Friday, January 12, 2018

Charlie Onions, MY LUV

Psychopathia Sexualis, image by Irene Koronas 


The threat of headache before
Relief in extended space,
Approved settee through council,
Kissed out like quick forest fire that don’t go,
Summer-unsure and earning like everyone,
To be lay there in pretence of clueless,
Is ultimate,
It’s got smooth lapels that women want to touch,
Fourteen buttons flawless,
A thousand glory wanks with wings,
Go breathe,
In bass out,
Fourteen buttons flawless,
Gorgeous George ash turned lush lips on New Years,

—Charlie Onions

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Meagan Crawford, Non Earthly Participant

Non Earthly Participant, image by Irene Koronas  

  Non Earthly Participant  

                           F A C E S

   In   objective   intimacy           the   tablet   compiles  

     brevities   of    here    I    am        casual       pinks   

     cobalt    blues          those    other    iterations    of    

     testament     wet    and    lacquered    casting    shadows           

     upon    the    lapsing            absorbed   or   deflected        

     now       the       color     separated      from      rust    

     animates      around      an       activating       absence     

     on      the      right       half      what     is     left   

     parts    into   itself   dutifully        

                             L I B A T I O N
     U n u s u a l    e v e n t s    c a n n o t    f o l d     i n 

     c a n n o t                 b e              j u s t i f i e d                                      

     t h e   p r o b l e m s   t o    b e    s o l v e d    g r o w

     i n    p r o m i n e n c e        f a k e    e l e v a t o r s     

     f a k e        l a u n d r y         f a k e         b o n e s 

     f a k e     l a w n     i n f i n i t e l y      c u t t i n g 

     i t s e l f              h i s t o r y       a s       f o u r    

     o v e r    e x h a u s t e d     m o n o l i t h s     l e f t     

     t o      o r g a n i z e       a n d       s h e l f     t h e   

     r e p r e s e n t a t i o n s      o f      t h e      p a s t        

     f a c i n g                o n e                 a n o t h e r   

     d i s s o l v i n g  

     a x i o m     
                                s p o u t s  
                                o f l e a k

D A L E T   Y A D   A N D   D A L E T   S H I N

Staring  at  the  same  plum  clay  scene                   
                                             and       about      us

our    prisms                           ways    of    bending    out 

barely   ever   smiling     
                                     the        viewers        chest    

two    curtains    parted      
                                 participation   wilts   to   become

a    lighter      faster      traveler             b o r r o w i n g      

mobility      or     temporarily              assigned     to     it    

habitats    flash    in    r e s p o n s e     to     our    arrival       

rooms       and       r o o m s     
                                     of     cerulean    on    repeat     
our   apprehension   released    
                                   we      get  to  work      forget        

that       once          there  was        a       sudden       edge 

—Meagan Crawford

Sunday, January 7, 2018

Sarah Cave, excerpts from An Arbitrary Line

Photo Sphere, March 2015 

water/ ocean turning 

stomach churned
and in the freeze frame of future history

monks paddle through milk-sea
and plastic waste

desert. Coastline

mist                                 horizon concealed                         mist

against face               solitude                     silence

                                 solitude                     silence
the tower                  mist                           the tower             mist
a bird alights             long legs                    a bird alights

vertical. Coastline

mist mist mist mist                      mist mist mist mist mist mist horizon hidden in mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist plain sight against solitude silence silence solitude mist mist mist mist though which the mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist frames the alighting mist mist mist mist long legs of a bird alighting through mist mist mist mist to the tower

Fatherhood in Three Connective Panels


Konstantin’s cradle
flightless wings loom above

matchstick crow feasting
on eggshell


Anton’s black feathers
askew    a dull murmur
of morning

Konstantin brings light
feeds Anton soft entrails
still warm      the rabbit

now cold


Absent fathers              

becomes Slava
his life is dancing
leaves fallacious
The bear returns
litter…        Slava

an egg

cannot recall regurgitation

remembers the ticks

but now          //          no response

he cracks        //           hatched

a gull’s egg 

eating the content


the jagged remains

cutting his finger

On shell

—Sarah Cave

Saturday, January 6, 2018

Anna Moore, Three Poems

Naked Bridal Jumpsuit, image by Irene Koronas

NaKeD BrIdAl JuMpSuIt

MiDdLe ClAsS
mOdErN DiStInCtIoN
sExUaLiSeD WoMeN
cOnTeMpOrArY gEnDeR

(bIoLoGiCaL oBsEsSiVe
OnLiNe PaTrIaRcHy
HoPeS rEdUcInG)

iNcReAsEd HoLd
VaLuAbLe DaUgHtErS
sOcIaL aCtIvItY
eDuCaTeD mEn
ExPeRiEnCe FoRm
KnOwLeDgE aCqUiSiTiOn
FrAmEd SeX

