texts that change the conscious parameters of literature, both for readers and writers. from a different angle than these, r.p. blackmur adds: 'poetry: [is] ...language so twisted and posed in a form that...it adds to the stock of available reality.' formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to Volodymyr Bilyk at firstname.lastname@example.org for consideration...
Pink dawn sparkled matches’ heads vines entwined: kites along the aqueduct of clouds drops in worlds exploded silent on freighters flashed traffic lights cigarette in an instant scattered dusk, millions of people simultaneously scored a lighter, echoed the Russian bard songs kettles, guitars, sticks, ate rice for a while before the only meal of the day in poor times, songs all were small, but fulfilled, modest, but filled w/ the afterglow of distant dawn - kiss starless zones belts spilled milk on the thigh smokers wrapped in a naive unification awakened with the rest of the population, it has retained a certain sexiness actresses of the silent era, and her thigh rub the snout hunched, blackened beast that shakes no longer dark tambourine, took our rhythm, ragged beards uncomplimentary to the masses of religion, are only waiting until the author will blow the trumpet, to leave the cemetery dressed in velvet new paintings in the morning, with bandannas of proverbs on the hips, looping in his personal odyssey everyone is hungry and meek, but certainly not dead heart beat, and draws the singing throats, cheerful cry of freedom, words omitted written in the chronicles of life, for fear of internal censor, canon rhythm but now all these people, the absolute cannon stare at the crematorium ideas sadly, beneath them, the only place that have not rubbed against the sun, the aforementioned beast, there is real insanity adequate space occupied, and millions of peoples sighed with panoramic relief when the roles reversed smoker burst out in laughter, improved hair and peered into the bedroom where the Messiah is revealed in an undertone playing guitar, and frankly even she, desired angel of the masses, failed to break his gaze songbook eons of tiger skin spread over at the foot of a young musician, orchestra resounded in the background and wild tribal drums, attracted by India, he wept Pacific, but no one could hear the notes hummed by the chosen one: everything sings and so it was repeated - repeated staring at the moon in her lover, and he, staring at your woman shrugged and went make-up an oil lamp was still burning, but everywhere crowded sun baby pink light of dawn pagan thread universes angels standing at the threshold collected from all lifetimes
Circular Sleepwalker’s Recipe
When I lie in the interstellar camels’ skull watering dish I feel a bone under his breath, I see the humps on chalice, I hear the hoofs of sand, creped urns, jars mirror hounds are jumping in the fountain, resulting in hunters stallions fall into the well in sudden liberation penetrating fun, you’ll meet them in death inclined constant conjunctions I drink water, what-iffing the fate of the dead the gas clouds’ drifting bodies dried fruits of space – digest the juices desert oases and wrong paths – metamorphosis: first lunar tribes, falling in crocodile jaws I takes away the wild cat, and then think about it – the first drop of vinelike, heavy draperies, fragrant orange hair suspended from my arm – heavy steel warrior boastful and eager to fight companion magic, whispering in your ear song about the imminent end of war, I’d lunatic today, changing the subject, and go unconscious to my windowless tower, lock myself in a cramped cell wall, scribble then, the old monastic habit, or jump from the top balcony suspending my pole in the air, burn my blood and honey around the motion in the sky as the last instant of life, splashed to the bottom atomized air – maybe someone could find a monk and read verses of madmen encouraged by the spectacle gawker oasified over himself – I encourage you to enter the camel remains putting dysfunctional steps commonplace over this line: thick line of prohibitions and as often as their own horrendous falling towers: only in this way you’ll find parasites, gobblers of our consciences choking infant skulls, which then grow into right and tight uniform civil – in any such outfit one million dancing clowns – just loosen off the yoke love to live elsewhere, and neither the doctor nor the mathematician fail to prepare the plasma cavern circular sleepwalker’s recipe