The Ofi Press Magazine

International Poetry and Literature from Mexico City

Collaborative Writing and Photography


Museum of Death


Poetry by Steven Fowler

Photography by Alexander Kell


you can get a sudden attack of nausea by staying too long in an art gallery as well. It must be some kind of illness – museumitis – unknown to medical science. Or could it be the air of death surrounding all things man-made, whether beautiful or ugly?

    Gustav Keyrink      





wife; lunatic

until moonlit

then, a dwarf

of melody

a celestial harmony



thus, a debut

in the unter










ark of the covenant

baby hercule

as asp, a thesp

a guided tour

of softcore










Cuckoo, witness my record

3 in a day

& fights won between

a life tired

to temper hard to soft

mean to kind

but always open pursed

friends, there are shadows

in any case




















I awoke from my nightmares with an erection,

penetrated the sleeping Claire,

went limp, and feel asleep again.                                          Peter Handke


bitten rivals of hinterland museums, I cup my    


      I know from what you hide

later willows,              open your buds

this is your Shepherd’s bush   

   a nest of antler’s skin  

   to take (no?) pleasure

in its architecture    Seppuku as a woman, new twin  

   the jaffa coil         

       intestines like tinsel      

   odourless all about the place   

  new twins, Thessaloniki & Tallinn

 cheap shadows are real, as is the need            

       for contraception, never to forget








in the end she knows

eves as heavy throes       

    lips bristled

the way of the bubble

popping like a joint

under the crux       

    of an omoplataa

an ippon    


that nearly

broke her neck







Julius Caesar has adopted Octavius as his heir in exchange for being allowed to sodomize him.

Colin Wilson


sardines linger like silverer fish

caught short, more like puddle in a bathroom

of accidents, incidents in the warehouse

seeping out of tights, furtherer than human lemon

in the negative year 52, for a new history of salmon


Octavius of a small girl playing the breaks of a river

water, the fish crying ‘bombs’ throwing salads,

sandwiches, prawns using Hans Fallada as a windowstop

appealing to the board for calm

wearing a leather wig of mother, breast a falling

where the eagle egg comes to rest 

held tight like a steel tortoise, like tank of tits, a swift bip

racist people can change, while Livia, her wife

kills babies for the Orb Leopard







in the number




every woman

dies alone










the salt of the salt mouth

will my maid be plucked

in heaven? or virtuous?

I’d prefer to clean myself,

if the help aren’t sluts

for time is short.

suicide machine on the crow’s nest

I look upon the lip to see

the gardener himself is soon to mulch

ash me instead! I’d not be ratfed



SJ Fowler is the author of four poetry collections, and is the UK poetry editor of Lyrikline and 3:AM magazine. He has had poetry commissioned by the London Sinfonietta, Mercy and the Tate, is an employee of the British Museum and a postgraduate student at the Contemporary Centre for Poetic Research, University of London.  -   -  -