SoCiAl LiMiT
pRoFfEsSiOnAl CoNtEnT
aRtIsTiC gEnErAtIoN
aUtOnOmOuS eXpLoRaTiOn
ReCuRrInG qUeStIoNs
StRoNgEr AnAlYsIs

oBsErVe OrIgInS
sExUaL aPpReHeNsIoN
iNcReAsE aTtItUdE
gEtTiNg EveN
KiLlInG aNgElS

vIrAl aPpReHeNsIoN
uLtImAtE nAtUrE
lItTlE sIsTeR
pHySiCaL wRiTiNg
MaRgInAlIzEd InTiMaCy

SeXuAl AgReSsIoN
wElCoMe ViOlAtIoN
sTeReOtYpE ChAsErS
fReE iNfOrMaTiOn
FeMaLe DeStRuCtIoN
cOnFiNiNg HeRsElF

aCcEpTaBlE mEtHoDs
PlaNnIng DeSiReS
fOrCeD vUlNeRaBiLiTy
GeNdErEd OpPoSiTiOn
CuLtUrAl ApPrEhEnSiOn
CoMbInAtIoN rEmInDeR

tOtAl AscEnDaNcE
oPpOsItIoN iNtErChAnGe
HuGe PhEnOmEnOn
CoNcEpTuAl StRuGgLe
NeUrOtIc PrEdiLeCtIoN
uSeFuL eXpLoItAtIoN
LiBeRaTiNg GlImPsEs

tEcHnOlOgIcAl VuLvA
rObOtIc SpReAdInG
nIgHtMaRe DoMinaTrIx
ChEmIcAl AcCiDeNt
TrAnSfOrMiNg BeInG
iNvAlId ExCuSeS

An almost insane desire, longing,
or burning lust for someone or something.
Many artists have some sort of
obsessive behaviour,

obsessive love
obsessive city
obsessive delight
obsessive meaning

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So what if some people think that right is

obsessive disorder
obsessive behaviour
obsessive dysfunction

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obsessive lyrics
obsessive urges
obsessive fixation
obsessive creation

Much art is born out of the need to make,
a positive manifestation of
obsessive collecting and hoarding,
painstaking, repetitive use of materials or processes.

Continue Reading Below

Your house.

