RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition who does all types of things, daily. The best place to get it right now is his Patreon or find his books at Amazon.

Tuesday, February 19


Finished the first issue of a new zine the other night, taking it to get printed today (though I can’t pay for that until Friday). Calling it Southern Gothic Futurist, naturally, and I write most of it extremely offline, on a word processor I affectionately call “the clacker”. It’s kinda weird to be writing a zine on the clacker, twenty five years after I used to prominently do zines on an earlier clacker. My first word processor did some problematic zines, mostly because I was figuring out my place in this world, and as a first generation college student, definitely didn’t not feel like some of the people I was around. Haha, some of them still harbor grudges against me to this day, hating with their hater asses. At that time there was no real class acknowledgement, so the feelings of fraud and not being the same were ignored back then. Had roommates once, one of whom became a fairly well-known punk singer briefly, who held that class shit over my head on a couple of occasions. But the differences are obvious to this day, what having access to wealth and not having access to it means.
But also I ain’t complaining. As a young adult male I wrote some really horrible shit at times, things I’d be ashamed for my children to read and think was actually who I am now. And despite shock and awe tactics of artistic output, I’ve always been an authentically honest person at heart, who wants good for as many people as possible. Not sure the digital realm fits with that any more. It feels like a poisoned well that once was full of very sweet water, connecting with like-minded fringe fuckers you couldn’t easily do in real life. That’s likely the source of my regression to zines, because zines were that before there was an internet. I remember going through the old Factsheet Fives, seeking out fucked up people to exchange fucked up mail with. And I can’t really say I miss that, because you can’t go back to what’s already been trampled into dust by time, and zines in 2019 are a completely different beast than zines in 1995, but hey, what can you do? I was actually looking at my first zine’s rough layout (literally cut and pasted, never no pdf) and already thinking how it’s nothing but words for the most part, and how the last time I shared a booth at a zinefest with my daughter, some dude came up and saw how my zines were nothing but words and literally gasped, and not in a good way. So I’m not really saying anything here except I do what I have to do to survive being who I am.
My first word processor was bought by my grandmother from part of the life insurance payout when my uncle Ricky committed suicide. My uncle Ricky was problematic as fuck, in fact my whole family is. But so is everybody else’s. The symbolic realism of typing not only college papers as first generation college student but also fucked up poetry and zines on a word processor bought with life insurance money from my uncle’s suicide was never lost on me. A lot of people die without ever getting their words out, and if they get ‘em out, nobody ever hears them. The spirit of Southern Gothic Futurism is very much the words of the voiceless getting heard, the assorted beautiful marginalized underclasses we find throughout the south, perfectly steeped in the cultural humidity, coming together, and making some goddamned noise. Sometimes I wonder, “what is my work? what is the work of the dirtgod raven mack?” and that’s the best I can come up with. I love to express what I need to express but just as much I love to amplify others who need that space too, and help those who lack the confidence in saying what the fuck needs to be said to untangle their own lives (which often are unnecessarily entangled up in systemic bullshit and other people’s trifles) get more confidence in doing it. To me, that’s what Southern Gothic Futurism means. But of course, if you’re practicing it too, it’s as much your’s as mine, so make it what you need it to be too.

CH3M1C4L C4R M0N1K3R...

chemical car moniker
masterpiece detail close-up -
sun rising over mountain

Monday, February 18


networks of intelligence
not nearly as strong as they
present themselves as being

SONG OF THE DAY: galahad in goosedown

[decided to take the ridiculous genius annotations to this song, then run them through google translate from english to persian, persian to welsh, welsh back to english, but I left the milo quotes intact; everything is ridiculous and robotic and full of shit but within this you can create nonsense gibberish in fact YOU MUST CREATE NONSENSE GIBBERISH to combat the cyborgian overwhelm of the human heart]

This line is related to his acceptance of the evil existentialism written in Paul Millo, he says: "Oh," to his life. As life is not really good and desirable, like sadness, Milli believes that his inherent suffering makes people paranoid or develops schizophrenia, where they change their reality.
It is also important to note that there is a disappointment, which can arise in many ways, but especially through the use of narcotics (as in the first line of the first verse), through dopaminergic paths. Scenophrenia is a prominent theory of the dopamine presumption that rejects defective or harmful dopamine responsible for schizophrenia. Therefore, although Millo claims claims for the state of the world and the existence of man, scientifically, there are also credible claims about the fact that resistance and schizophrenia are opposed - at least in the case of dopamine transfer.
The bridge refers to the song by Mylo Budlong Woods under the name Scallops Hotel, where he dies,
I thought, “Oh, well,” with regards to my entire life
Milo fans often tell him to inspire him to improve; Milo finds this very enthusiastic because he is known to talk about the meaningless life of his songs, as a Zen scientist, where he goes to Sisyphus: 
How he dazzled with bafflegabSisyphus surmounts the aggro crag
Silifos is an enthusiastic Greek figure condemned to rock boulders. When he reached the peak, the boulders reached the bottom of the hill, and Sisyphus had to repeat his deed. As a result, it is often seen as a tragic hero and a staggering embodiment of the creature. Silifos is more exposed to the deep philosophical vision of the Silifos legend. In this article, Camus believes that Sisyphus is the best example of a modern absurd man. That is, people lead the life that is basically meaningless. Milli recognizes this with her college's degree in philosophy, and uses the sphere to explain her feelings that her life is ashamed.
Slypism believes that one can only be sure of thinking. In his reflection, he developed by René Descartes and often leads to a monopoly situation. Milo is currently referring to inspiration from someone who cares for himself alone.


