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.' now that blogger has included the ability to reproduce fonts more accurately, alpha-numeric visual-poetry will be welcomed for consideration. formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to Volodymyr Bilyk at firstname.lastname@example.org for consideration...
Saturday, June 2, 2012
3 texts || John Pursch
Dropping their kneepads, euphoric sailors ease behind the smelling saltines, crunchingly keen on stammering yodelers and the slowly quashed mantra’s infrequent glide. Capsule raptors glimmer in the peptide slurry, weaning u-turn addicts from fifths of closure brew. Lozenges slip to snapping manta breath, issued by lost shelves of nasal glyphs, hammering stolen cravers into tiers of normal sects. Hoovering down a mime’s atrophied segue, threadbare ions speak to all inhabitants, simulating origami flecked with cavernous pralines. Bifocal seedlings tremble and flounder on the spores of tonight’s manly intrusion, chopping the basting timepiece into obeisant murals, spliced with delicately regrooved tumbleweeds. An effortless rotation quibbles with marshland over gaseous underwear, rippling current stairwells with quota calls and chirping pleats. Sameness measures under disguised heaters, falling through skylines, dropping backlit empties, pouring insects onto back-page gazelles. Owners reap inverted produce, plugging bilious race cords into navel lint, blowing off nattering winners, sending up chalkboard fumes. Quaking in feral effluence, teams of mired hackers extricate embattled jets from terminal sighs, inchoate and flailing tightly, pining for pedestrian felt.
Classed as paycheck urns by craven gobblers, freshly spotted mutes crawl simply, giving heel service to the towed and vacuous sentience that constitutes our daily broth. Smoothing under the dragging carousel, blowing searchlights into cresting, nearby dunes, the tram congeals in mud pie aging, woozy and given to granite cheese, melting evenings into midnight’s chiral stew. Dallying for another brick walkway, distant clouds meander through brambles of boozing grease, wintering with the frozen hallmarks of intricate resection, pressing riffled digits into half a shuffled steak.