Rupert M. Loydell, NEW SWARMS

Untitled Drawing, image by Rupert M. Loydell 

NEW SWARMS

000010 111011 101011 1111011 11000010 101

1110010101 001 010101 010101 0111 000

101010 0011 1110 1111000011 1111000 01010

bbafde15      1ca95557     a8fbc3f0a

cloud chamber silence is now a destination

datacrime & broken people born in stagnation

mend my drone and orbit surveillance

3.78482017794E+288

can’t run but old time spirit pylons tune in

last hidden reflections in this dream room

drop savage circle well there you go

2ac949ddb     496714e0     9582a775

100101 01 100 00010101 001 1101 110101

01001 0010 110011 1000 101001 1100 000

1010101100 10 01 010010011 10111 01 1011

NUDE SWIMS

OUT OF THE MACHINE

killjoy apocalypse

tickertape mindset

numbers as text

and binary code

hexadecimal haiku

for future interface

positional discretion

quantum calculator

spacetime numerical bass

constantly unruly song

sub-string matrice disease

slub incinerator ash

octal daydream bypass

motor neurone scream

disco glove crescendo

anarcho-geek disguise

dictator machine demons

misery network screen

ahzaig oead aaar xzuoo

skko ofuun uxaf fdbjaa

LED indicator light

sensors detect motion

new test compiler 7134

standard alias mode

metahaven personnel

abandon escape room

—Rupert M. Loydell

Mark Scroggins, excerpts 44 and 45 from ZION OFFRAMP

Asphalt Scream, image by Nathan Spoon 

excerpts 44 and 45 from ZION OFFRAMP

44. Bath, Kelmscott, the Cotswolds

            Mute. Silent. Speechless or stopped

of speech. Trembling into

the tube, into the fractious turbid

wave. Compare at once

the varied siren patterns,

truck engine heaving and catching,

and sparseness of birds’ evensong.

            Night is drawing mute, nigh on

suffusing darkness. Wintering outside,

the can’s paint separates, pigment

sludge from wan skim-milk medium.

The mountains are moving, though not

by faith. Like semen the medium,

drooled over her knuckles and down

my thigh, drying on the boards

to pale gray streaks.

            the genius of the place

            lays itself out in framed

            ponds spreads across acres

            of lilies green pointed

            with blossoms

                        yew passages from room

            to room tousled

            and dry beds

            to sinks of color

            and scent cubes

            of standing heat

That duty remain the mystery

underneath, soil thrusting up

the yellow-stone cottages

and occasional church spires

folded into the hedge-crossed

hill; beneath the Georgian

streets, matrons slaves

and centurions spill out

their offerings to the polynymic

gods, regardless of etymology

or lingual decorum. Too much

time here, depressing and overheating

the clutch through the village

“high” street. I too would be

a hedonist, snatch the day

like a greedy toddler,

if not for the mute reproach

of those patient flowers

and stricken, emblematic

birds, repeated up and down

the walls to a dizzy intricate

fortissimo. The mulberries, fallen,

have bloodied the garden path;

take care not to tread them

into the house, stain the floors

and advertise our common fallenness.

This land stubbornly pays tribute

to Hope and Glory, endless procession

of Dutch and High German trainers

dusted with the dust of its lanes

and parterres. The walls, though! the walls

so hung with the elaborate

dervish-work of Isfahan, flowers

and leaves of Baghdad and Kirkuk.

Beneath the Parade Ground march

a regiment of cats and dogs, beloved, mourned.

45.

The sun dapples its way across

the garage’s asphalt

shingles, blotched green with moss

on the corner always in shadow.

After rain, the driveway seems

to steam, insect noises rising

into a momentary chorus.

There is no mystery to things.

Or, things are their own mystery.

The hall, darkened, stays cool

till nearly noon. Marks

of the McVeighs, marks of

the Marzullos: glow-in-the-dark

constellations on one ceiling;

sliding meathook in the basement;

unidentified brown stain on the baseboard

of the power-room; keys to no

known locks on a NASA keyring.