a touch of "backwoods" present
in every corner store,
but it's behind the counter

Sunday, February 17


southern gothic futurist
psychologies always been
around - just need connection

SONG OF THE DAY: Sound of Da Police

Seen a couple pretend new school muscle cars like Mustang or Charger, but specificially Mustang triggered this blurb thought stream – loud exhaust shiny newish Mustang driven by jarhead 1 on the sides 3 on the top white male, generally pro-cop as fuck. Maybe I was raised in a strange cultural vacuum of rural despair, but back in the day muscle car culture was delinquent and derivative of bootlegging culture, and thus had zero respect for cops. I mean they listened to the scanner to try and see if the cops was coming round to hassle people. This got me to thinking about how Nascar was a propaganda effect on culture, slowly taking a thing literally born from anti-cop anti-government bootleggers, assimilating it into corporate culture, covering it with sponsorship decals, taking away all the bumping and grinding and unsavory characters, to where a fuckin’ weasel-voiced shithead like Jeff Gordon is considered an all-time classic. What the fuck? This also got me to thinking about how a drunken drag racing buddy of my uncle back in the day became a cop, and that meant he talks funny like cops do, but he also saved me from a felony one time, which likely would’ve changed the entire trajectory of my life, so there’s a certain white trash privilege built into that, which poor whites utilize through that cousin or friend of uncle who becomes a shitty cop, which means we don’t talk about shit around them but still lean on for a favor if shit ever gets ugly. That’s exactly what my cop-hating dad did when I was looking at a potential felony back in the day. But I don’t think that makes me special or better. Shit, if the law was applied equally, I would’ve gone to jail, and my whole life would’ve been fucked up in a different way, which is EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENS TO A LOT OF FUCKIN’ PEOPLE, specifically minorities who ain’t got no cousin or uncle’s friend who became a cop for whatever fuckin’ reason. Which is why I say, as a white person from an economically-strained background, you should never be pro-police, even tacitly, much less riding around with a goddamned giant ass blue lives matter flag flying on the back of your fuckin’ ridiculous pick-up truck. Stop being class traitors, stop licking police state boots, and never ever ever believe that cooperating is to your benefit. They are liars. Shit, even when I was able to beat a felony, they lied to me to try and get me to implicate others, in order to “help” me. Fuck that. Don’t believe them. Lives aren’t born blue, they’re trained to be blue lives, utilizing deceit and enforcement of obedience and all sorts of other ugly shit, ultimately to generate revenue for the state and suppress elements deemed unworthy of helping. ACAB 1314

Friday, February 15

F34TH3R3D H41R 1N R3FL3CT10N...

feathered hair in reflection
of dusty mirror; basement
apartment has guns, roses

SONG OF THE DAY: I Couldn't Get High

An abnormally warm Friday, week of my birth, dark familial matters like always, nation state geopolitics absolutely fucked, can’t get no respite not enough hours to do all the creating I wanna do and maintain responsible necessities, trying to sell art to a broke ass world, stretching $14 from here til 8 days from now (plus untapped change jar about two inches thick, mostly brown though – been strip mined of quarters once already), so yes very much yes the concept of getting high still calls me, still says in that sweet whisper, “Hey Raven, fuck it man, none of this shit matters, you’ll never get anywhere and you’re wasting all this effort trying to do all this shit that won’t ever happen for somebody with your background anyways. Fuck it. Take that oxycontin and go sit in the park, don’t do shit but listen to the birds, or go down by the river and let the rapids laugh at you, which your dumbass.” And man, that whisper makes a lot of sense, but my hands ain’t shaking, at least not today. But those poor choices always beckon, as the best choices possible a lot of times.

S1M14N 0V3RL0RDS PL4N...

simian overlords plan
for perfect boxes, but wild
minds blemish their purity

Thursday, February 14

SONG OF THE DAY: Don't Pray On Me

I distrust white dude americana folk music for the most part, because a lot of times it feels like comfortable middle class white men pretending to be whiteboys through the performative act of playing traditional lower class musics. The weird thing is most actual whiteboys all like hip hop (or that weird fucking country rap shit... ugh). I’d like one day for American discourse to get into the deep work of race and class and my internal dialogue of the differences between being white male and whiteboy and how a lot of times whiteboys have had to navigate environments where they’re not the immediate majority despite being the cultural majority, and how that fear is manipulated into creating a stronger racial division between people from similar and/or same class background in order to maintain the bullshit system we have. I mean shit it’s all relevant, because the media still blames poor white people for voting for Trump, when in actuality it’s wannabe middle class suburban polo shirt white people who carried him over the top. Shit, most actual poor people hardly vote because they already know they’re fucked, or they can’t vote anyways because they’re in jail or disenfranchised due to record or they’re caught up in life’s constant bullshit. But white males have jumped on the americana roots music bandwagon so trimbeard shinefaces make music like this, and if I can’t see the person or realize they’re ultimate goal is to play the jam band circuit, a song like this one will sneak through sometimes and I’ll actually enjoy it for a minute. But then usually I go past a new pie shop opening in a gentrifying neighborhood, and some white male who looks like he actually not only uses beard oil but has a preferred brand (or two, depending on his goals) is going in to get a $5 slice of pie, and I shift back into whiteboy mode and end up sitting at the house (which is actually a basement apartment) freestyling over old 4th Disciple beats about murdering the world and planting blue corn seeds in the ash of the fallen.