The thought puts me off my food. "I'll just have a shower quickly." "Of course." I stare at myself in the huge mirror of his en-suite. My hair is a post-coital mess and I've still got the cameras in the lining of my clutch. What were you thinking? I ask myself. I expected a bit of fooling around, a pool party, then I would make my excuses and make a hasty exit, not this. So why don't I regret it? "Can I give you a lift anywhere?" he asks, the second I'm back in the room. "I'd prefer to walk," I reply, "I need the fresh air." By the time I've got last night's dress and knife-like heels on, he's already ushering me out of the house with a brief kiss goodbye on the cheek. Once his car is out of sight, I go back to the house across the street where our team is monitoring his every move. They stare questioningly but I get the first word in, "Someone had better follow him, he's in quite a hurry." "You've been in there all night? Why didn't you set the cameras up?" asks Dave, incredulous. Sorry Dave, I was busy having the most mind blowing sex of my life. "I didn't get the chance, he didn't leave me alone for a second." Tina sniggers and I glare at her. "Doesn't he sleep?" asks Dave. "Not a wink, he must have taken something," I lie. "Well, do you think you'll get in there again?" "I'm sure of it," I reply, with complete sincerity. "I want to know everything," hisses Tina, but I ignore her. I'm back in Marc's house, sat on his marble kitchen counter with him still inside me, having reached a shuddering climax. He's pushed my knickers aside and his trousers are down below his muscular arse. He'd barely offered me a drink before he lifted me onto the counter. I've been posing as a personal trainer in a nearby park for nine weeks, so when he recognized me on his morning run he realised why my face was so familiar in the club on Saturday, he's seen me commanding a group of three to do squats and press-ups for months. He stopped me in the middle of the session and asked me to come round tonight and I promised myself that I'd keep my wits about me this time. When I disappear from his life forever, he won't be able to find my clients to question them, they're all undercover like me. "I'll tell you my fantasy," I whisper, nibbling on his ear, "I want to do it on camera." "Get ready then," he demands, lifting me down to the floor in his strong brown arms. I'm kneeling in the centre of his bed in carefully chosen lingerie when he comes into the room with a video camera and a tripod. Someone's done this before, I think. "It's your turn," I say, pulling his T-shirt off him and tying his wrists to the bed. I take his trousers and boxers off and feel a shiver of excitement at the sight of him, hard and pulsing again. I take him in my mouth and run my hand up his smooth, sculpted chest as I suck and lick, feeling myself get more aroused with each of his groans. When he's on the brink, I climb on top of him and order him to wait, rocking back and forth as he fills me, reaching every hidden spot. He breaks his hands free of the ribbon with a tear, cupping my breasts and groaning, his urgency making me feel even more turned on. He runs his hands down onto my waist and moves me up and down to his own perfect rhythm. As soon as I begin to climax, he gasps with relief and finishes with me, eyes clenched. Before long he's fallen into a sex-worn sleep with his heavy arm lying across my back. Once I hear his breath reach a slow, steady rhythm, I slide out from underneath him and slip my clothes back on, my body still tingling with passion. I make my way quietly upstairs and finish my assignment, placing cameras in a bookcase in his study, in his black and chrome kitchen and the fireplace of his living room. I bug the phone and find the painting that hides his safe, making a mental note of the type of lock so that I can report back to Dave. After creeping back down into the bedroom, I look over at his sleeping body, the sheets tangled around his waist, exposing his beautiful frame. I take the memory card out of the video camera. I might never be able to have sex with Marc Burgess again but at least I'll be able to relive it now. ask him about it but he's stopped chatting, distracted now. I realize with delight that he's staring intently at me, his eyes lingering on my waist, my legs, my chest. He runs his thumb gently along the side of my dress, tracing the curve of my body before guiding me down the spiral staircase into his bedroom. A minimalistic iron bed stands alone in the middle of a sparse white room. There's a screen across one wall that's the size of a small cinema. So this is where all of your stolen money goes, I think. I let out a sigh that's completely genuine as he pushes me back onto the bed and I notice four wide, black silk ribbons are tied to the bed frame. He kisses me so urgently, gripping my thighs in his hands, pressing into me with his body that, for a second, I forget the plan. Every bit of him is hard and strong. I'd happily rip his clothes off there and then but he stops, reaches up to get one of the ribbons and ties my wrists together. Oh god. Talk about a wake up call. Have I let this go way too far? "What are your fantasies?" he whispers, "I want to know your secrets." "This," I gasp back at him, despite myself. "I like this." He ties my hands to the bedstead and I'm fully aware that he's strong enough to do this without my consent. Then again, I could break out of these ribbons without a second thought, and besides, I'm completely compliant, biting down on my lip and staring intently back at him. He runs his hands down to my breasts to feel hardened nipples pushing up through my dress. He reaches under me to unzip it, staring at me the whole while before pulling it down over my legs. I'm not wearing a bra and my boobs are pert, waiting for his touch, but he just stares as he pulls my lace knickers off after the dress. He starts to tie my feet up and I lie there, naked, exposed, with him fully dressed, loving every second. Advertisement - Continue Reading Below Woman having an orgasm Getty He takes off his shirt and I feel another wave of desire as I stare at his tanned, muscular chest, hard above his bulging jeans. I know this is wrong, but there's no way out. And honestly? I don't want one. He leans down and kisses me, his lightly stubbled cheek brushing against me as he licks my left nipple. He takes the right nipple in his hand and rubs it under his thumb as he bites down gently, teasingly. I'm groaning with desire when he slips more fingers inside of me. I gasp, it's intense, forceful. I feel myself opening up to welcome him in and lose all sense of time as he reaches inside, stroking my clit with his thumb. When I climax with a small cry, he takes his hand away and starts to kiss me, from the inside of my legs, right down to my feet. He runs his hands down to my breasts to feel hardened nipples pushing up through my dress. The sight of him fighting to restrain himself, still dressed from the chest down while I'm naked, ready and waiting, is a massive turn on. He works his way back up my legs with his mouth. His tongue flickers inside me, stroking and kissing and licking while his hands grip my legs and I writhe underneath him, gasping in pleasure. I can't tell how long this goes on for; I never want it to stop. Eventually I'm begging him, pleading with him to put himself inside of me in a voice that I don't recognize as my own. When he finally enters me, I lose all sensation other than the awareness of him filling me, touching me in places that feel as though they'd never been touched before. We climax together and he falls onto me, sweaty and panting. With my hands and feet still tied, I slip into an exhausted sleep. "Breakfast," he announces, waking me with a tray of fruit and a cream cheese and smoked salmon bagel. My hands and feet are free and I'm surprised to find that he's tied one of the ribbons around my hair. "Wow," I groan. I don't normally eat breakfast but I've never felt as hungry as I do at this moment. He picks up a pear and bites into it, lying at the foot of the bed, propped up with one elbow. I notice for the first time that he's wearing a suit. "Listen. I've got to make tracks soon, important meeting, but I had fun last night, I want to do it again." Fine by me, I think, but I'm actually supposed to have planted six hidden cameras.

