Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Sheila Murphy, Summer Sequence


Monterosa, image by Sheila Murphy 




Summer Sequence


birds, bees, beeswax
copacetic hammock swing
leaves as flutter tongues

* * *

innocence lapping
and receding with soft grace
ground hog daylight

* * *

one-time contralto
city scapular restraint
a run on whole tones

* * *

he speaks adverbs
fluently despite small nouns
polished au naturel

* * *

Elmer and Ione
a clarinet plus casket
tears and gentle rain




—Sheila Murphy


Wednesday, May 17, 2017

AC Evans, THE SUBMERGED FOREST


The Edge of Forever, image by AC Evans 




THE SUBMERGED FOREST

As gold sunk in filth will not lose its beauty
So, in England, in August and early September,
You must render flesh to flesh and forbidden
Elements of which little is known.
At the Edge of Forever,
Circular currents, including Scylla and Charybdis,
Are dangerous for ships, even in calm weather,
Especially if you think depravity is the way of salvation,
A Whispering Gallery where cards are shuffled
With gestures both natural and effective.
The world may have to wait…

Meanwhile, we shall begin: salt layers are deposited,
Consciousness recovered, the forest submerged
In the southernmost and deepest channel we can find.
I was struck by the obvious pseudepigraphy of
All the Patristic texts, especially this one.
Here, we decided, is the origin of oblivion,
A steel-plated lawsuit lasting thirty thousand years,
Extended and rearranged through inner illumination.

Conclusions as to the nature of insularity have
Since been proved incorrect.
Depreciating the Cosmos and anything else,
They crossed the North Sea
And finally reached the coast of Russian Lapland
To discover the wrecked ships and
The dead bodies of the crews,
Together with the Commander’s journal
And a map of The Submerged Forest,
In the mouth of the River Dvina, in the White Sea.
This forest was very large and covered the
Surface of the entire known world,
Elaborated beyond the Edge of Forever,
Creating its own matter in the Void.

Spirit is transformed by knowledge, the ratio
Of rare phenomena observed in cloud chambers
Where particles originate.
Survivor of a battle at the ancient capital of Wessex,
At the confluence of Nadder and Wylye,
He later conducted experiments of this type
To save the illegible name
And the angels surrounding the Virgin,
The male-female prototype of turbulence and diffusion.

Cyclonic curvature is obtained by stealth,
By killing The Stranger in Eternity.
Momentum is destroyed by the metaphor of sleep.
Vertical velocity requires union with succubae,
Mainly as result of interrogation
and heretical ideas of salvation: notorious apostasy,
Relief from the pervading gloom, from
The alarming appearance of the iron wall of annihilation.


—AC Evans



Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Homunculus Alphonse Canard, Icons


Altered Holy Personas, 
image by Homunculus Alphonse Canard 




Psychic Surgery,
image by Homunculus Alphonse Canard 




Love On The Mind,
image by Homunculus Alphonse Canard 




Orbital Christ,
image by Homunculus Alphonse Canard 




Mutant Mother With Tumors,
image by Homunculus Alphonse Canard 




Touched,
image by Homunculus Alphonse Canard 




Projections From 1460,
image by Homunculus Alphonse Canard 



Sunday, May 14, 2017

Rupert M. Loydell, Sick Leave Diptych, #1-#5


Sick Leave Diptych, #1 



Sick Leave Diptych, #2 



Sick Leave Diptych, #3 



Sick Leave Diptych, #4 



Sick Leave Diptych, #5



—Rupert M. Loydell


Thursday, May 4, 2017

Fusiform Gyrus, Cento for Vesta


Resembling a Cock Vesta, image by Irene Koronas   



Cento for Vesta

(remix of Keats’ Endymion, book IV, lines 650-720; Miller's Tropic of Cancer pp. 9-11, Shakespeare's Sonnets, Verse 23 and Graves’ Caligula)   


Mossy phantasm 
blow-worn
volcano light 
enough to see
let my looks be 
then 
the eloquence 
the monstrous 
swell of 
pure elysium
her 
gnarled rotten 
whole 
anything 
resembling a cock
Vesta  
in perfect seizure
un-torn
only gods are
privileged to
behold one another
wormiest wonder
with fiddle-string
torture

eye
pleasure. 



