Greg Fiddament, Blue

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

Blue

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.

Continued…

into the blue

tunnelled view.

Acceptingly,

going on

without you.

A gain

that adds up

to a loss.

Ruling out

all that is not.

On to nothing.

Hyper-locked

and free to choose

accordingly,

here or there.

Web weaver

adventure.

True blue,

new blue,

glue blue.

suckered,

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,

split-diminishing.

Link-hit.

Peptides and receptides,

ebb and flood.

Hardened,

drowning,

calling it swimming.

Virtual emersion

drone

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

remains,

a change(ing).

—Greg Fiddament

Sarah Cave, wearing (cassocks)

                Slava Tree, image by by Irene Koronas  

wearing (cassocks)

Trees state
ecologists, seen
illegally wearing
(cassocks),
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
clerics symbolic
destruction
of Bishop’s 
embroidered

mitre
proclaimed
endangered
by metre

Monks bestow a private
previous company
deacons 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

Joel Chace, Culled Rain #3

Culled Rain #3, visual poetry by Joel Chace. 

Joel Chace's collection, Culled Clues is forthcoming from TLPress.

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.

                   Things

             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.

Radio

                            traps concerned by space

I and apathy

            Fill the deep void

                     squeezing out

  sound

     That arbitrary volume to silent

         

      ambivalent radio with an

entirely different vocabulary

—Wayne Mason

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.

BOOM BOOM BAP.

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

Rupert M. Loydell, MIRACLE STATION

Miracle Station, image by AC Evans 

MIRACLE STATION

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

AC Evans, SPEED DATING IN VIENNA

Martian Interlude I, image by AC Evans 

SPEED DATING IN VIENNA

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

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

                                                     strum-pause

                              paradigmatic structure:

                                      an act of delicate

                          diligence: a purposeful

                            confirmation, pulled

                             in secrets the body

                                strands in sectioned

                                                pulses

                       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

                                                           representation

                                                

Of this Momentum Song (fifty-nine)

          To where the sky-whispered

                                    music

        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

                             away

                                 from

       the sway of moving

    gradations.  Symptoms

        heal through revelations—

                            through

     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

     quick-stretch

               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

                            mirror’s

    composite silhouettes.  Two

  are of our conjoined

      ongoing, our

                                              decisive

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

meaning

Of this Momentum Song (nearly-sixty)

   Death

         among these bodies

  among the mothers’

    solace

          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