Localism of faith, or faith

as an affair of places. In the “smoking

room” of a Pennsylvania lodge,

where an old man introduced himself

as “the Creeper,” short he said

for “Creeping Jesus,” and offered

to share his weed. Turkish woman

on the Embarcadero, recalling

harvesting Latakia in her childhood.

The first time I saw our hostess

in Donaghadee, folding back

the rearview mirrors to thread

a driveway between stone walls.

The Mason jars on the cellar

shelves, their own mystery. My grandfather,

everyone said, was a drunk. My father’s

earliest memory, from a poor childhood,

was his mother’s thrifty weeping, picking the shards

of glass from the mess

of a broken jar of peanut butter.

(Golden Pond, Kentucky.) I knew

him only from jaunty youthful

or grimly middle-aged photographs. (Golden

Pond, or Fungo. Bait shops, a saloon,

cafés. A pool gleaming in the dawnlight,

or sprinkled with dust to spark

and erstaz bullion rush. Now

Ghost Town, site, highway marker.)

The wrong road, in a place without roads.

Was there a pattern underneath everything,

a map to plot the slobbering eccentricities,

the happy, satisfied mean? If the middle road

is best, how to find it

            without a decent map

            a decent GPS?

Another level down, huddled

to the ground, damp stone and halogen,

fluorescent light, the night pressing

in a chorus of insects.

            Summer’s last days trail off

into opening autumn: what, after all,

makes a suburb? The spiral jetty,

the triptych read from left

to right: yet once more, to the sound

of the wheezing harmonium, little

Matty Groves beds his master’s wife,

wheedles a sword into his hand,

lies down in blood.

—Mark Scroggins

Colin Winborn, malicious software

Nucleus 4, image by Nicola Winborn

malicious software

it is the lamp of the soul   in tampa

we eyed stingrays   pinging dots dwarfing

some splendour spread   we eagled full

deal with it   three for one   offer hours run

rings around   our star bucks  our latte aria

carried in vespers   frothy whispers

my cup overblown rose from    rise    tried

tubular notes   string days   like alice said

ten decent weddings    decimated tentacle

fall as fallow  ah, but   arthbuthnot  or

costner’s water   whirled  stirring   decades

later it lifts  riffs     to dolphinaria   far

off mountains   ‘cinched in with’    visioning

rote areas to escape   slowly   state aporia

—Colin Winborn

Casimir Wojciech, Atomos

Operetta for Ikarus by Magda Blasinska

Atomos

I.

cyclic

maneuvers relevate circuitry, floored

of fixation

if i stand on the ceiling

of my teeth &

scream

flux))

a territorial mandate—

leave, the television running

leave the television, running

: luminous revelations

through filament of exegeses, leprous

tetra esteem theory of worlds

unified

in aquariat, looking

…swimmers ear

third-eye omnivisions

, break

((wait

second-hand

tell the scales

shake the dust

tell the mouth

kiss my urn

out of water / out of body / out of time

(in the stairwell smoking everything

white and hot) (who sees inside

from out, etc.)

II.

i saw a canopy smoldering

by the under pass

i saw two owls oscillate

my circumference

i saw a bike frame lifted

in the wind

i saw 1,000 monarchs memorize

viscerable waters

i saw folded hands become helix

i saw Melchizedek steal

his name back

i saw their masks reek 

singularity

i saw the animus forsake

rheologic

divine &

III.

—departure, until: of

bursts to the world

see abundance

where

see dislocation

where

see asphyxia

where

see convention

, stand under

mandible nascency

in utero in sight  occulted

exits, tombs of compliance

rid further

then. confiscated

 in linears

((i would

remain &

never say

so

—Casimir Wojciech

                                     