—Fusiform Gyrus


Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Mark Young, Ten geographies


Six Deformations, image by Irene Koronas 




Ten geographies

Arnhem Land

Modern Living &
The Ancient Way of

Life is a boutique fund
manager focused on

delivering long white
sandy beaches & azure

waters to researchers
tracking feral cats.

*

Winnipeg

                    Grain orientation
                                in electrodeposited
               nickel is a type of
                       comb added by bees
                to prevent most
                                     mediated plastic
                         deformations.

*

Bogantungan

A low level plat-
form & a spartan
waiting shed were
funded by the

Commonwealth
to help the war
effort. He looked
at his watch &

noted the time.
Span class="cap-
tion-caption." The
bridge collapsed.

*

Rhode Island

          A woodcutter & a
                 priest have just
                    played to a half-full
                    tent with their songs
                 about the crybabyblue
          color of fibrillation.

*

Walvis Bay

Sodium bicarbonate,
when strapped to a

pallet ready for your
shipper to pick up, is

sometimes miscast as
a literature-sharing

platform but, for
choreographers, is

always a reminder
of their mortality.

*

Queen Elizabeth Park, Vancouver

                      I enjoy going
                bowling, trying to lose
                         those vanity pounds
                                 highly respected
                 within the genomes
                        of cassava cultivars.

*

Bucharest

Street lamps were already
switched off. Queues
formed to buy either cook-
ing oil or some random

compensation lawyer. In
the 1970s crisis, a strong
sense of teamwork was
not an easy pill to swallow.

*

Shukenegi

                       Gambling addicts tend
                 to be shorter than
                              sea bass, have narrow &
                   short pineal stalks to
                          assist in pattern recog-
             nition or the use of simple
                         algebra. Even the Japanese
                     will not eat them raw.

*

Galicia

                         A Marine holds an
                       umbrella on the famous
               medieval religious pilgrimage
                          to Santiago de Compostela.

                    Very nuts-&-bolts.

                  He might not look as pretty
                          as Beckham, but he can play
                    football. His services include 
                      all aspects of waxing & tinting.

*

Chappaquiddick

She wore out
the rubber, then
hit a motorcycle
with separate hot &
cold taps. It was like
emptying a pebble from a
shoe. This is a ball park estimate
but the assumption that the sheep are
neither pregnant nor lactating means that
having a robust & attractive website is para-
mount.


—Mark Young

Mark Young's most recent books are Ley Lines & bricolage, both from gradient books of Finland, The Chorus of the Sphinxes, from Moria Books in Chicago, & some more strange meteorites, from Meritage & i.e. Press, California / New York.


A chapbook, a few geographies, of some other poems in this ongoing series was recently released in a handmade limited edition by One Sentence Poems.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

AC Evans, VESPULA VANISHES


Vespula Dreaming, image by AC Evans 




VESPULA VANISHES

Unto the darkness

Through the light she came;
Out of the light she came;
The light flaring white, across the grass
Where blind statues stand, indifferent to worldly cares.

So, the Lady Vespula was born from nowhere,
Bathed in light and pain,
Her hair was black, her eyes were blue,
Her velvet robe was emerald green, laced with gold,
And, standing there, as the light faded into mist,
It was as though she could not speak.

The Lady Vespula looked at the dancing fountains,
She looked at the deserted lawns, the well-tended shrubs,
The tall, elegant trees reaching up into a cloudless sky;
It was as though she could not speak.

Through the light she came;
Out of the light she came;
But the light was no more, the world ignored her pain,
Seeming distant, alien and estranged from all desire.

So the Lady Vespula longed for the night,
She longed to bathe in darkness and pure sensation.
Black was her hair, as black as the night,
Blue were her eyes, as deep as the fathomless sea,
And, standing there, as day faded to dusk;
It was as though she could not speak.

Into the twilight she glided;
Towards the darkness she glided;
Yes, the light was no more, yes the world ignored her pain,
And another life was possible, evoked by her gaze.

So, Lady Vespula, immaculate daughter of light
Hurried towards the darkness, her darkness, unfolding.
Black was her hair, as black as this darkness,
Dark blue were her eyes, as blue as the empty sky, and
Striding towards the darkness, she entered the darkness,
A ghostly shape of desire dissolving into the night.


