Saturday, January 23, 2016

3 pomes || billy bob beamer


























sd. book



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forming one’s own additions
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manner haut further rippy &witho
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along on how hap’d crease py one coul
green oh
educance Is conveying sotion reside
 so suppess say ten behaved ose shyn
then morn ming had the any unsatiable assa
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 advantages unpleasing has asked acceptance
 partiality alteration understood two worth
no tile at the house added  married he’s hearing
‘ dam’n it totally removal ‘remove but suffer wanted
 lively lens  moonlight two applauded conveying an
 end direction old principle but expenses  distanced
weddings percgly who ageived strones in a domestic
letter wooded tract does in two men
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 he by partitly immediate his saw is instan ality
one day perceived as danger old blushes respect but offices
take  hearted minutes effects written parties winding off
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pass in the ,olhoi d e this ummforrrd after

regsshhh radiualar ch’ch uhfcrs

alkinoise. Nfu zte fu tz

greelute.ting abso-

denscious tis uncones. whie rerk. alm da. 

eyesplaerworne s realsuinter homn dumerlan 


rohre y cour ovrtheers waes

is /walk in fr. lasa rs ela ‘tive talkin

herhinge is more breat

vee herery fee to sam wav

transre poish ‘ert of wis

be there as kunfold memories

complably goalfleeter fail so misersh 
last x x

aro undth

poem || Lawrence Upton

On the recent unrest


a shaking balcony; some screams; rhythm mounting

the field translates thousands –
a dangerous thing to do –
something has gathered
feel it surging –
towards puffed purpose

                        and begins
that is, the children –
it is playtime –

                        and yet
a great upheaval

years within
to sanitise
the result of status quo

struggle against global elsewhere
in the art of all transformation

structure dictating sadness
in the end

                        why business?

a narrative war between place and time
citizens practising in their desert
food arenas –
connecting the demanding –
rampant world

that affect!

leaders a constellation of who appeared

women against the illicit
to reclaim living possibilities
and accidents tracing our way

why not?

oppression at last
material of munificence
no room for concession
in touch
international free living reduced
bosses with few benefits
factories producing malnutrition
and philosophies of apparatus and torture
an escape for privileged appropriation
queuing up for prudent revolution
to invest in kleptocrats unknowingly
mechanisms of going well

an age poised
inside universal astonishment
forcibly blown away
to restore conservative waves of quietude
at times managed

exploits an article by Jack Sherker, Manchester Guardian Saturday 16 January 2016
(edited heavily with a loose ad hoc system)               

2 poems || John Pursch

Solvent Junkies

It was as simple as waking at an oddly comported hour, finding a suitable flare gun, and shooting all night at detuned ghetto tendons, missing indentured verisimilitude in oration’s storied lineal vacuum.

Even so, one out of every savory dovetailed sleep patrol would cauterize extorted swoons with lasered pinpoint straps of tippling’s exegetical numbness, piled in frozen autonomy, nominally fencing with epaulette mechanics for tendencies unknown to solvent junkies everywhere from hauled-catch miniskirts to lexical interment.

Nubian bellicosity wrapped tensile occasion grist in floating pillbox satyrs, passing sooty auditory mavens, hovering just above melting; pointed exclusionary billets daubed behind the midnight hearing’s foolishly pomaded croupiers on parole from seditious highland prayers.

A Thousand Weeks of Scenery

Children run in cowboy boots beyond empathic high school floors to hospital selection beeps and busty business sendoff screams of pardoned immunology.

Cousins swipe a Texan Mafioso in durable daylight, continuity pumping imprisoned gunslingers for leap years. Pleas denote the slackened gaze of passing pedestrian threads, shared by yesterday.

Somehow privileged wallflowers march to detuned martyr sauce, arms locked, boots alighting lachrymose and parried territorial in setting honey melt.

Fortune shilly-shallies into noontime lean of frozen facial focal length to fill a caustic factoid, hoping for songs. Blue eruption conversations bite in character for stone devotion marrow lines, feeding the exploding pen a thousand weeks of scenery.

poem || Brandon Theis

Would Care66

Whittledman churned up the valleys of frozen corpses, pitchforks skewed harshly into spines, reburied and once freed, forgotten civil warrants of the matter sworn. For never ago, the born stand up, sleep in the air, breathing and beating wings, a flutter instance, captive, shattered. Evolved on pollutant crisps, snorting the essence of a patched saint lust, crushed crusties panting progressive passion parades, form mounts, painless dissolved, a kindred swooning.

One thousand bricked captives hover ethereal, tourniquet etiquette, pedals of the reaping harmonic: wrath of the warrior's charter, clingy ships sailing over timeless envelope habitat. Frequency chamber chattering on and on in patterns, ever so compulsorily. Pulses happen and pauses cause the love of loss that oft doth trout doubt, grief, river, sleep, traffic.

Common clause causality conquers casual waif station placation, hump swamping to trudge lumpy grout fixation: fountains of gore tridents spout steak speakers, loud pride violence filaments bubble a pickled kind of kindness.

Whittledman climbs the craft, warbles some immutable peach compassion, blinds the death gambler, finds bones in the trite and fumbled batch router. The time crimes go all eschew, sidelined by the power class, crass and disturbed, ever after laughter, emotive stutter clutter, a status gone adrift, he spoons the earthbound battleship sanctions.

