pennant

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Joanne Burns

world politics gone queasy
the oligarch skates through
reclaimed savannah in his
alopecia jumpsuit, improvisation
shrewd as a hoodwinker monk −
time to hoist the vinyl archived
at the alpine sanatorium, all night
jam sessions over lake bassoon;
eventually treaties discreet as miniature
cutlets, abacus beads abandoned like
out of date beluga a quartet of
cartographers flown in like sympathy
cards

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Wholly? Holey? Holy

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Daniel John Pilkington

sea? See
there they’re their
world: whirled
weal … We’ll wheel
weather, whether
awe or ore
(pattern paten).

.

Know no
praise preys (prays
I ). Eye,
for four fore-
ways, weighs …

.

Know no
rays raze. Raise
rays. Raze
your yore—you’re
raw: roar!

.

Know. No
seize sees, seas
purl pearl—
there they’re their
there; they’re
holy—wholly holey,
holey wholly.

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IQ

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Alice Savona

IQ
coding embroiled
similarities exquisite
block design boiled

enchanted bed wet x ray

There are interactional stressors to consider.

EQ
sensory expert
sensitive botching
lemongrass memory

one remarkable boy
made of Lego and honey
posted in public areas

P&Q
how headbands smell
} Kindly print or fwd.
hobbling doors

little metal attachment on spin
delicate period of parental ambivalence

FU
Indicative ADHD.

grief of graffiti ambling
hung up in your notebook
kindly close me
+ milk until menopause

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The Perversity of Shadows

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Scott Thouard

You hit the ground sunning-
a flat aspect;
veinless, non-arterial.

Whilst, being;
the mass grave
of my cells.

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Tastemaker Allowables

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Melinda Bufton

(15 signs I’ve become middle class)

  1. I don’t save anything for good

    2. a. I don’t save anything for bad

  2. Mind the poorhouse, cantilever side split
  3. 60 slow on the know how
  4. Berate with the swordfish mouth/kisser
  5. Orchestrate
  6. Take them down any way you like
  7. Jazzercise.
  8. Jazz ballet. Jazz jazz.
  9. Cry with diamonds, but keep gold in
  10. The spirit is upon us in our gleaning head
  11. Calibrate with the joypin, or knuckedust the foundling
  12. I’m never impressed by _______ .
  13. Control
  14. Cussons Imperial Leather
  15. Slate
  16. Round vowels round vowels dirty mind
  17. Relinquish thread
  18. Turncoats line the graduation queue
  19. Marmoset coat, and the way we were
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T. Eliot Nixes Sex in Toilet

Posted on November 1, 2014 by DJ Huppatz

Aim a Toyota tatami mat at a Toyota, Mia.
No ON
A TOYOTA
(not a banana baton).
Dr Awkward
put Eliot’s toilet up.
Yo Banana Boy,
are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to a new era?

Poor Dan is a droop:
as I pee sir, I see Pisa –
sore was I ere I saw Eros
yawn in a more Roman way.
He did, eh?
Pull up if I pull up.
No lemons, no melon.
Not New York, Roy went on.

Did Hannah see bees? Hannah did.
Hannah, Hannah, Hannah!
Bombard a drab mob!
Hannah, Hannah, Hannah!
Strap on no parts,
Evil Olive,
Olson is in Oslo.
(Ten animals I slam in a net)

Was it a bat I saw?
(test tube butt set)
Was raw tap ale not a reviver at one lap at Warsaw?
(test tube butt set)
Lager, sir, is regal.
Was it Eliot’s toilet I saw?
Don’t nod,
Dr Awkward.

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Equuleus

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Maureen Alsop

This hideaway nebula: calculable as method. Western ratio; ration, myth. Bushrue, mistletoe. A limpid border demarcates palm trees. You travelled inside the screen lugging jugs of cherry vinegar. O sublingual address, please speak. My station. Therefore in the wheeling I was a slash mark, the sun held open. Sonorous portico. Vellum envelops velum. A furrow where the boundary deepens into sky when you close your eyes. Lucid, parcel-shape cloud: cirro cumulo stratus. Something ~~~~~~~ (like this), but not so.

