Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Rupert M. Loydell, OBJECT, GESTURE, GRID

       Ho|ma|ge to the Pavement’s Messiah, image by Daniel Y. Harris 


These cubes are all broken, these grids
are not drawn straight. Any fool can do that
and one already has. I did not expect him
to have a beard, his art is too high tech.
Tomorrow I will see his sculpture
in a brand new light, as long as the gallery
is open. Let’s hope it’s not one of those
shows tucked into a corner, a token gesture
for those of us who don’t like installations
or childish drawings on the wall. Bob wrote
back to say the poem had made him laugh,
that it worked on several levels; Nathan said
he saw the review had gone up anyway,
had I had any response? None whatsoever,
though I await the email that tells me
it knows where I live. So do I: too far
from anywhere but near enough the creek.
If the woman knew how much unhappiness
she was causing do you think she’d care?
No-one seems to know although of course
it’s nothing personal. But she does live
out of the village and lacks basic social skills.
Apparently, Picasso’s striped sweaters
are responsible for the stripe paintings
hung here on the wall. His rose period
informs music videos many decades later
and his cigarettes have given us all cancer,
even though we never smoke. Warhol
invented tomato soup after drawing cans
but no-one has thought to melt Dali’s watch
to find out the secret of time. Outside,
there used to be an arc of rusting steel
curving round the snow piled up against it,
but someone complained, had it moved
away. Any fool could learn to do that.

© Rupert M Loydell

Rupert M. Loydell, Snake Oil

                                                                          Snake Oil, Image by Rupert M. Loydell 


An understandable kind of fear
rooted in hurt and bewilderment.

We may be alive but only just;
it is not the same as it was.

It’s true I like it here
but now I am ready to go.

No spare parts are available;
snake oil is all we have.

© Rupert M Loydell

Daniel Y Harris & Rupert M Loydell, from THE RETURN OF DOOM-HEADED THREE

Doomhead, Image by Rupert M. Loydell


Daniel Y Harris & Rupert M Loydell

I wasn’t looking for you but the Colonel was,
along with self-promoted General Puce,
Dame Blowfish with the Magpie twins
and an entourage of nurses and musicians.

I thought I saw Doom Headed Three
but it was only some DIY wannabees
dressed in an approximation of their
favourite stars. If I was you, I’d hide;

the Colonel wasn’t in a good mood
and seemed to have a warrant.
Shoot to Kill, was printed at the top,
do not try to converse or reason with

printed just beneath. The twins
were looking forward to rescuing
jewels and trinkets from your corpse,
Nurse Ratchet to the embalming.

I have booked a small pyramid
out on the ice for your remains,
beyond the reach of satellites
or reliquary hunters. Happy bliss,

and no encores to endure,
no imaginary careers or contracts
to fulfil. We might even get you
a sainthood for your pains

or at least a mention in the pages
of the village magazine. Love dies
and the last days are an oblivion.
Spinoff and Distrust: do the honours.

Demiurges rise from graves chanting “the nephilim suck the pores”,
with man-eating leaches in tow. Rotted bones jerk in corpse-soaked
ponds. Fires burn in the distance with shipwrecks. Skin-boiled imps

haul wagons full of skulls with death knell and starving dogs. Traps
decorated with crosses are manned by legions of the undead. King
Dead rides a mangy horse and carries a scythe. He plays the hurdy
gurdy in a punk band called Doom Headed Three.

Broken glass, broken minds,
reflected in the greenhouse
of a lost utopian garden.

Shadows come to stay
and there are plants
which have outgrown

their welcome, as well
as trees in skinny rows
that produce no fruit

for harvest. Trowels
and truggs, long dark
dresses and faint voices,

overgrown imaginations
and cemetery lawns,
a brambled playground

where curious twins,
echo sisters, push
through dirty panes

into an imaginary past.
People in glass houses;
panoptical priestess.

