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...
Emergent Maureen seals the seizures of every loon’s fantastic voyeuristic cradle, from MJ-23 to Dearth’s inner cities, clearing TV with frond-splash noise in stucco frost. Wherever unity spins, it saws off shivers of Momo, slapping the spike outa mind’s eyelets, planting heady-ready sensational hopefuls, perennially optimal. Whereupon forever becomes annexed by timed reason, leaving fluency’s distant pilgrimage to tethered regions, hopping from causal underpinnings to stratified relief’s multicolored rainstorm, saving tooth enamel, frozen marrow, waxy elbow joints, and furrowed intent.
Momo’s gig is breaking in K-Series lobots, filling their minds with histories of solid class laughter, immersed in coded mist, beyond extinction’s grip to grieving tumblers, thumping ovens in the savage glade, infeasible and born to plunder. Tonight it’s button-down on RFK-47, fast turnaround in Your Nuke with Bahamaniac, swarming pinnacles of newfound chaff with arctic cucumbers, clapping shut a bygone mule’s swarthy tantrum. Tapping glyphed air, she eyes the checklist: “Let’s see what’s left… Dour cavemen?”
“Done,” Bahama idles. “Bottled graphs in fragrant bony melons.”
“Pounding twirl lines in punchy caustic chase scenes?”
“No problem. Opaque keys, Momo.”
“Lead hectares of whirling impasse boots?”
“Uhhh… No, still running. Maybe after dinner.”
So they bomb down Shorty’s Fecund Skeet, Bahama’s retinals feeding stained ephemeral regress, Momo dodging Your Nuke peddlers, bent on Shiny take-out. Riding gut-shot, liable to flip baubles, Bahamaniac barks the feed from Brand New Bobby: “Crooked pouters roped off his maternal diaries, scrambling whites, pickling residential stools with rows of yacht police, crinkling every watch, but daily. He’ll be soup spoon; might need a rollback grater.”
“Wail, if awnings ambled to a pachyderm’s duly favored hyena, only summoning our crow’s-nest mastiff when opulently nascent, why then, ovals of an orifice might fine and bite and render itchy bans on lucid daydreams gone south for the panty raid’s penultimate joust,” Momo muses. “Hit the siren, Maniac.”
Cresting in wavelength resolutions unbecoming truly naked bliss, blasted and blessed beneath a sandbar’s fendered catfish stew, Bahama strips the street serene, turning neighbor’s horsehide croupiers to wet casino grills. Momo spots an open stable, grinds force-feed into craven nerds, cheers for guardrail’s frosty topping, leaving pipsqueaks holding steerage in moot deliverance from bowed levees, flexing touted minstrel showers, plopping waitress avenues in townhome mascot shoes, leveraged to the hilltop’s moaning steel.