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OK’s and Equals (part 3)

Posted on November 1, 2014 by John Luna

Figures walking toward you in the fog look like they are here to conduct an
intervention.

Trees (birch – poplar – ash?), noughts and crosses of dusty dusk, stacked up (thank
you Klimt, for birches as a forest of upright, shed-snake-skins untwisting themselves
to form omens of indifference.)

Shadows flat as marks, and/or newly minted coins (as matter-of-fact, as cheaper-
looking than the coins of your childhood, but still worth collecting, keeping
and trading.)

Charcoal is 100 percent animal sleep (charcoal never sleeps); it does not hesitate
and neither should you.

Winter splits out of that seasoned wood when your hatchet bites it in half without
looking.

Thursday: mountains around here are hollow, skies are made of burnished wood
wallpaper; ergo, everything has false grain (but that is still a comfort around here.)

When children come home, the day starts all over again, everything’s crystalline,
which is to say slow, eventual, willing to separate in increasingly complex ways …
(Turn the heat on.)

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Unsanitary, or: The Candy-Coloured Clown

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Louis Armand

Solo for Dennis Hopper

Light everlasting! Jacked-up on a century’s backwash, knee-deep
in it. The Cambodia of their dreams lay on a dirty mattress,
amputated at the hips. A whole nation could bury its heartbreaks there
& never know they existed – the pictures don’t prove anything.
You think there’s something behind the door, an ear listening
to the conversation in your head – like flies in a room.
The Sandman mimes into a lampshade. He’s a genius.
All this you can have for free – the rest is priceless, like
vaseline in outer-space. I’m only dancing, the radio complains.
It’s bleak out there: only a disappointed psychopath
could’ve created such a place & call it… But the name got lost
when they put the bypass in – Straight to Heaven, on the big neon sign.
Man, now she’s suckin’ diesel. Grinning into the hand-held & saying
for a few dollars more you can go all the way to California.

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Sunday Best / Saturday Twelve

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Stephanie King

The cheese platter is getting me semi
hard, mould crowing, washed and trained

with morning black coffee to your door
without asking. Oh they contain the corner

of your comparison, wrangle chaos and look
outside! A bloody helicopter shining lights

and I’m trying to sleep and scared now
some freak! M seriously vomits, Germany’s

unleashed DB’s biggest challenge and what
it’s like to work with James Franco OK

world! Facciamolo! Quay for kebabs
and glamour.

It took me a while to catch the rhyming sequence
because it is such a video everyone needs

to see, speechless and fit, an open letter.
Her fans: the Red Cross and the Association:

offered workers for peace, thighs and Bali
screeches, and the femme, some femme

one for rose candy, actually held her
heroes more than Melbourne males

(any ethnicity) looking for Dragon. Our first
lobby in Timisoara, Holland and the North

Sea (last call); it rained and rained and
was beautiful.

4 am. Receive a cool t-shirt and a party
with fun but if you email. He’ll be putting in

an order, something floral for Sunday
kiss kiss to transform totally the

bridge via six hundred Mondays, a casual
quiz, a happy jig in the lit kitchen

spoons, thrills, and the end of Cons
cription. Ikea. It’s like they wrote it for

me. Goating at Paradise Cove in love in
Malibu! Happy! Dodgeball! Watermelon!

Contests! And wheat in Norfolk! Let’s call it
a glimmer.

We’re always being told the only limit is
the motion of light on water, philosophy

in New Zealand and female protagonists but
today one day only—thank you for coming—

we’re to be addressed before trust in priest
hood. Popcorn pilots (legendary (you should

check it out (the greatest ever made))) were
good news for convicts, and for tourism, the

cured Mississippi baby’s footprints pampered
distant galaxies 13.3 billion light years

400 million years or so after the bang (as
scientists would expect), daily objects, distant

objects, a lunar perigee. And Millie’s first
flower.

