Sunday, June 26, 2016

Greg Fiddament, Blue

Blue Pod of the Anthropoid, image by Daniel Y. Harris 


Blue partial connections,
equal requirement
to the in-breath.
Fact’s never-ending rejections,
leading you anywhere
@light speed.

The globe,
knowledge’s lightbulb,
starting to sprout.
Summer number-one.
Others even less.
Fractions of zero.

into the blue
tunnelled view.
going on
without you.

A gain
that adds up
to a loss.
Ruling out
all that is not.
On to nothing.

and free to choose
here or there.
Web weaver

True blue,
new blue,
glue blue.
pulling you in
then setting.

Where will it end?
When it doesn’t.
Spindle thin,
thread’s engine
sinking its thorns in,
every single spin.

Blood shot
blue veins.
leading the eyes
to the mind and follow,
every broken-down vertical,

Peptides and receptides,
ebb and flood.
calling it swimming.

Virtual emersion
containing all known tones,
as well as the unknown.
Combinations alone
for diversion.

Blue of flame,
blue in name,
and blue again.
The only way
a change(ing).

—Greg Fiddament

Saturday, June 25, 2016

Sarah Cave, wearing (cassocks)

                Slava Tree, image by by Irene Koronas  

wearing (cassocks)

Trees state
ecologists, seen
illegally wearing
will bring the bear
Seraphim fed  
to factory natural
value Eastern
forest whereas distant
parliament commands
land approval earth yoke
to spill across worn
haircloth landscape

Giant Slava Spruces seek loan
of traditional nuns for plantation
a forest neck proposal to officials
who keep their branches blessed
and virtuous outer trees stylized
a letter – remarking ‘you’re not
using them, let them be of use’
bark strips sold off need counsel
a Moscow-bearer delivers returns
wooden priests    
                       their faces stripped

Wooden priests
make difficult
of Bishop’s 
by metre

Monks bestow a private
previous company
deliver their
wordless decrees
their covered shoulders
create private profit
Slava wears his cobbled
law hat, an important cowl
that reveals no more than
20% of his religious neck
ready to be scrutinised
by bureaucrats

Slava fells nuns
recalls encounters
Boris fixed the focus
on the tree line
the country’s canopy
white noise above
the hidden places
where winter
sports are exported

—Sarah Cave

Thursday, June 23, 2016

Joel Chace, Culled Rain #3

Culled Rain #3, visual poetry by Joel Chace. 
Joel Chace's collection, Culled Clues is forthcoming from TLPress.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Wayne Mason, Anonymous Windows

Windows in Anon, image by Daniel Y. Harris 

Anonymous Windows

              Ambivalent radio like long downtrodden depression. Purgatories
              build graveyards. We watch
   the clock as text. Sound as irreconcilable
         new devices.

Deconstruction with noise.
             tangible. Abstract) Much an unmarked post-structuralist.

 Spontaneous insidious volume. Here word measures the meekness and reckless
        linear infinity. What the consciousness?

           Define consciousness. Then both
    abstract) displacement.

              Sound bending multiplying a thread and slow eternity rang comfortably
    through manipulation.

I poetic by default.

I quiet anonymous windows.

                      I was simply this. I experimented with
                 existing violence?
Cryptic viruses back lit our Yin? Inscribed space grasps way founding occurred in the space
          for a physical contra(diction)

We were homogenized deconstructing art.

                            traps concerned by space

I and apathy

            Fill the deep void
                     squeezing out

     That arbitrary volume to silent
      ambivalent radio with an

entirely different vocabulary

—Wayne Mason

Sunday, June 19, 2016

Charlie Onions, (to Greece, since low)

Wawtchem Trundlin, image by Irene Koronas

(to Greece, since low)

I say too much and frolic too little and too gallantly over verb virtual seeing and saying. FUCK ME.

STUNNER STUNNER TRIM me until I’m purebred in cinema romance with the head up and gasping for un-liquid hegemony puss mount me times. In the thunder and rain we stall it all for the secondary consumer. Music is a run-up and we are slaves to the slide on your lonely housewife mother’s inhibitions utter and discarded.


Boy see here now I’m crushed up into my inner. How rude, how full, how silent and fucked. Rummage into it; isolate, ruminate, collect a collected collector that sups to fountain water like the swan bitch in that gold Greek sky. From it one tours, grafts a Boeing born through my oh me, little solid and grey boy child of the shit meal.

Down from above.