—AC Evans


Sunday, April 16, 2017

Michael Mc Aloran, 4 prose poetics


untitled, image by Michael Mc Aloran,
acrylic on unprimed canvas, 102 x 155 cm.


4 prose poetics

…it ends as it does not wish to have ever had/ commences then out or not what matter/ dries eyed spurious metals a vibrant bloody welt asking of some none till follow long shadow fallen/ it says yet lacks all sound/ rent flesh in scum divisive edge guttered night abort of fragrant none of it about/ or else what else not a trace to be seem/ seen/ strips bare nothing no no matter if/ in-lacerate of/ dried blood nothing drag of irrepent a drag of spinal affluence some solace climb to dream of exigent given to taste/ what wind/ make it nothing less than brutal/ not/ scarce rot/ drag of lights permeating skin in a drift pierce as one locks baited silence hovering in within not taken for less or more taste of saturate attrition/ lock in/ vibrating what stone said yes/ eye abacus/ brute flesh carving out into endless night what matter/ absence of/ strips shut down/ collision purpose scattered remnants nothing of/ till bite what ask/ prayers from depth departed sunk dead sudden/ collapse unto thine ashes/ a lung/ fibrous oxidate climbing transparent space elective drain what stun lack trace abortive none of lack displaced exile/ in seek sun lights broken valves of having sought through laughter long given to expire/ skeletal/ traceless of eye what matter closed fingers fist shattered glass impenetrable sudden reject of/ biting down upon bared knuckles echo-echo senseless acclimatized/ bedamned/ there has been/ nothing crimson pace effortless alongside till vacant light marks accord what spasm senseless sense/ trace of non-percept/ glimmer-deep/ in deep/ what well of liquid night of endless blood/ in-dream spits shards of glass into/ fissure semblant what/ it asks what spun till colourless demise/ as if to say in murmur desert hyenic minced no solace it/ cold close till return of laughter from some black origin unfounded/ lapse climb reductive/ speaks of dead cold harrow priceless/ aches just a/ not one/ forgotten dream pageant nothing no it closure/ as if to say that in/ closure fist not a mark to remain/ settles to fall/ peels away skinned lights broken aspirate not a trace of/ broke stone laugh there is/ expels breath as of shit bile vomit no breath for tomorrow/ (I/ eye laughterling)/ conjoined silences/ devouring words what frenzy to become…

…lungs outstretched some bitter barb a stripped eye basking in sun lights/ alone is to best respite taken from onset’s winds/ nothing that cannot be outstretched wings till die what once/ ragged jaw out of some out-pulse regardless fathom never spoken till clad stone break reflect cascade/ it-eye-what no more till barricade stripped bare in spurious silences/ spat out some final tongue into dissipating gait left trace of not a nor of in if no matter nothing says finalize it/ night’s fissure scarlet taste a diseased sky endless to touch beyond/ working bone against bone as if to say that nothing left demarcated stripped of tangents dry ice colours blending with tears given to unto some effortless demise/ it or other/ it what/ nothing more/ having burned all winds/ these burning winds deduced bone from out of faculty headless desire a given trace of some beyond forget it/ as one passes through another nothing there as if to/ broke stone fingers trace benign absence a dissipating smoke/ as if to/ having been no not for wastage not a/ clamour of dead light stripping the carcass of final tears lap them up for/ saken/ for no not a trace of there it all lies in pit tryst skull-depth snap-snap it is a lie/ mercury eyelids covering sight(less)/ here what collide what spun hilt dread laughter long as hollow/ not a/ strips violent teeth a mockery of being nothing beckoning in nothing’s claim/ it-spun/ eyes roll back in opiate lights/ not a trace of sky when sky is mind alone yet not a trace/ spoken of yet better departures given when lock is steel what driven else forget/ it is I-lie/ distances flung out into foreign realms/ no trace to touch/ what of/ none of it throughout/ a downward spiral staircase of diseased longing smeared with bloody excrement/ reek/ no end in sight taken from above/ no light by which to guide/ atrophic words cascading from fleshed devourment/ nowhere left some nothing left to run aground/ where vocal chalice mocked by nothing claims what dim I-lack/ sunk white/ lights out…