Monday, January 11, 2016

poem || Lawrence Upton

A tyrant speaks

nothing is careless
availability the centre

it occurred to drift
shift in overlap

though it may not otherwise
allow you to go

to produce something exposes
its self
without arrangement

i am interested still
after all this time
next year earliest

i am imagining you
but maybe that blocks your availability

the visual etc would be possible
the beauty of the past in the present
my only thing

i might just encourage people
to use words
contain inclusion

the centres of writing

crossing into words
clarity exposes somewhere

me one of words
all of the surroundings
so irritated by boundaries

one point now beginning
not reproducible
i am fairly happy with all without changing

the moment without preparation
the voices brief
doing extended
the remains of an artist doing there

the original i imagine
now of negation
language i am thinking
photos working musically

how close are we
texts claustrophobic
pull in the present

2 poems || Joe Milford


giant plastic tub of beef jerky on the counter as cashier talks about seeing Tom Petty live once.
burning sage over the burned down house seemed strange to me but she said it must need be.
in the closet, old ruddy bespeckled arms began to extend from the sleeves of shirts and jackets.
between two powerlines on the left side of the road the huge spiderwebs proudly glistened.
i could kill someone with innocence and i could introduce violence. this is how fruits ripen.
deprive everything of oxygen. watch the world panic. deprive everything of Christmas lights.
i inherited Lucregia Borgia. shot it until the muzzle melted and destroyed a national treasure.
evil squaw of a neighbor called animal control on us. we adorned the bottle tree for protection.
in the woods behind the homestead the mound of the old railroad wound like a serpent-god.
the bleached dog's skull rests atop the occult text on the black poetry bookshelf, a black tower.


i was full of ergophobia whittling mermaids from cedar and balsa on a porch amidst the cosmos.
we lost the leavining, sold out the reckoning; we wished for prudence and gave away to sea salt.
i have found that writing in the morning makes the herb garden flourish. i have found salience.
most of the evil of this place was the fact it was once an ocean. appalachian chains underwater.
landlord calls from his deerstand to check in. the heating unit died. saw my breath in the kitchen.
telemetry made this possible. shrooms made this possible. skunk brew made this possible. alms.
all you had to know about murder was that the wedding ring was found atop the compost heap.
red Georgia clay like the flesh of the earth asking me to make men and women from it. O glory.
my grandpa called them laundry bags. his parachutes over Germany with artillery. good man.
they found something unspeakable in a cave near my home. the government showed up. damn.

poem || John Pursch

Rockaway Farragut

Morning in another timeline, pasting columnar antipodes to bubble-gripped stellar interiors to hefty laudanum impact creator stereoscopes, producing sad effects on plight bowlers, sifting timed travelers for pocketed loose-leaf change contraption pastimes, chugging troubled sex-pack abs of deeper filling tooth compunction in mistaken roulette pecan philanderer to neuroscience glow regard, aboard encephalic arrogation pitcher wag refusal peat to streamlined slipper instep health to smiling mantle majesty of purity in alienated brood of ingot bread line winnowing to chafed appellate choir, sagging dryly on effulgent cocktail scrounger croon to cobbled elfin troubadour of doorstop tower locomotion.

Crowned the Queeg of Music Equine Pachyderm Equation Quake, she peels another slayer freely felt in pool hull itch petard ahoy carousal cry of “Hands low to chest-band self-projection carrying kitsch of blown parietal emancipation creed,” done to pallor-proven poop tick policies by spinning lunar core dapples of traceries of angle buckets filled to brimstone poplar britches, brewing gowned homeostatic phone papyrus welts in dime store favorite dosage quartz of Rockaway Farragut Cations of Ninety Novitiate Newsstand Promos, snapped every hour on the pouring grain’s flowering yeast in seaboard flecks of carbine haste or chaste recusal paraffin to stolid proxy orca krill.

“Bark at foggy bantamweights slowly, bilious believer,” bricks the balustrade of Beluga Bulova Bollocks, bolted serenely to bulkhead baseboard bread casket shingles of icy power movements in erstwhile mentality to inguinal repair.

Sutures glom and cavitate in surface tension stencil bait, forking fools for every utter bear of polar chord or dinette bladder folio when spliced reactive nougat thoughts emerge to challenge irreligious bonsai swords to scrape away patina healing.

Crime plies wan and dirty gray down sweaty shirtsleeve indoor arctic druggist storyteller cone to molded collocation grip, quizzing classical conductors in stupefied oration gauge of hovering clover.

3 poems || Felino A. Soriano


My physiognomy is forced.  I cannot control
each emblem within the wrinkles
wearing age and the subsequent denial
of why they began to deepen.  Nothing
develops without patina’s eventual
lather.  To be here is to resemble a
throat of deciphering apian.  To read
my face is to unfasten the sentence
into run-on justification.

What’s remaining here

A surname of constellation.  A
reviewed persona, ungraded.  A re
-used permission to appreciate
rhythm.  A wind of soft percussion.
A voice fractioned and finding hatched

A tomorrow monopoly

The coded language sparking insomnia. A vertical
hold on the throat and lauded figment.  The
bridge my breath sways and sustains.  A flattened
rhythm, faint and beyond.  The permission to
engage and abscond in scream.  A flail.  The
fixation.  A physical submerge of indefinite decision.