“That sounds incredible.”

Anna Moore—

Friday, January 5, 2018

Serena Mayer, Fragments

Frags, image by Irene Koronas 



   and the Spanish cities
and Moscow, I've also been
      Leningrad too, at the
           was a stowaway
   atmosphere, so I got
      , not as a profession,
    illustrate my ideas.
                    , I should not
       Debord does. I should
  talks about ambiance and
               , it is an abstract
          it is to visualise and
from the models I had
            and put people
   . And finally, paintings.


          , but what can I do
depends on absence
     index finger on his head
  , the printed gloss
a sort of assault
        dedicated to mother.
   , opening night
         a reputation
    times still are, best
            You must be
 to slake your thirst
          . An inviting place
     , strive to remember
    old heathen stuff
       the variety of ghosts.


       posthumous calling cards
  the mewling mass and mask
      , urgent renewal
          . However, the anonymity
    concept of completeness
        , directly through the wall
    a symbol of the links
       ceremonies and rituals.
    project unrealised
            Not in a single direction
      the basis of difference.
    I was furious. Crazy people
          amok with teaspoons.
   cover pictures reassembled.
      , slippage between texts


 alive or dead, and
          , had set; too late
  the wheels of the angel
        didn't work.
     first person advance
         style heralds change
to hold it in. Chanting again
        symbolic paternal
  between appropriation,
       failures of capitalism.
              left alone. Fascination
   . In keeping with previous
            sailing on, even across
  would never sense that.
               Written but not
     lost in abstract questions.
          , built on memory


          fabricated history
   the flute in ancient
      four children, two sons
twist your head to love
       more is heard of them.
   , music so much.
        any way capture
   they don't like shots
    I was a many, this might
        between himself and other,
a cigarette, then while
          attraction then repulsion,
      : whispering on easy street
  skill finds its target
   too many spaces blank.
        , handwritten names
       paranoid workouts, a
   interesting jobs, lost
      , supported both of
  work by the astonishing.
      Become more and
          ruins now unassuming
    , and a poem of mine
            an aversion to guilt
     time of the day. And
         raptor's eyes, admiring


    claws in the sphere
  he really had. The boat
      rocks, till it seemed
media informations
  a subterranean perspective
      their reply tomorrow.
 interventions can stop
      of their dead.
           , demonstrations
   red and murmured
        transform or follow
  invents other, because
       the dangerous zone.
inconvenient flow of time,
           those that flit from
   converging causes.
more sense for each
     You can't see all
         is a miracle? I ask
documentary about them
         up perspective
  not knowing where to look,
     arrive from every shore.

—Serena Mayer

Sunday, December 31, 2017

Sarah Cave, excerpts from An Arbitrary Line

Google Maps, Sorry, we could not calculate directions 
from Khodovarikha, Russia to Moscow, Russia

excerpts from An Arbitrary Line   

Matchstick World’s

hum, hm?

          the generator’s
hum soothes cowled ears.

Slava fiddles with matchsticks
recreating Hyperborea/Cornucopia

the stilted viewing platforms
the sock-muffled gramophone

filling the hut
with oscillations
of Pechoran sea and divine prophesy
the world – a sauna
                             birch wood strikes
against flesh
                            bathing in warmth
dry currents     desert parents crunch

flightless birds in their steaming swamps

eternal light // pin-prick night

cages but no chickens just cages
a warning in flight
Slava sleeps exposed on the dunes

it’s raining toads
and yoghurt pots                        (.)


Spiral bookcase              forming staircase
                   the tower’s ascent
                     mist damp cool
                  water on Slava’s skin
a finger caresses the dust
pages decay
                    Slava strikes a match
                              holds it to the shroud.