I may be dead during our next repartee,
spent by a spate of repetitions,
repeating this one to the forensic specialist
who only knows futility and cynicism—just another dead guy
in his mid-fifties. We get these types twice a week.
What’s this about our efforts to decrease
the surplus population? That’s me, Uncle Abner.
You’re only worth what you earn. What’s this about urns?
Yes, I was shopping for an original George Hepplewhite,
but would settle for a cheap coffee-grinder. For ashes?
It is your plan to grind your ashes for a hot beverage?
It is Uncle Abner. It is. Nothing soothes a broken man
like a Mayan Funerary Urn Latte with extra foam.
I like mine with a dash of swan’s neck pediment.
Cremation is so final, isn’t there an intermediary step?
An ode of postponement, or perhaps a dirge
of scheduled-you-on-the-wrong-day. Say,
how about valet at the masquerade ball. No sir,
Uncle Abner, it’s time. You see, things run their course.
You mean people run their course. Yes. Entropy
melds its scintilla, thinning specks, skinning its pickled
pork bellies to slices of spicy meat. What chance could a figura
etymologica have in an age of instant disposability?

Rupert M. Loydell, Collage Series

Rupert M. Loydell, Collage Series 

AC Evans, Get This

Let’s Shake Art, Collage By AC Evans


Let’s shake art
And swear with style
High quality hush-hush
The experts tested our
Highly inflammable
Serious light
Get this
Love it or loathe it
High culture stinks
Like a wall of toxic smog
Get this
Stop look listen beware
Now I don’t feel safe
At the electric centre
Get this
I’m a smoking gun.

Anyone for tennis?
Shall we dance?
Fancy a cuppa?

Just get this
Great dirty too hot to watch
Here, under the counter culture
Where rogue drones
Rock the machine.

--AC Evans 

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Richard Kostelanetz, NOVEL(LA)S

"Di./um's Lost Cover," image by Irene Koronas and Daniel Y. Harris



Richard Kostelanetz

5,000 words

In memory 

of Giovanni Boccaccio (1313-1375)

Any story that doubles back into itself before moving forward, even if only slightly, must be classified as a novel(la).

Overjoyed I was to discover that, after years of effort, my influence had finally prompted my innately wayward stepdaughter to discipline her life.

A virgin at twenty, she was a snob at thirty and a spinster at forty only to discover in her fifties her love for women.

Struck by lightning, with my feet in water, I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote until words no longer came.

In the story a that is palindrome is that a story the inn.

In a thousand pages of disgressive narrative were buried a plentitude of novel(la)s.

By marrying, separating, remarrying, separating, remarrying, and husband-swapping some lived and, relieved, relived.

Consider me a man inhabiting a woman inside a man inside a woman all desperately wanting to get out.

Alone in his lover’s house he spent a full week listening in sequence to all the versions she owned of J. S. Bach's Die Kunst der Fugue, crying every time the last triple fugue ended in mid-phrase, signaling the composer's death.

The greatest story never told is really an optimal subject of a novel(la).

A loved B who loved C who was loved by D, in love with E, enraptured with F, who loved G, who eloped with H, in spite his loving I, who was in love with J, herself in love with K, beholden by L, who loved M, who was infatuated with N herself smitten with O, who expressed his love to P, herself in love with Q, who loved R, who fell for S, who felt enslaved by T, himself enslaved by U, who loved V, who loved W, who was loved by X, himself loved by Y, who was loved by Z, who loved A. . . .

Better to make us performers seem ethereal, the master director filmed only the reflections made by our movements on water.

An attractive young woman betrays her family’s haughty claims to superior character with elaborate ruses designed to woo her older sister’s fiancé.

A family tree with many lines is a novel; with only one line, a story; with two or three lines, a novel(la), maybe.

Disgusted by his disagreeable relatives, he lets them know that he has no wish to speak with them again, and to the end of his life nothing done by anyone ever persuades him to break that pledge.

He published many books that received many awards and expected to continue scoring successes had not the stream of recognitions dried up along with his desire to write more.

Many texts publicly attributed to “Richard Kostelanetz” are actually written by a team of prisoners on death row while certain others must be dismissed as fakes, produced by Lord knows whom.

Renegotiating with one’s mistresses requires not only lawyers but psychiatric staff.

At the memorial service for a geezer who never remarried, each of a dozen mistresses from times past insisted upon publicly remembering her relationship with him, all of them telling stories so different that his friends couldn’t believe that they were talking about the same man.

Outside his windowless concrete bunker were posted over a dozen warrants for his arrest for a variety of trivial, victimless crimes.

Any writer favoring them concedes that longer narratives are beyond his imagination.