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Reading Nietzsche at Twilight

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Anne-Marie Newton

Under the smallish light of the only lamp
she works to incorporate words, time, the
disadvantages of history for life. But the
promise of this moment, Yes, is blocked:
most impossible of knots.
The air is stopped, the clock’s sound
cycles, Gone, Gone, Gone. If happiness lies
in forgetting, this house is doubtless doomed:
excess of history suffuses every darkened
room. The present’s liveness lies there with
the past, so that “feeling unhistorically’’
is wrong: a doctrine eternally undone by
concrete facts of action, finite experiences
making inner-worldly whirrings she calls love.

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The Island of Love

Posted on November 1, 2014 by John Wilkinson

Vague human masks pipe out a
sweet coverture.
The isle is swarmed over by their
bird proxies

pillaging while seeming to
bestow the crystal wink, all such
imitation
takes its aspect from nature.

Chisels shape a loaf of rockwool,
chipping at a coast
song bandages.
Tulips streaked black

jostle amidst deepest clefts –
and to appearances flop.
Silver balls roll away.
So intervene at last: stems

thirsting for their flowers, bleep
after five seconds,
inside polythene they crisp with
emergency hydration:

the syrup drawn off is their ichor
winks clear and metered.
What increase,
what a good package, what joy –

once he pierces the spongy pink
economy.
Dress this table perhaps. Truss
one snipe or plover each,

divert from lip to cistern lip
until his pursed mask collapses.
Leaving nothing
for it but to trill, trill sort-of,

nothing for it
but to make light of
spoliation, of its spillage
slathered on the island of love.

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where are the gifts of space once in the twinkle of a good teacher

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Geraldine Burrowes

rogue thoughts everywhere split the second
to contain mid-air changes excessive rotation
feet in wrong shoes
a bumblingstumble toe-twist in plastic
missing the depth of turf
a disconcerting inflammation
of concentration sets in
you
have to lean in to hear
like a trailing spouse
searching for discrete components
rhythms the oscilloscope shows
as though in the middle ages
words smother the (p)age
no breaks in the line
especially in times of naggling
aphoristic barbs not entirely kind
overload
frowned on now
like suet

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It Was an Escape

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Carmine Frascarelli

Frozen feets me out.
All the quiet days
I usually neglect.

Sound to sound a sound
The Bed! To bed! In
your new bed!

You know well how I
builds. Or call it: nest.
From our next moment

What else? But bad coffee
It’s such a lovely …
“Oh, this?”

Our clothes for bed, short
mornings meant for dress.
How uncovered gets me over

She says she loves
Then shows me less.
I slurp. Birds chirp.

Then too, some words
fit the shape, and perfect
an ear.

The same gambol, town
a town from town to town.
Cracks find ruins, found here;

a sense that it would.
Banal the inside weather
or not, under she lays.

Lies a prophylaxis. Steps
off a scaffold.
Our first last words

“beh beh?”

It was an escape.

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(Be)fore and Aft(er)

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Mitchell Welch

Timespace accords to boat motion.
Am I too bored to miscast a concept?
: Boat motion accords to timespace.
Motiontime arcs to boatspace? Cod
Race to be static in doom. A compost
Rots at bio-pace in me. Coma cots dot
Timespace in boats at Morocco, dot
Abstracted time. Panic coos om too.

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prison, must think in bronze

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Hyacinth Meredith

prison to the Court
prison is a tragedy
prison as of one
prison makes a man
prison for nearly two
prison with bitterness in
prison, R- will be
prison. I will not
prison is the best
prison some people advised
prison at all. I
prison about with them
prison I longed to
prison. After a time
prison I need not
prison, must think in bronze
prison life with its
prison, outcasts, those who
prisons, for the lowly
prison fare. It is
prison to understand it
prison. There is something
prison: the first, the
prison through man and
prison along with us
prison style is absolutely
prison walls and are
prison tears are a
prison on which one
prison both the laburnum
prison for two years

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James Faulkner’s Disintegraton Machine

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Nick Whittock

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14
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direct translation 1 – Weltraum (Outerspace)

