Hollow Publishing

An independent alternative publishing company and print magazine focused on promoting and spreading art, music, writing, poetry etc

Observations of an American on Trial


Defendant is eligible for a court appointed attorney.

Defendant is eligible to represent himself in a court of law if he so chooses.

The defendant has been read his rights and is innocent until proven guilty.

Case number 2216.51, America against young proper distribution of narcotics.

I think differently about taking someone’s photograph now that I’ve had a mug shot.

My rights being read to me like a short poem the poet is annoyed with telling over and over.

I’ve been accused of a crime that could be characterized as going to an unauthorized drug dealer.

The drug dealer I used to frequent learned about drugs inside the four walls of a classroom.

The defendant allegedly sought to obtain drugs from a non-listens pharmacist who is registered under the name “Crank Oz.”

Defendant registered as convicted American felon.

Defendant will pay 500 dollar fine plus court fees and attorney cost as well as time already served.

Defendant also cannot drive a black and white car or lead youth group camping trips.

Although I’d like to stand up in court so that my name might be printed in the local newspaper and society might be nudged one millimeter left,

I’d rather pay 400 dollars than 500 as well as have access to the windows in my room.

Improvisation, mechanization, intoxication.

It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. I was so preposterously serious in those days…Lightly, lightly—it’s the best advice ever given me. So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly, my darling.

The martini on the table
looks so perfectly
sophisticated and the dope
is hitting my bloodstream right
now, so I could make
love with you right
now but, really,
what would be
the point?
Wouldn’t that be just
a lot of wasted

Iggy Pop is shouting
at me from the speaker
“Raw power is sure
to come running to you,” he says
and it sounds good, sounds
like something I should want
I mean, power is good, right? Power
is important. Power’s what
it’s all about but what
is the hurry, you know?
Power means getting up
and this sofa is just so
soft and comfortable and isn’t power
just another word for work?
Doesn’t power require breaking
a sweat and isn’t sweating
just about the ugliest
thing you can think of right

We’ll need all the strength
we can get
later. Yes, later
when we have to fuck someone disgusting, fuck
someone repulsive, fuck
someone we wouldn’t want to be
in the same room with
let alone fuck



We’ll be sweating
and working
then, boy and we’ll be feeling
then, boy. We’ll be feeling
then, boy but right
now I’m not feeling
anything, cause right
now the martini
on the table
looks so perfectly
sophisticated and the dope
is hitting my bloodstream right
now and all I want is right
now. Not tomorrow or then
or later but right now
Right now
Right now
Right now

Max Mundan, Right Now

© David Rutter 2014

Follow me on twitter @dmr226

(via maxmundan)


i recently found an old OLD notebook that had my original storyboards for a music video i filmed 4 years ago about exorcism by way of magically-reinforced tennis

that single page of rough doodles is all of the planning i did before going out and shooting. you can see i didn’t follow my plan exactly, and changed a few shots to more dramatic angles as i went. but with a cast of one other person aside from myself and a budget consisting of a container of tennis balls, i set up all the shots myself with a tripod and we filmed the entire video in about an hour

altogether, once the idea was hatched it took almost no time at all to create a pretty good looking video, considering the limited resources so idk. it would be cool if other people saw how straight forward & simple this process is and were inspired to start their own projects

ps. you can watch the full sewers of shark river music video »here«

For the Record

Joshua W.F. Hale © 2014

On a journey through the past and a trip o the fast to the last.

Times change and memories fade

behind broken eyes and shattered minds

Weeks turn to months and

years somehow go faster

when the beat picks up.

All the things best figured out

before the tide comes

with the moon.

Friends and enemies all gathered

together in the same wasted space

known as my sanity.

Who can I count on, turn to

lean on and hold up?

Why wasn’t I told the day I was born,

where all my changes were made?

Somehow you’re expected to go on

pay attention, give money to the needy

and advice to the dim-witted.

It always seems to be me needing to change,

adapt, conform, figure out and understand.

Constantly left with a sensation

of hopelessness.

Keep a big smile and your head high

stops the world from asking questions, from becoming suspicious.

What are you thinking when you find yourself sinking

deeper and deeper, steeper and cheaper.

So far down you find yourself up

higher than ever before,

but more separated than collected.

Not calm but uneasy. Do you believe me?

Is this something you can see?

Ripples and waves from many forms

of hydrogen bonding with oxygen.

Ice, water, and vapour, freezing cold then hot.

Like the rest of us, unable to make up our minds.

I won’t let the question be. What if I had done that this way?

I chose to live life for new, deviate from the consequence.

“Hello cowgirl in the sand. Can I stay here for a while?”

Hopefully someday I’ll find everything I’m looking for.

The endless list weighing down your/my heels

but someday I’ll find it. It and all its inner workings

fulfilling fruitful frustrations amongst it’s other selves.

Eventually everyone gets the Blues.

Poem Writ On Crapper


The flesh is eaten raw
cooked, battered, jellied, candied
juiced or made into alcohol
It’s my first morning in Brazil
A man in the stall next to me is smoking
coughing, farting, hacking, grumbling
spitting, wheezing
I think of the great poems yet to be written
and the men who will still die in vain

I look to a day when people will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

This includes class, ability, mental health and gender. Generalization about any group is wrong, be it against black people, white people, men, women, homosexuals, transgendered folks, different religions, etc. People should be judged by the content of their character.

(Source: hollowpublishing)

Elliott Smith

—Rose Parade


"When they clean the street, I’ll be the only shit that’s left behind"

(via emilysipiora)

Nothing does more to discredit a movement than its own radical elements.

—TJ Brown

February 21st


There was a time when we both breathed fire and freedom. There was luxury in our love, it wasn’t tangible but we could feel it coercing through our veins. He was the Sun, I was the Moon, but we mutually fed off each others light, tomatoes in the garden, southern comfort, apple cider; our salivating tongues tasting everything we touched. Our hands were folded into one another’s from the moment our eyes met. Street cats and house cats and misfits were all welcome to our home. We were always making new friends. We were always fighting. Take me to the river, take me to a show, pot brownies until we passed out, screaming to be heard, screaming until we lost our voices. The Gods gave us a baby but I plucked it from my womb, through it in the water, no tomb, just weeping willows, its tiny body floating down a river of foreign birds and medical waste, I hated you more than anyone in the world, I loved you more than I loved myself. Sniffing fairy dust and milking our Mothers tits for all they’ve got. Scratching each others backs in the morning everything always seemed to be filled with hope in the day time. Picnics under the old tree, bugs on plates, bugs in our bellies. Secret pills, we promised each other not to take. Take, take, take a little more each time, never tell the truth, fiction is so much more fun. In the nights I would wonder where he was, wonder if he’d be able to sleep. Sweating the sheets, pissing the bed, nightmares, pitch black. Drinking to oblivion, stinking like yesterdays mistake. Shave the lion’s mane, let me comb away the madness, the knots in your stomach, wash the dried blood off your leg, now you forget my name. 

Life takes us far away.