Childhood, adolescence, adulthood, maturity, and senility.

When I saw my grandfather and his girl friend both naked, my imagination felt stroked by erotic images of what they’d done and would be doing--I felt good.

No one challenged his intelligence until the secret of his vulnerability became public knowledge and he then for journalists became a kind of dart board.

Two children residing miles apart attend the same school where they discover after many lunches together that they share the same father.

He wrote letters upon letters, both long and short, mostly to himself, until he discovered, to his surprise, that he wrote enough to make an epistolary novel.

Punishments for heresy a radical writer could accept again and again only as long as his ideas continued to have influence.

Though haughty opera-house diva in her prime, she spent her remaining years singing in ever smaller halls until she ended her days croaking in her own soundproofed corner room in a nursing home.

How surprised I was to feel my brother-in-law release my ear to concentrate upon chewing something else.

Bit by bit the old bridge split apart, even after traffic across it was blocked, until in the wake of  a rain storm it collapsed completely into the river below.

Poverty, efforts, prosperity, speculations, and poverty.

A group of older widows and widowers vacationing at a sunny resort and scarcely shy about making love in the daytime gleefully exchange sexual partners as frequently as college kids reportedly do.

He was another compulsive debater who, once he got your ear near his lips, would deprecate you while asserting his own importance, never letting go until summoned by Nature’s call.

An exotic alphabet simply reversed is a story; with its letters shuffled, definitely and definitively a novel(la).

He peed and peed and peed and peed until he could pee no more.

To the endless succession of willing young women he assigns tasks that, were they not so available, he could just as well do himself and, as he aged, eventually did.

Soon after he announced himself gay, my father had the good fortune of meeting the one and only man with whom he would reside for the rest of his life.

My ex-husband changed his home address so often that I no longer know where he is, or was; nor do I care about not caring.

Thinking she could cure every philanderer of infidelity, she made more misjudgments than she would care to remember because she couldn't forgive herself for being wrong, ever, never.

I write a sentence and rewrite it, and then rewrite it again and sometimes yet again, until I realize a string of words as unquestionably unrevisable and thus perfect as the one you're now reading.

Definition, reconsideration, confusion, advice, and resolution.

If one baseball game is a story and a season, a novel, then mustn’t all in between a novel(la)?

Thanks to a series of initially thoughtful speculations initiated over a decade they lost everything.

So high she jumped that she never touched any terra firma again.

Injury, diagnosis, surgery, recuperation, and activity.

Even as the pace of his feet increased, the road on which he traveled continuously receded precipitously before him.

After making many calculations that he recorded on a map in his hand, he stood securely on a spot from which everything important to him on earth was equidistant.

Raising the bar yet higher and higher, he could no longer push himself over it.

As long as he made it his principal interpersonal strategy to tell his superiors whatever it was they wanted to hear, he would never emerge from behind their shadow, disqualifying himself from ever becoming a leader.

He could tell from how she clasped her arms across her chest, moving them up and down as she was talking to me, that she must be taking an interest, a serious interest, if not an erotic interest, in him.

The life savings of all his wife’s relatives he had seriously mis-invested.

If they number one million and we are only three, how can anyone expect us to win a fight?

With so many children by so many women I wasn’t sure whether a young man claiming to be my son was telling the truth.

Never knowing what to do with the years of life bestowed upon her, she succumbed to paralysis.

On the same day that he married his ex-wife's daughter by a later marriage, his ex-wife married his son from his first marriage, all of them becoming each others’ in-laws.

He lied because his colleagues lied, he cheated because they cheated, and he stole because he could see everyone around him successfully getting away with theft.

She wired the fence around her house to shock not only animals and burglars but relatives who calculated that, once they reminded her of their presence, they would not be forgotten in her will.

Returning home for the first time in two decades, she was continually surprised to discover that most of the people she heard on the streets were speaking the exotic language of her dreams.

Individual entries on RICHARD KOSTELANETZ appear in Contemporary Poets, 
Contemporary Novelists, Postmodern Fiction, Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, 
A Reader’s Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers, the Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia 
of Literature, Webster’s Dictionary of American Authors, and, among other selective directories.