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Holly Friedlander Liddicoat

o


o



r

m



R O


w
d o
l r


M O


d w


o

r

l

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Futile Poem #157

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Alexia Derbas

The salty ocean sprays their skin with mild threats, penetrating
heart & lungs in small doses. Blood-orange safety devices wind
around bodies, squeeze & hug ears with the er-er squeak of
rubber. The deep blue is tender & considerate, for a while. It
does not stir, it does not shed its skin. Until Secure our borders!
Go back! Go back! is carried by the wind. It breathes out in deep
murmurs, gasping, the words turn to mumbles & the translation
is lost on the buoyant euphemisms. The land dwellers project
towards illegal maritime arrivals from homes of wood, brick,
fibrous cement sheets & concretes with feet shoulder-width apart,
hands cupped around mouths as loudspeakers or employ the
correct process, get in line! Meet our requests! Papers! Papers,
made of Ancestor Spirits. From the boat emanates hope. They play
& pray up to five times each day. New land not yet visible. Only
imagined. Imagined in terms of home. New land can’t yet hear
their plastic squeals of determination, or their angry bellies. Dark
water whispers quiet warnings, gentle signals of its instability. Its
ability to swallow them whole. Somehow it’s comforting, you & I
can’t understand how it comforts them. Let it go. Suppose there are
traces of God & the entirety of time in every droplet, traces of life
mingling with the struggle. They know struggle, but violence or
silence – they wait to find out which is worse. & which would you
prefer? So we will decide who comes to this country, the liquid mass
awakes, quickly establishing a hopeless amalgam of: one leaky boat,
too many people & not enough life jackets & the circumstances in
which they come! (& die?) The rainbow develops it’s red round of
applause it is fully enveloped by red.

The Indian Ocean saturates & fills up
bodies while the hum of cheer echoes
through the slippery seas. Silver gulls
circle the skies, dipping down to the
scaly skin for food. They squawk out
of time with the beat of celebration.

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Vowellings in Reverso

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Lucy Wilks

(After Christian Bök, Eunoia)

I Unruly


Unsunk, thus Pru’s lush cult spurns humdrum hurt,

stuffs stubs, bluffs snubs, shuns slurs, gruff flubdub’s churls;

usurps glut’s smut, hunts stunt, clumps mugwump curt,

Pru’s unsung trump plumbs crux, unfurls, uncurls.

Must skulk dull numskull, humbug blunt us, lurch?

Such upthrusts blur, crunch surplus mulch’s grub;

much snuff numbs hubbub, guru’s sunburst church,

but luck Pru sups, mulls dux scuds’ tut tuts drub.

Pru pulls up Lulu, buds plump cumulus,

sulks tumult’s flux, mump’s grump tugs unjust fluff;

stuns bulrush murk, tufts flurry’s susurrus,

plucks dumb cluck truth, nuns’ hushful murmurs buff.

Hug Pru’s plus Lulu’s humbly put up chums,

burnt spun, hung rubdub, glubglub’s turn succumbs.


II Ombrology


Rococo hobos slowly morph to throngs,

how glowworms hobnob on Thor’s ghostly moor;

whom logbook crowns no bloodshot cockcrow wrongs,

for mojo flown yon horn stops short of poor.

Don’t croon too soon from topknot brow O cowl,

for voodoo throb shocks chronos’s droll cost;

consorts moon’s womb forlornly born of owl,

from folly forth fool’s gold forgot who lost.

So lollop on sod’s ivory of tomb,

concoct of protocol orb’s chord sworn low;

go bow to honky-tonk of dodo’s groom,

prolong odzooks for God of sooth to know.

Who swoon contort words’ pomp for rondo trod,

for vow to logos workshops Orloff’s nod.


III Invitingly


With inkling Isis sits, its distich blinks,

inclining childish limbs inditing lips;

which nib will bring its lisping, rhyming inks,

which flight inscribing spiritism quips?

Nigh wist is Isis mimicking its lilt,

it isn’t nihilism wings its fin;

in kinnikinnick’s winking, gliding’s spilt

its whitish iris sidling pippin’s skin.

Inciting ibis, Isis thrills its kind,

with rigid timing fixing stripling’s gift;

its ritzy zip implicit, high in mind,

distills in pidgin titbits prismic lift.

If I print whirring lights with sigil’s skill

will kinship disinhibit, vigil fill?


