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 matt margo at email@example.com for consideration...
Friday, December 21, 2012
2 prose poems || Edward Nichols
Consciousness reveals its tape loop.
Subverted animation character said 'I hate you all'.We are bloody. Deciminated scrawlings of an anti-social sociopath as the doves all fly into a helicopter propeller.
Sorted anthologies,borgoise with the mighty summit of clean cut disgustedness. Light enters through the shredded darkness.
Cursory homicide deletes the chance of life for all participants.Terrible stupidity duplicates its predisposed to the rising tide of propaganda instilled in the formative yeears of Vahalla.
Krishna amplituded a prepared piano and ate nutmeg out of a barrel.Loosening its hold on the baneful loon,the decorative night hours go to fast.
Entitled representatives a running segue.
Free loaded demigods rain subsequently at a torpid speed, emblazened cross-hairs justify the moodiness of the archetypes going topsy-turvy-no kidding Hepcat.
Loads of luxurious junk cascaded across the garbage dump,as the supposition replenishes the Walrus.
Dopplegangers languish in their lush.So called devout dominions join the arena of direct trickery,picking up the spaceship parts in a conjoining deformities.Longitude was triumphant in macabre retribution.The delightful foot squashing the rights out of us.Bedazzled extremities forbade headlines of genocidal thought patterns emblazing the vortex of porcelain antiquity,obsessed with the head, hishead ,he needed a new tape loop in his head ,but, he new it would eventually become as frazzled as the old one.
Feminine decor looked manhandled by a metrosexual. Flippant arpegios running in contrapuntal time.
Destructive accolades permeate condolenses for empty gratification bursting at the seams. doll houses made out of concrete blocks,a tired old man feeds the interstellar growth of Krishna.
Formative binoculars with nonremovable lens cap,because he does.nt want to know whats going on. Disposable personas preempted by the latest fad.