‘This lake could be
anywhere’           repeats Slava

changing tenses                          
these waters were once populated
                    isolated man

a heron                thumping

a driftwood ballad

speaking in long-lines

a rockpool elegy                      a one stone reprieve

leaving behind the tousled Nina

and the flustered Sunday afternoons
before attendance was compulsory

the conclusion
to faith holding hands with doubt

Slava watches the evening    and waits

for the yearly melt                   

as inevitable

as the changing of the skyline
                                                        in lakes, of lakes,
                                            vast open absence
by the lake/ in the lake/ of the lake                                        

glacial foundations mocked

Konstantin fights his corner
up to his shirt sleeves
in the rising                             / lake
Nina plays the riverbank chords

a xylophone minuet of lakes
lakes lakes near lakes eventual lakes
many lakes melting

—Sarah Cave

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Nico Vassilakis, excerpts from LINGUA INFORMATIN

Nico Vassilakis
Lingua #1

Lingua #3

Lingua #6

Lingua #9

Lingua #12

Monday, December 11, 2017

David Alpaugh, ENOUGH…ENUFF…

William of Ockham


IS Enough! As Myriads strut from their
files to be more, nice to hear 1 word say
F You! to Connotation. Moonbeam went
238,000 miles too far with less is more.
As for me, I’d sacrifice my potbelly for

Enough. I hope superlatives take heed &
simmer down (& pregnant Paroxytones,
like Comprehensive & EntrepreNEWer).
Trillionaires fear Ockham’s razor might
slash 3 or more zeroes off their FLUFF!


—David Alpaugh

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Charlie Onions, Six Poems

Babylon Kissed Out, image by Irene Koronas


Warts, false starts and synth lines
The fringe suits,
Like the DG he wants, needs, adores, pines,
For John Hughes,
Tight bedroom-devouz sourced from Itunes
Reviews, Gucci goody bags,
Good shoes, nice pens,
12 hens drawn up in a Chambord carriage,
No replay, Joe’s Garage quietens me
Back until I daren’t dream ‘bout marriage,
Or at lost boys in silk, watch that video
About milk in films,
More like films in milk ayy bab?
Lay back and learn their culture in the back of a taxi cab,
Second channel, man Sandy’s shining mad,
Roasted, Dubai stone,
Become by Mum and Dad, fuck life in tads, it’s half and drab.


Tube screwed, my Crest tastes like Slush Puppy,
Beat creature, hold fast shaft,
Think of eggs beaten, Bugs Runny,
Affect, take hugs then take money,
Heavy Canada, plush as my pillow,
Weighs a tonne, a,
Purge a half-decent Monday,
Fast harsh hard, lain on greased trays,
Ponder BO’s oldest daughter’s name,
Bet it’s wavy since she know who Joey B be,
Such a rogue, splattered
American home, ruptured pagination,
Hooped ring Dad I bought American
Vogue and the piano’s kicked so
I’ll have to leave in a mo,
At a dash,
In time hearts will bow.

N/A #2

Spelling things with eaux,
Time I’d like for that,
Figure out with crabs and a strat
What makes AOR such a blond-shade sex,
Does time jack off late ones out of
Favour for poor chore dodgers that really should
Know better but they do
Rue the day their dos got cancelled
And their dos got messed,
Play at me mook Saint Laurent,
Jab your feet on the ledge in case your fans attempt hanging on,
Dangling down, surging up right,
Calm it down with your fake dirty sprite,
The ones you leave behind will blind you right,
But do sit when your dead deaf and alone,
Cursing mountains, instead of Beetlejuice,
Sipping Axl, mimed Patron.

31/10/17 (Wake Up 31st)

More dreams,
More lava,
More life wedged amidst old friends,
Fucks, Riley dogs, daydreams amok,
With the remix at the edge of I,
Me, hips, you, end of the world,
Babylon kissed out,
Tripped a Charlie Brown by you,
So greet ’18 like ’12,
Rev up your twitch, christen your
Damian bastard, save yourself,
Wish back to sticky dial up
LOTR fiction picking up on Steven’s
Diction but stuff up with bik,
Because before you know it,
Xmas gets fucked by Richards, Kevins,
Tensions and dicks.

N/A #3

Tucked in in 5% evenings
Power in pussy being said
Fruit name and synth creeps past the
Chicken strung out and past the wings
Fuck did this rhyme with the last
Nevermind if not ‘cause the old tears
Are here
Sade smoothing over the potholes and past
Decadence in having a dry patch
No old-fashioned love like beauty spots
Or pubes in thatch
So why don’t you live for the
Same things that come formed?
Where’s this page gonna land
When degree’s daunts get chucked
Straight to the quicksand?
Back off too far then live through a backhand.

NA # 4

Commes Des Garçons Play
About around beneath vagina
Grasp that fuck fast don’t delay
Hum ‘round the mound bush crush
With eyeliner
Whisky works on teeth but doesn’t inform
Me my oh me on KMT
That’s a googleable offence
A fizzed up rather
The best rapper
Applaud me dense
‘Cause I fux with the vision
Lord wherever thou aren’t
Allow me and allow it to get
Dead set on a mission
For I love this shit
Dave Navarro’s in my Dads
And steady in my pit.

—Charlie Onions