Monday, December 21, 2015

Daniel Y Harris & Rupert M Loydell, Excerpts from "Cthanoiahic Fever: Hunting the Holy Erasure"

Excerpts from "Cthanoiahic Fever: Hunting the Holy Erasure"

Daniel Y Harris & Rupert M Loydell

‘For the irony of an ageing mind is that it opens itself brutally and unflinchingly to the hidden depths of its own past as the eye of a snowy owl to the night’s prey.’
     – Karin Altenberg, Breaking Light

'You were a dream. Then a reality. Now a memory.'
   - Ian Thomas, 'The City Rises and Falls'

‘The world is full of abandoned meanings.’
     – Don DeLillo, White Noise

Rebuild in the aggregate—the bulk
for efficient
filling and variety.

Toss in gravel, copper tubes and aspect ratios
for the ones not displayed
and withheld from used.

Among the properly oriented: run.
Traded off in favor of more.
Plate-shaped. Thrown.

The ideal finished piece serves
this role’s upper
limited low.

Red tile mortar’s strong bond to the other
rough, adds what it lacks
in band

or nano plastic—to be treated,
always. Widespread bulk is less extreme
than the sprayed

pyrolysis of laminar faces.
A less rubbery
new glee. 


Do-it-yourself alchemy
is all the rage.

Just before music,
the silence ends;

just before gold,
shit hits the fan.

You have got
to be willing

to lose it all.
The Devil is a liar.

Bundle product—bundle it!
size, increasing scales over units: not equal
with fewer, friction
with more.

Higher defect flux decrease rates,
to switch grades—its fix
to fulfill the great
purchase of short-run curves.
Buy, or.

Or, the square-cube law—last one awake
for a latenight “or” binge
of paydirt. Later, the recovery
back to the same

is sold back
to the converted for less than two. 
Put up the input market.
Put up the ups.
Work the crits.

Back to basics;
back to back.

Backs against the wall.
You have nothing to lose
and nothing to save.

Money may be imaginary
but it buys the real
and surreal.

Wounded triumphs
fall to the ground,
frail and broken.

Free markets?
Bring it on!

We are walking on wire
and ready for war.

Draw us a gauge
as in to refer—voice coils and other
cross-sections from the folded

Seam lines follow anvils, torcs
and fibulae—fall out
of favour,
coded in rope—rebirth of two notched
pokes. They never lived
in Anatolia.

Let’s correct the diameter with a punch
to the kishkas and wake
La sorcière de
Malcombe—she’s decked
in paraffin wax.

She only responds to diodes.
They’re a bit botched. 

Let’s convict
the diameter
with a punch.

One to the nose,
another to
the kidneys.

Let’s connect
bone and skin,
skin and bone.

Human candles
surround us;
beeswax is best.

Earplugs are a must
as the screams
flicker and fade.

We only respond
to fear and pain
here in Anatolia.

Arsenic candles in the Land of Hatti?
A reified Levant?
Not for these born-again Dorians. 
Their homeland
is a faucet
shaped like an aurochs
mixed with a starved gaur. They savor flickers
            from any source, even if flicked
                        from extinct.
Older still
if tagged by a convo of glam feeds.
How many died at the Battle of Manzikert?
Forget the tag in tagmata.
The answer is a blank stare. 

The nowhere child is a shadow
intent upon negative space
and silence.

She may be pulled
toward the light,
but she resists.

For evidence we have
a blurry video of ghosts
and a smudged polaroid.

No light bothers us here
or plagues our eyes.
Bells sound out a blues

as the moon rises
above a sea of longing,
wonk starfall sighs.

Rubble and dead trees
give her shelter,
provide a makeshift hide.

She used to know
how to walk on water,
but now avoids the coast.

Used to be queen,
now she’s the daughter
of not-so-sure days

and tripwire songs:
this and that, this that
and the other.

Semantic bad-trap of bad taste? Sure, Ivan.
How did we become offensive?
Well, Horatio, it all came from sarkasmos.

Why always Greek?
Derision of these ride wits.   

How did they spell ‘which’ is 1597? Whych.
To offend one’s interlocutors—now that’s the last
gaffe of plenty.

My people are verbal.
My people used to be queens.

We are good and hostile.
            not always. Usage

and cortex sobriety of use—this will appease
nothing but sound.
Get the struts Benjamin.
Lenny, I have to, but you?