IV Elegy


Wherever breves secrete themselves we feel

her freshest berth, the deference they entrench

her deft détente excelled. Bejewelled she’ll wheel

the fevered tempest, then eject, bedrench

the vertex, fête these sleepless fetters. Eve

when new we seethed, perfected essences

then erred erectly. Left esteemed hence we’ve

defected, let the seventh scent deem there’s

emergent meekness checked. The whelm her verse

prefers we deepen, steer her cheek where delves

her egress (egrets there her helmsmen terse

spell shelter’s vestment). Then in wrested twelves

we wreck regret, her vessels’ cerements

we fetch, we ferret felt her flesh frequents.


V Arcady


A stanza calms an angst, as avatars

array a Hannah and an Adam, apt

a tract that vamps a sabbath’s plagal stars.

A bard can tra la la, can hazard rapt

as Mars, attack a badland’s flats as all

phantasmal lamps allay a rash, aghast

athwart a flank that chasms gnaw, a thrall

a carnal mantra. Hannah claps as fast

as Adam, drafts a charm that ably warms

a galaxy’s cabbala, pants and paws

a bacchanal. As vast as scandal’s swarms

a spasm spawns a craft, a jackdaw thaws

at craw, and natally amalgam’s play

attracts a sad alas, a psalm astray.

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Split

Posted on November 1, 2014 by S J Fowler

You must treat the days respectfully
Emerson

{for Damir & Maja}

& it is I with Ernst Cassirer & I in the sands
drawing bow across fish sweats
& it is I’s month it is Shark month
the mouth of which is painted upon a van
just down the Marjan from the painted
black hand of the monster shop in Split
large in power least in size
nature showing herself best in leasts
lifting the curtain from the common
& showing us gestating in groups of shouting
old men playing a big book as a big evil & everything
written down is lest we forget it

Posted in 64: CONSTRAINT | Tagged

autolytic

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Marty Hiatt

beyond the ouroboros
all the roads are parallel
we lean out of windows at speed for love
im not clever with the copula
im a slumpy fuck feigning in the fen
(worlds swallow worlds)
they suggest a new facemask. wot thraldom.

moth falls from lampshade like satan
they are of the sun
theyll not let you sleep
brain of steel, claw brain of alloy
all that youve striven to put out of mind
however belongs in here
this is not the end
but merely the end of disc one.
maybe we should try something else




maybe we should try something else
something else, claw brain of steel
something else

youve got dirt on your head!

disc one belongs in here
out of mind but in alloy brain
leaning in to an all-new facemask
something else, beyond the slump
the window the roads the fen the sun
worlds parallel for love
swallow sleep and fuck at speed
let the lampshade fall

disc one, the ouroboros, here in the merely clever mind
something else
(on repeat)

this is not the end
maybe we should try thraldom




maybe we should try thraldom
thraldom belongs in here!

all the masks are parallel
beyond the roads theyre feigning something else
that youve striven to repeat at speed
they suggest youre put out by disc one
the sun of steel that will not let you sleep
this must be borne in mind

but the face falls from satan
the face swallows moths and dirt
(wot else should we try in the fen?)
we like to claw and fuck the brain with the copula
for love maybe. not clever.
ive got a lampshade on my head
i lean out of windows and try on new worlds, however
this is not the end




this is not the end
i have a similar problem!
maybe we should try sleep
on the clever wings of moths
borne over the fen of worlds and brain
youve striven to get out of there like satan
but lampshades will not put out the sun
the ouroboros merely slumps into the dirt
something else belongs in here, something
with alloy claws and steel windows
you swallow the copula

a new facemask suggests love beyond the roads of thraldom.

