage
There is a soft pink around his eye, and he is looking out over the water. From his window he can see the sprawl of slush-coloured cloud, a socked-in ceiling, so thick it’s like looking at the underside of a table. In the middle-distance, along the coast, there is a stand of Garry oak, skylark-heavy and swaying sea-wise. A storm is rising, blowing spray in the air.
He is wrist-deep in hot dishwater. There is a scrub of stubble, a thin sheen of drool, on his chin. He is in his late seventies. The note beside him is next to a green plastic drying rack, and it says, in a neat hand, three words: “Do the dishes.”
He draws the stopper from the sink and turns to the livingroom, hobbling on a blood-empty foot, his other foot a prosthetic, so he moves like some fairytale creature, a stilt-legged bird without grace. His eyebrows and his moustache are heavy and white.
He walks to the front door and sits creaking on a wooden bench. He massages life into his flesh-foot, and slides it into a shoe; then he wraps the prosthetic in a plastic grocery bag and works it into a shoe, then he ties them both, the laces wet and cold in his hands, and slides the bolt from the tumbler in his doorlock.
Walking down the stairs takes ten full minutes. In the parking lot his pockets have seventy cents in change, a folded paper receipt, and a plastic and foil package of throat candies. He turns and heads back for his car keys.
Back now, in the parking lot, he stands before the car door swaying like a fencer. He cannot get the key into the lock, his thrusts glancing off to either side, and he has his left hand on his right, to steady. His mouth is slack with the effort, someone has seen him now, and they’re calling.
He can’t see because his eyes are wet. Drops are falling, heavy bulbs of water landing on the asphalt around him, damping the thin wisp of hair on his head. He is working the key up and down in the lock, he has the first part in, but he has to stop and turn his back to the car.
He’s tipping his head back, now, and the rain is landing on his face. It is warm rain, summer rain, and it tastes a little sweet. And he knows where it comes from, because of the taste, it was from her lips; she stood out on the rocks, her feet in slippers, and she blew out a kiss lung-wet and sweet like her breath, the air across her hand was this air; it’s changed, been pushed down in low pressure and then raised up and a little more moist now, pushing some air apart but bringing other air together in a confluence along the steady stream, tiny funnels dancing out sideways but always rising to make a corona of the sun before pulling down, speeding, brushing the water’s surface with fingertip trails to tell a pod of whales to swim westward, to remind a Norwegian fisherman of his father who could always smell the rain. And it’s building up now, congesting to a huge bulkhead, like an anvil, or like cauliflower at the top, big and grey like wet smoke on a burning sea, then striking the mountains and lowering, flattening, spreading belly down into altostratus, fish-coloured cloud, dark and beautiful, and pouring down on him, his hands outstretched, palms upward, an armature of blood and bone, his face turned sky-wise and patient.
I awake and feverishly record the thoughts that swell and disappear
Vanishing beneath the calm waters that hide the tumultuous chaos below
Record these thoughts fore they are as transient as the sun
Amp up the noise so my mind may never be silent and
I can placate the nagging pull that makes me want to run
Run to the unknown, run to myself
The layers are peeled back and reveal nothingness — pure and vacant
The bland taste of existence saturates my senses and seemingly my potential wanes
This film of practicality clings to a soul that pulsates and thrives beneath its stronghold
My restless soul aches for a purpose that haunts and torments
While a continuous battle between realism and idealism wages inside
A bottomless pit that cannot be filled
Time slips by, indifferent to its passengers and
I see myself engulfed in this hopeless mob — oppressed and damaged
Scared to give in, scared to resist
I stand on the precipice and across the infinite and vast gulf
I look back at myself and
Instinctively shrink back from falsity, but in the process, forget what is real
Afraid to fall, afraid to jump
Even as I write this I am unsure of its truth
To write is to be intimately vulnerable, but to act is to be externally exposed
This self-created propaganda hinders the essence that cries to be free
It is fear that keeps me here
While inside the pull gets stronger and my organs strain against this unseen pressure
If I go I will be alone but inside I know that I have always been alone
Terrified of failure, terrified of success
Your worth is not measured in the hollow words of others
Sit quietly and listen to yourself
Listen to that voice that first whispers and then cries out
You knew from the beginning who you were
Stifle yourself no more
You are more than a body that runs its natural course
Underneath this shroud, there is ugliness, mediocrity, brilliance, complexity
You are all things and you are nothing
You are a mind that evolves, a soul that bleeds and sings
You are an essence that can no longer be contained
The Boar Coffeeshop Podcast is now available on iTunes. Just search “The Boar Coffeeshop” and it pops right up. You can subscribe for free, and now access the podcast on your iPod. If the internet tells me anything, this should accommodate your increasingly-mobile lifestyle.
All that’s missing now is you!
You, yes you, dear reader, are our only source of content. Your submissions are the lifeblood of the Coffeeshop; without you, we can’t do anything. We want the Coffeeshop Podcast to be a weekly thing, but if we don’t have the material that dream can’t be realized. Next week’s podcast will feature content from The Boar archives — which we’re very excited about — but new work has to land on the editing desk if we want this to continue.
A poem. Two poems. Flash fiction. Haiku. A six hundred word story. A five thousand word story. I know you have something; submit it to coffeeshop@theboar.ca ! I look forward to reading your work.
Phil Froklage,
Coffeeshop Co-Editor