…ever of still-chase broke-spun lack until of measure/ gifting of eye what purpose flesh a wrang of meat a colossus breath still-born edges/ as of/ forget-me-knots shackled nonchalant skull deep what water winter water’s edge/ steps to blood measurement distance haven cleft one singular purpose not a/ it still distillation breaking forth relapse of climb none from out of which to parry disclosed all night disclosed/ crack what stone effigies detritus wastage of bone steel laughter prevaricate/ fucked frozen eye reclaimed stillness from which to escapade writ in lines cast by a windless full of blood/ it I-lie never once of trace desire nothing captured given unto causality driven terse/ etc./ eye-lack sudden to expire given of reject of purpose nothing left to trace where nothing was or if abounding/ ragged then in terse closed doorway in or out of/ nothing ventured nothing eye alone roving in said dark what dark/ blind arc ice to follow on from given unto gesture/ dead all what some circus apathy/ dressage what will some stench of sickness given from retreat/ onward no/ flails off lack of purpose of desire/ it we fallen/ drag/ yes another drag another bone/ another broke stone nothing amber-lighted/ shadows shed across echoing out no nothing into which given to having forgotten from the outset of what if or/ dead we along/ scattered what longing gild of appetite an outstretched palm/ scum pageantry/ isolate in terse/ with we what if collective no nothing to obtruse skin of toothen walls no sense for tomorrow/ it is/ what is/ out of or other than/ dense die what collapse in cracked eye promise/ I-cannot/ what is of or in not a trace given to lack in dream sarcophagus collapse/ expired endless/ given to/ accord/ what sense then under-sensed beneath/ callous under-climate parasite/ blood-shot in bite of recollect/ deduced from bones what given traces/ it of/ what of/ not a/ in-dreaming posit of some lack what given violence/ aspen/ cold bait that once/ twice/ thrice/ echo-dim falling to earthen what spine no solace never to/ return…

…cease lest less fathom of/ in eye’s disclosure given to fathom no not an instance/ so seeks the glad tide flowing blood-like roomed and yet leaving no trace of tomorrow’s pageant/ still yet/ given to from promise spectral/ broke stone dim clad what from given taste fallen ocular forgive it cannot forgive/ lung all hours of the sun’s diameter unshod/ bones raking up the dead leaves/ we solace climb what of it nowhere left yet never hanging in visceral of oak-bound lack/ what is known and unknowable/ traceless again as if to passage not a/ spoken of less/ broiling in the waters of/ flightless soundless waste/ arcing spectrally as if to utter no nothing forage no/ alone/ eye spit loggerheaded cracking the skyline/ this what once/ whatever if none speech what be in drought’s abandon/ rooms gouged out carcasses/ some rot/ steel perhaps unburnished/ none from which to gather these bankrupt hours/ ever breathless ever faltering in shadowings/ given to be unspeaking rhetoric/ I-lung/ as once was/ lightless/ darkles/ an empty falter given to expire/ all doors slamming shut all forget-me-nots/ scattered shrapnel/ and the empty disclosure of final unknown/ in rat din air’s collision splice of some unmade mark what have you/ excised by colour me this/ haven of the unsensed dispersal blind-white ocular roving in utter nothing left unto/stretched from catascope one foot then the utterance onward claiming back-shadow allwhile dense acclimatized bleeding out/ as if to echo/ not a/ if then of of splendor thankless to reclaim where none is the given pulse and X. is the shadow’s teeth grazing upon time’s useless pummeling/ thankless from outset’s climate/ churn of dead space how the laughter died/ yet still yet/ as of yet/ not a trace/not a hope/ not a fucking chance from the outset/ glimmering yes yet what of it some wreckage solace prism head devoured in moon-struck light/ sheets as of crumpled swans cast unto evacuated rooms/  not a trace of desire/ blood stains/ not a… 


—Michael Mc Aloran


Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). He grew up in Co. Clare. He is the author of a number of collections of poetry, prose poetry, poetic aphorisms and prose, most notably Attributes, (Desperanto, NY, 2011), The Non Herein & Of Dead Silences (Lapwing Publications, 2011/ 2013), Of the Nothing Of, The Zero Eye, The Bled Sun, In Damage Seasons, (Oneiros Books (U.K)--2013/ 14); Code #4 Texts, a collaboration with the Dutch poet, Aad de Gids, was also published in 2014 by Oneiros. He was also the editor/ creator of the Bone Orchard Poetry zine, & edited for Oneiros Books (U.K 2013/ 2014). A further collection, Un-Sight/ Un-Sound (delirium X.), was published by gnOme books (NY, 2014); and EchoNone & Of Dissipating Traces were also released 2015 by Oneiros Books. breath(en) flux, a chapbook, was released in 2016 by Hesterglock Press. Black Editions Press also published in absentia & In Arena Night in 2016. 