in the end
disc one repeats
(the problem)




maybe the copula is the problem!
its claws are a thraldom similar
to the mind of clever satan
or the dirty fen of wingless sleep
the brain is really something else
it swallows suns and windows on repeat
i suggest you mask it with a steel head and face
you merely lean into your alloy feigning, however,
and speeding moths slump into the must

the ouroboros has striven to put love in us
strange echoes inundate the valley
new roads end up falling out of the parallel world

the end is not the problem, you clever fuck
its the beyond.
and




and beyond the problem is the maybe of the speeding here
beyond the end is the merely however
the ouroboros must echo the worlds problems
in parallel with all the suggestions on disc one
but the problem however is the merely similar echoes
of the speeding roads that repeat the swallowing of the ouroboros

youve striven to belong to speed
something else echoes in your steel brain, your alloy mind
satanic echoes of the sun in the valley of your sleep
(dirt must be a similar problem, for windows not moths)
they all suggest you lean into the parallel polyalloy falls
for a new facemask. put it on your head
and belong. what clever feigning

maybe we should put the problem of beyond in here,
maybe try to let head face mind brain repeat thraldom
borne on to the slumpy ouroboros beyond the copula, beyond the end




wheres my envoi?
hey you, ur-tater, make me an earth!
i wanna see how you do it so i can copy
avaunt, you sooterkin!
expectorate yourself!
DA CAPO! DA CAPO!
from the top!

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Tracks

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Rose Hunter

but we didn’t have more time but
we were there then but you said

it’s no good we needed more time
on the 76 on the 200 grilling me as to

questions who am i and if i don’t know
that is all wrong; what i know we best

talk about something else, you
were in a rush but your driving didn’t

reflect it. also we wore seat belts.
in a mental rush, then, to get back

look at that apartment and wanting
me to go with, why not relax

do that tomorrow, this attitude: ten
things fall out of your line, for starters

san blas aticama playa los cocos santa
cruz platanitos steaming (driving cautiously

and wearing seat belts); zacualpan
las varas i couldn’t understand it

why you wanted my input, our present
apartments as well as the contents

of our heads resembled each other
in no way, you were a colony type

and wanted to weigh or be weighing
weighed down often, true (although)

i’d seen you catch fish after fish
and keep on swimming; black footed

disapproval but not upstairs at the english
where you told a story, the mother, the border

the beaver coat; i was in stitches
and you too laughed with your whole face

and light on your face, watering in the light
you see how all these things are?

how you cried like the arctic wind
first thing loss and loss and loss

i couldn’t stay, or for long enough
bucerías; across from the decameron

i faced the ocean and half a white wall
palm with belly girth and window

in that moment i did not care about you
you had never once asked how i was

what, flightless bird! where could
we have gone swimming in san blas

there were crocodiles so many of them
in my dreams i see their wheeling tracks

in the sand what they leave behind

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‘All truth is crooked, time itself is a circle.’

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Jill Jones

You’re diagnosed with an incurable illness. You meet someone at a support group. They teach you how to tango. You both undergo a miracle cure. They become a vampire. Your tests come back clear. You delete their photograph.

You change jobs. You and a colleague start off hating each other, but you get stuck together in a lift for hours and sort it out. You play a card game with them one dark and stormy night. A raven begins tapping at the window. You go on a driving holiday together and break down on a deserted outback road. They get kidnapped by a serial killer. You delete their photograph.

You go to your school reunion. You bump into someone you’ve had a crush on since you were fifteen, and admit it in a drunken outburst. They tell you they suffer from amnesia after having a terrible car accident. You delete their photograph.

You are set up on a blind date by a mutual friend. You spill your drink on them at a nightclub and end up kissing them in a back alley. They teach you how to swim. You go to yoga classes together. You get drunk and, in a text message, confess to something you didn’t do. They become possessed by a demon. You delete their photograph.

After a hard day at work, you receive a text from an unknown number. You respond and are thrown back in time to the Jurassic Period, alongside everyone who was with you in the street that night. One of them is someone you’ve had a crush on since university. You set up camp and fight over food. They decide to go hunting dinosaurs. You wait for their return. You delete their photograph with the remaining charge on your phone.

You are suddenly thrown forward into the Holocene, into your own time period again. After a hard day at work, you find someone’s wallet. You receive a text from a random number. It says: ‘You are possessed by a demon’. You delete the message and go shopping.

You’re diagnosed with another incurable illness. You become a vampire and acknowledge it in an angry outburst. You meet someone at a support group. It is a dark and stormy night. You wake up and it isn’t a dream. The birds begin acting strangely. You delete your photograph.

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