The acolytes used to sniff airplane glue
without a cue. No one used to lie,
or lie about laying
with the other: influencers.

One of these days
the people will be silenced.

One of these days
we’ll wake up to longing,
our children crawling across the wires
and our parents hammering nails
up their nostrils and into their brains.

One of these days
we’ll wake up to music,
aeolian harps of scaffolding
that cannot hold the city up.

The Greeks knew nothing
of any use to us.

My model airplanes never flew,
my model boats sank without trace.

One of these days
Benjamin will strut no more
and Lenny will do as he is told.

I know nothing of any use
to you.

One of these days
the future will be concluded.
We will wake up to nothing.

Mr. Deað woke from expiry with a pass
to extension—flipping cadavers like realestate
scams. How about a jellyfish slurpee
with that refinance? Lenny Benjamin
concedes that he stole a notable flaw
from Mr. Deað, here among the slow
states of shift. Why were they all wearing
ivory pendants? They have no use in the city,

nor in the neo-cortex of a brain in a jar.
When hypoxia hits, it hits hard. Jar or no jar.
Where are you from again? Legal. I sent
you a box of unborn pears to bring you back
to life. None of this is homeopathic. Bacteria
is an Deað, not Lenny Benjamin, not you, 
our next of kin, buffed with strong genes. 

The Lords and Ladies of Darkness
are scheming in their glass houses.
They are at breaking point.

Who will stop the lookout boy
from falling from the roof,
who decode the colours
of the Kaleidoscope Kid
who spins the wheel of fortune
withough ever asking
if he should?
                       He shouldn’t.
There is enough mystery
and confusion here already,
enough blurred faces
and wallflowers hugging
the past, enough to last
a lifetime, of only we had one
to spare.
                The continuing story
continues apace, it never ends
but we do have constant pauses
for comfort breaks and tea.
One lump or two?
                                Plenty of bruises
to spare, purple is the new black,
grey is a sign of defeat and death
as your skin fades and pale
spectres attend.
cannot hide your demise,
costumes can be stored
for future tales. The script
never seems to change.

The Lords and Ladies of Darkness
are screaming in their glass houses.
They are past the point of reason.

It’s late night at the Parliament of Ganglions
starring the Lords and Ladies of Darkness.
In dark airglow, zodiacal light
converts its space dust

into hot plasma—tesla magnetic dipoles
cubing the distance. In the occupied ecliptic,
their last enfant terrible
mocks the Zodiac Killer.

Why did their enfant terrible write this word?
His Orionid is able to lift a still-wet palm print.
He writes a 340 character cryptogram.
It is never decoded with exozodiacal dust.

All will be revealed
when you decode the dzesorathan.
Riches will be yours… the secrets
of time travel… how to seduce women…
to tell the  future and forget the past.

But try as you must you never will.
This is it, your cold life in rags,
limping from village to village.
Glass people in stone houses
should not throw ideas around.

Favour for a favour? Returns are traded
on one side of agree—the casting couch
of aspirants deemed unfair by an unruly

mob of dzesorathanians. Quickly release
the captives from personal gain, malice
and envy—the agreed upon formulaic

hum of slightly off congruence. Never
before the public nor as visionary quo.
On occasion as archfoe and uber-quid.

What is the estimated value of injury?
Me, I correspond in kind and degrees
of injury as here among the just. Lex

talionis. The just? Here’s a late crime
of living beyond ones peak and severe.
If only this made us felons newsworthy.

If, as if, the tit-for-tat eye of stolen guts
reinvented a new game. Then scamper
by the fixed value, the absolute, clearly

pure and blue and stretching its copper
tubes like wings in an afterworld of red
algorithms. They must land on someone.

I was exactly equal to me. Try wergilds.
Why not? Origin in Hammurabi is very
clearly used. I love for example. You?

We’ll strike against direct retributions.
They live for equity, as early as to grow
and less threatened by the social fabric

of wrongs, feuds and vendettas, serving
no one whose bound to be the sick bond
of the unsaturated least, limiting actions. 

[Insert an oblique reference here to the Porto Cesaro and the Old Gates of the Temple. Perhaps mention the 7000 Islands of Cthanoiah and the story of brave Michel, who visited them all in search of love he never found. He was a pioneer in chromatic studies, the nuances of colour, light and shade, how to camouflage the soul ready for the next life.

