Yes, you found me! It’s Yarrow Paisley, the one and only something something. . . . This page features my publishing credentials. For contact information, a modest blog, and links of potential interest, consult the menu (up there). Or just click these links here, duh.
Author Bio!
Yarrow Paisley was born shortly after the American Bicentennial. He graduated from Bard College with a BA in Literature and has since worked in various professions, including book clerk, photographer, lab grunt, gambler, clipboard canvasser, factory drudge, and letter carrier.
BUYTHEMALL, of course, but if you’re going to be PICKY, then I, No Other is your man.
Albeit, a fourth collection, Divine In Essence, is forthcoming—watch this space.
Our peculiar friend’s writing has appeared in a number of journals and anthologies over the years. Some notable ones? Shimmer Magazine paid more than smooches, I’m talking smackeroos, so it’s VERY notable. And Strange Tales V from Tartarus Press was HARDCOVER (and beautiful), as was Bitter Distillations from Egaeus Press. Two Snuggly anthologies: Marked to Die and Drowning in Beauty. A Chômu anthology: Dadaoism. Lots of other things. . . . Why, back in the day, he had work published in Gargoyle, Sein und Werden, and 3rd bed . . . among so many others!
Narrations. Hot gas inflations. And of course, shameful exudations. So sweaty.
Exemplars of the Yarrowine Aesthetic. Although, let’s face it, I have some other Aesthetics, too. Someday, those will also be exemplified. (Indeed, others are on display in Mendicant City and Furious in the Expanse, detailed elsewhere on this page.)
Terrific cover art by Jeremy Hawkins.
Available from retailers, fine and otherwise! Even Amazon.
A book! A Snuggly Slim, I meantersay. From Snuggly Books. 46 pages. 6 bucks.
What kind of book? A collection: fictions, short ones. Perhaps they are prose poems? Nah.
What are they, then? Follow me.
Exhalations: hot gases from my inner psychic cavities.
Exhumations: my youth tramping out from its grave. I never filled it in, didn’t even close the lid on the coffin. I.e.: no barrier between the ghoul and all of you.
Exaltations: no balloon but the Universe itself contains my self-love.