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Nathan Spoon & Sammantha Prychodko & Fusiform Gyrus & Jamie Thurman & Alex Lundy, Spoon’s Collaboratives


Metalepsis of the Red Mask, image by Irene Koronas




Spoon’s Collaboratives



It makes a goblin of the sun (@ 80 bpm)

Camelia aches.
So what about the rocking chair?
She is bruised in every moment of her body.
I know, of course:
Her stomach churns.
everything comes down to seeing.
She casts her eyes upward;
I know, of course:
field stretches, somewhere in her periphery.
people who scratch out imperfections are unhappy forever.
She is enveloped in white-blue, unending sky.
I know, of course:
She imagines the breaking of the largest sea you’ve ever seen.
no person was ever born without desire - to be happy forever.

To see the ocean is to know the vastness of the earth.
Call it the sinoatrial node.
She has been in this town for an eternity.
It’s the heart’s pacemaker.
She longs, sometimes, to leave.
A human heart is 8 ounces in its chest.
The vast expanse of the ocean calls her to go;
Every day human hearts beat 115,000 times.
to float out, crash along in a boat,
I know, of course:
to lean over the side of the vessel and be met with only the cold,
my heart is like a seed;
unlit blackness of the sea.
no, I know my heart is a seed.
So much lies beneath to send a shiver over her -
My friend laughed when I took her to see my favorite lake;
a sheen of pain through her bones.
she is not looking with my heart.
The skin on her neck creeps coldly down, until it quivers off her back.
It is only sometimes my body and not me that aches.


—Sammantha Prychodko & Nathan Spoon


I’ll write coward across your face

Oulanem fabricates death rings         
makes heaven a plaything for

his calculations tongues of fire
stream forth voluptuous lips          bright

conscience-blazing brain worms for    KETTLE
clock-hands whirling in sequence                   DOXX

to a god-fist sermon working
flattery’s loins as if a puppet a blind fear

presentient mingling waiting for its cue          cut
to the man rolling up or unrolling a

length of fence and wearing a hat my
hand is on the wheel and holding

the cosmos in order even as you refuse
to blink so don’t look at the bird zinging

headlong into a decomposed mound of                     KETTLE
whatever we’re simultaneously outta here      DOXX

anyway somebody just announced
we          should all go and ring jesus off        cue

wrathful philistine trumpet                             you

cannot insert a file into human bark
for       the esoteric academy is dead!


—Fusiform Gyrus & Nathan Spoon


April dots the sombre thorn

A fiery searcher beetle sorts its wings
                                                                       Seriously.
          on the flat warmth of limestone.
                                                                       A river is a toad.
                          The clay colors the bank
                                                                       Also, drink the black milk
                           in brick red, hot as hell.
                                                                       when writing. If you do,
                               The beetle is a dragon
                                                                       your poetry will instantly
                          flaming near the cooling
                                                                       become flarf and real tweeters’
                                    Cumberland River.
                                                                       heads will become milkweed pods.
                                                  Disappears.


—Jamie Thurman & Nathan Spoon


I’ll have tofu for dinner

I think.

Agedashi / bright cube

I google ‘Achilles’ and click on the Wikipedia entry.

this body glistening like Achilleus
            under scrutiny of tiger mom Thetis
            on the illuminated campo:

A poem flows, as if by itself.

Ma, don’t you know Zen? You know,
that practice from over sunrises? You know,
the one that starts “Shush your mouth!”  Hmmm…

Now I am stirring

      Fistfuls, of worries                        a   s u n   d e r.

personal memories in along

Won’t he…
last / the day                ?                      nope

with stronger flavors from

            Were we young, too, did we learn…

the  E a s t.

save one prayer, this gong & thrash, yours weeping
among the bushes,
            crawl back out on all threes, stopper
your leg.

I am becoming

      A final shiver / crisping all over

what I am already eating.



—Alex Lundy & Nathan Spoon