Alternatively, offer simple instructions on how to guide the bullet into the train journey of our lives, so that we are not derailed in our holy quest, can walk all the way to Paradise, or at least as far as Tanzikaar.

Maybe it is the place for a map of the finest tea rooms to be found in the sacred mountains? Or the oases in the deserts of Llitfronia? I could share the secrets of spiced tea, the rituals and preparations that turn dust and water into magical embrocations?

Or perhaps not. This is a different sort of adventure. Let us walk away alone.]

They upend mongrels—[belly-pale umpas]—[maggot crustaceans]—[wax swabs]—[mix-breed ticks]—[inserted obliquity to dispel rote]. I see, Louis, playing hard to get. Dispatch a parrot and lay white eggs from which hatch  altricial young. I love the floral nectar of progeny, sentenced to nest boxes in captivity. Barry, I’m not arguing with you. Whose knows about involuntary commitment statutes? Arthur pipes in—[what pet trade?]. We’ve bridged the chrysalis—[been reborn]—[some amniotic, embryonic fluid we are drinkingjust before the giddy illusion of death.] No, no. This is all wrong. The macaw eats a walnut. I thought they were parrots? No, they were red avian dinosaurs.

Who else could they send? Who else could be trusted? Long way for taxonomy? Go to work Michel. Nothing says what the fuck like a frogmouth. Cockatoos? Stop it! Try to imagine that this isn’t madness. Face it, we’re having a relapse,

an episode. The critics are throwing their teak breakfast trays out the window. Please call our panicked associate and start the dictation. [Psittacoidea as well as all members of the Cacatuoidea]—[a gall bladder in skull bones]—[scatters

light in such a way.] We’re consumed by overwhelming sensations or appetites. Our families are genera. Our families are buff-faced pygmies at under 10 g (0.4 oz) in weight and 8 cm (3.1 in) in length. It’s in our faces, our hair like a glaze,

a coating drenched in afterbirth. Please stop the stampede. Remember a please. Remember the downward curves of a full spectrum family. [Keratinized bills as bill-tipped organs]—[seeds or position nuts]—[their large heads]—[claws elongated]—[a high level of dexterity.] Together, we’ve just had two stunning moments of clarity, which can be lowered and raised at will. Have two notable exceptions—[our prominent feather neck frills are raised and lowered at will.]

Such will. Pure will. Warning Will Robinson. We will not live without you/we! These are our portals. They are fast and furious. They are powerful. Our plumes. Our plumage. These beautiful peacocks don’t speak. We come from the asshole

of an organism whose sole function is to excrete a poison, an exfoliant necessary to destroy the miracle of human life. Will we own our patina of shit coating the best part of our lives? Who did the same but gave them low prices? It will take the rest of our lives to undo. [One formerly occurred]. Take two deep cleansing breaths and set that notion aside. We are poorly understood. We are as nomads.We rage widely. Please use your bill to search for grub. Many cases consuming

the home rough the home. Our home, rather than two green seed dispensers. As potent a feeling as this may be, it must stand the test time and the time is now. How often do poisons protect them? When are their apt collaborations

finally a chemical war? We’re not sure what else we can tell you. We’ve told you everything. [Remove seed coats and other fruit parts.] Settle this case on a flight at midnight. The years have passed. [Brush tips to collect this source of food specialized in nectar]—[in perfume of a god]—[a diet made up of an insect.]  Give me something I can print. Are these poems defoliants? A cancer lingers above all else. Why allude to carcinogens? We hear pained narratives.

Wait, we are monogamous breeders. We have mini-me offspring. Our privilege is absolute, but we die every day. We are pending, unresolved. We will never have our day in court. [Parade or stately walk and the eye-blaze.]

I may have carpal tunnel. I wrapped my wrist in gauze. My thumb is numb. My genes are indices, long and radial half of the ring finger. I doubt we care. I doubt pain as simple as a wrist. The true poets kill their poem. Who the hell is the course of normal? The faucet is running. Let’s empty ourselves of whim. Give in Stanley. How about a year without beer? [See a carpometacarpal joint.] It’s good to see you again. I admit it. I bid that job. [Primarily, a numbness and so intense as to wake I/you from sleep.] Pain is electrophysiological. Nobody sleeps.