Seethe with me, thrift off the dull ‘uns – ‘wawtchem trundlin’ cunt’. Boy child be the heroism inject that’s therein needed. ‘I can’t, I’m all sumptuous these days, you see I CRAVE these days hun!’

I should very much like to stop with all this but the crush in your roots halt me.

I’m going to estimate, Dockley, that I will maintain significant vigilance with my future children. I should very much like to torch their brows with a stare, slip under with a jest; ruin them.          

Cynic in the windmill, the tide up shocked and awed to frowns. Mum will die. Dad will die. Think on hun, craze none for us. Violin the midday, tear at the sash that stache’s men on the paves. Spain through their veins, chant out in death wail. Armies hun, armies. Other Mums will die and other Dads will die. To Zion hopefully miss, to there I wish a flight. I would like to sequence Spain into the next five of my years, reconcile with those family members I thoroughly dislike, only to dash them beneath as neglected spice packs in noughties kitchens.

I caught, on passing racks, a slimmer guaranteed billionaire loneliness chanced before up-sticks, so to speak as master plagiarised a Los Angeles executive creep on Mondays. No slap but sticky bomb Tuesday blues of sky dredges and upside down balloons.

To many an imperfect ease, but ram them straight-legged and chinless, ‘cause the imperfect reigned on me with A-bomb efficiency and luscious brazen shades of never mind Sundays with this. I hooked on, catching hard swift sock-puppet kink amidst pubic stereo slippers and a herd of shite.

Jack’s inside but I feel smoked up on the exterior; pulsating salad-tossing tip-toe cracked actor brilliance, thinking of what to think, how to think, which pullover to avoid and when to stop loving things. Dead-tracked – BOOM.

—Charlie Onions

Friday, June 17, 2016

Rupert M. Loydell, MIRACLE STATION

Miracle Station, image by AC Evans 


Sphinx lightning suddenly
backlit the skeleton rain
as the greyness dissolved.

Love notes from the future
are all I have left of you,
the dust you left behind.

There is a place for your,
for my, for our, self-obsession
and compulsive disorder.

I am the protagonist
and you were my lover.
Now, the sun is still.

Honeysuckle, I am
thinking of you, exhaling
lust in the plural.

I breathe but you don't.
We sing makeshift shanties
to pass our time together,

are guided by the blind
toward ascension and
sound embodying space.

There is no room for flesh,
no place for the soul.
Abstain from life,

it is too perplexing,
like paintings about paint
or the kettle and teapot

nailed to the gallery wall.
This is the passing point,
with little room for manoeuvre,

this is where life flowers
and towers of emotion fall.
You are my kaleidoscope girl,

the splinter of light in my eye.
I am comfortably accomplished
at making yesterday better.

Hyacinth, your memories fade
in the smoke and mirrors of desire,
fields of fire across the land.   

Rupert M. Loydell


Martian Interlude I, image by AC Evans 


I Balloon Time
Basque string garter sapphire silk
Satin and gold
Brassy barmaids reeking of Crème Shalimar
Right kiddies, its balloon time!
Wanna surprise? Just tap the app!
The following report contains some extremely distressing scenes:
Oooh, wow! Look at that!
Escape from the city, and say Goodnight Vienna…
Scorching shots of babes in outlandish tracksuits
And slinky, silk-mix crop tops.

II Momentos Magicos
Dealing with all these stray landings and sex kittens
Is thirsty work, I tell you, I kid you not,
But such momentos magicos, when a Robot Ripper
Hits town, it’s like no place on Earth (it isn’t).
They call it ‘Vienna’, a crazy, neon venue
On the third moon of some godforsaken, far away planet,
Where underground spaces have so many secrets, like
Shady caverns where everything gets fun and flirty, and
Miss Titfer Tat serves up a hot scandi with raw emotion.
Crumbly mascara? Way too shy to say ‘hi’?

III Flicka Vee
Re-tune that up-to-the-minute chat technique,
Concentrate on map reading, all day every day.
She looked rather swotty and clever in those cat eye specs.
Snappy clappy? I’m good! You?
(Stop me if you’ve heard this one).
Nice little squirmer, the chirpy, cheeky barman thought,
As, with a cheesy grin, he shook another cocktail.
There he was, putting the tease into the teaser,
Explaining invisible mending to our feisty
Warrior queen space cadet, Flicka Vee, and –

IV The Darkstar Celeste
She loves it here,
This is a deep controlled zone, stylish bedrooms and much more,
Including obscure vision-enforcement cameras,
Sub-woofs, strobes, and parquet under the arches with live convergence.
Visions of Ulrika lit up the Panavision-Cinerama-Stealth-Moon-Holistic
You- know-what, so what?
I’ve got a cosmic headache, she moaned suggestively, looking out for
The Darkstar Celeste looming towards us from the Ring of Junk.
Moody underground dance floor jiving Pom Pom Club clubbers
Stagey bandstands with handstands – quite a show, speed along now!

