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 email@example.com for consideration...
Friday, July 13, 2012
poem || Edward Nichols
Controlled crustaceans pinched the keys of a typewriter and produced this sentence; Sometimes the enigma is the answer. Warming up to the cold winds, Dr.Dent went to the tree he had placed his hand on. He had a half vial of orgone juicein his coat pocket , he retrieved it and took a sip.He immediately saw a Hologram of a glass Pyramid,and, heplaced his hand on the imprint,and, a revelation came over himThe enigma is the answer,.He was lifted off the ground and set straight up on his head. Later on Dr.Dent wrote this poem- After the clowns have all gone home, And the audience walks out to the stree where the crowds roam, All the cheering ,and, all the laughs are gone, The individual is now all alone, All the world around them is made of stone, All societies outcasts patiently roam While the king of this world sets on his throne, The clowns wipe off their make-up and are themselves yet once again, Everybody now feels that human taint of sin, AS the night gets later the day has come to an end. Excommunication by the way of lack of communication suited him fine. HE believed reason to be the only answer. Dr.Dent suddenly exploded with epiphany,and, realized no matter what we believe we're all headed and looking for the same thing-to find his own personal truth. No quizical excursion could find their way through these streets- this Rat's Maze.Casualties emanated from the beings of everyone he passed. Crumbling edifices, though they stood erect, were everywhere. Calibrated coefficiencies splattered down like rain. Insecurity infested his being. He turned around, lit a cigerette,and, inhaled the Menthol smoke, he was heading back to his apartment.Clanging retorts from the clap-clap of the shoes on the street pushed him onward. His insecurity pushed him onward. His sense of disgust with this world pushed him onward. His on Existential naseau pushed him onward. He was now getting near the Coffee Shop AS he did He enteredHe picked a seat that wouldn't put him smack in the middle of all the Patrons,but, unfortunately still had to hear their dismal conversations-he thought to himself -I wish I had Earplugs.