V A Shot of Old Peculiar
We’re back on the road after a swift encounter with Magda Heartthrob.
Finally a bit of a no-no, all those axe-throwing punks and right-on geezers,
But gives the adrenalin a turbo boost – just what the doctor ordered,
After a tip-top warp drive speed dating workshop and a shot of Old Peculiar.
She’s hopelessly addicted to the hidden garden round the back with
Future nostalgia opening soon: ales, stouts, oysters and a sinister, one-eyed
Chap with a barrel organ and a fine line in ribald double entendres,
A Grand Parade of fine wines and parties with multi-drop drivers.
Do something amazing today: write a thrilling bonk-buster, all solemn and
Emotional: it makes the news even more shocking.

VI What Are You?
Get ‘The Look’, get a life,
This Vienna thing means nothing you know;
Nothing to me – nothing to you.
Your words not ours.
Low cut strappy top, Tween Angels, and
A Lotto Gran, and, yes!
The sexiest trainee barista this side of the Outer Planets,
Blonde girl in beanie and hoodie, double trouble,
You’re just a backless loafer, what are you?
Let’s get outta here!  

—AC Evans

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Felino A. Soriano, excerpts from Of this Momentum Song

Ho|ma|ge to Decommissioned Sincerity, image by Daniel Y. Harris 

Of this Momentum Song (fifty-eight)

                          “Creativity is not simply a property of exceptional people but an exceptional property of all people.”
                                                          —Ron Carter        

                               We memorized
                             what Bass did, what
                                  it said against
                                an hour’s interro-
                                    gating hand.  The
                              paradigmatic structure:
                                      an act of delicate
                          diligence: a purposeful
                            confirmation, pulled
                             in secrets the body
                                strands in sectioned
                       pushing from fingers’
                      surname, initiating
                                        birth.  Said
                         of it a smallness of
                        sound.  Heard of it a
                            halved memory
                             located my hand’s
                          touching of italicized
                                            syllables.  To
                     memorize is to act
                   upon the mirror’s
                       constant appearance,
                                           a shine-flash
                   fulcrum of abbreviated
                 sound hears no
                     mention tomorrow
                                     will mis-
                  read.  Bravery is trust
                 in what the tongue
                    unravels through you.  Is
                  an open windowed devoted
                      premise—language hearsay,
               language upended. 
                                  Measuring what
                hears us.  Resting to inward
               all sound, radial,
                 leveled.  Permissive the
               breath is an exalted
                  persuasion.  We’ve
                                    heard it all,
                                             heard what
                                      detonates within

                     the fleeing wing design,
                  momentum of this
                       hour’s fragrant


Of this Momentum Song (fifty-nine)

          To where the sky-whispered
        hangs in the sudden
            blur we warm with eyed
          rhythm: bond going there
            to the bottom of
         its presence.  Night, here
      is a shade lighter
           than when we walk
       the sway of moving
    gradations.  Symptoms
        heal through revelations—
     what forms behavior
    in the winged and throated
       message.  Music re-
     moves me, moves me
                      into what
      fixates on my following,
  my pulse’s compulsive
       invitation to rendition
    as in Lightning’s articulate
               splay and
 untouched, over-
  extended heat up.  Here
is where we read
 these languages,
                these nuanced
  fathoms of predetermined,
 sequenced speech, configured
   memories of what
  meaning is among
                   sections of
     the tongue’s
  unused revelry. 

    Friction warms
  us during Noon’s midday
 sleeping.  Softened with
    extended play virtue.  Record
   sequence, voice clarity
    of this spring’s vocal
  light plum evidence...
                      we travel
   dexterous in what
     happenstance unravels.

          Partitioned sounds
   segregate nouns’ version
      of what portends the
    composite silhouettes.  Two
  are of our conjoined
      ongoing, our


enunciations of why we
  are here, are ongoing

                      positions of

      what enables and stays
  in the stilled interpretation
    of the music’s upward

                               upward frequency of


Of this Momentum Song (nearly-sixty)

         among these bodies
  among the mothers’
          now silent.  Sent
into a type of hiding:
  each face a con-
 figured motive to
     isolate from Light’s
                       mention of
   involved observation 

—Felino A. Soriano