Adeena Karasick, excerpts from The Book of Lumenations

From Checking In II

Jim Andrews and Adeena Karasick

excerpts from The Book of Lumenations 

EICHA II

She has not dismembered her footstool in the days of her hunger

And in the ache of asylum

I have bent my bow

framed in the anchor of candied dalliance –

screaming in strung shadows, revenance

where limning sutures, festooned in sunshift

Lie with me

in the illicit quiver

of knotted conscience

Languish

through whispered harbors’

pressed exile

among evening’s inheritance;

the providence of slipped

semes slants

sucking twilight

of latticed scatter

Lie with me

in our ash-starred silence

constellated

in the riveted drifts

And suck the sting of sun clung lettered-skin as I open my mouth

wide against you; ink gnashed

in the twinned ignition of scar-studded scripts

And behold, the stretched vestige of sprayed hunger

whose singing fingers devour

in the petulance of choked zones

slain in the scored synchrony of

slung slaughter

summoning as though it were a feast day

sprawled in the dandle

of the rippled signs

of chorused dawn

EICHA III

Bled like a maiden of wrecked darkness, netted inlets

of ripped dyssemia, fleshy sequiturs, wisteria, the taste of broken bans –

Hail the billow of campy siege, the truance of giddy travaille

And make me dwell in the darkened wreckage of feverish dread

In the censored resonance of pliant heaves;

The plated shudder of my parade.

Burn me in the binding bias in torqued harrow.

For I am woke in the swindled aperture of fibrous light;

And I am giddy with shaded want in the quiescence of ludic clues

Naked with his yoke in my mouth

Let him sit sultry for he has laid upon me

Let him put his mouth into the dust

Let I offer his check to the smitten

Let him be filled with peaches

The load is my potion to those who wait;

oh scissored will!

of sculpted affliction, curled indices,

lurid creases

Who has come

in the undulance of unassailable labor

Come unfenced

in the screaming revenance

Covet me with elastic assertions,

re-forested signs, heaving gardens annexed

with foaming rupture

Make me come

in the refuse among the precipice

in the amnesty of opening

rapt in the shadowed torrent

Of hushed slaughter, peepholes

Eyestreams

In the tell of the luring

And say: lick dawn.

In the frame of hushed lobbies

Suck solace in the eros of my city

Haunted with borders

And fine me in the engine of our demise

And cast satin upon me

Water my flowing head  -- and cut me

in the dripping petulance

Hear my vestibule in the hiding of your signatum

Drawn near in the call of farce

You have seen the ringing dalliance the jagged closets

You have seen the nexus of varnished device

You have heard the silty ode of tainted sway

Formed in swelled speech hammered

in the ferocity of mourning; ground with fitful defiance

As you police me in the milk of daybreak

Grazed in the hunger of dusty flummox.

EICHA IV

Riddled in thick drift

and drunk with iniquity

Whose balletic thirst

is clasped

in the synomymy

of their yaysay, purer than sinew, and wet with dusk

ruddier than choral, sapphire, milking crimson syrups

sifted riffs of spilt surfeits

Whose skin a

buttered vortex of fruited

folds fluted affinities

of ripened whim

crowned in syllabic aberrance

and punctuated with ferocity?

Who’s echoed in the disquiet of fiery salutes

as tongue-torqued sucked cleaves –

whose contours of thirsty flourish

lather in the inhabitants of

herded words?

And who frames the humming grafts

of grinding ligatures

whose prophecy pressed

in the witness of

blind stagger?

And through trysty cirques, censures

garmented in letters

who’s calling out in the fingered folly

of lasooed swoonsay

through frisson, flares

slips, lapsed, mounting rapt

in the stop-watched sap scored arias

of purring rigor?

***

Whose ruched ramparts

mount in the

cradled bouquet

whose drenched thresholds

of pursed favor

flutter in

whose fluted impasse

compassed in whose haunted walls

whose licked chambers

kissed in the porosity

of luxuriant exposure

***

And anchored in slung sun-sucked spurs

succor’s prurience

in the province of curled lure.

whose chorused encore courts

as quilled squall coils

in scarred culled, ques, calling

And in the raging contagion of the yoked hurrah!

You say umlaut, I say amulet.

Is the emolument an emollient today?

ameliorated --

Canopy. Canapé.

Pomato. Mutata.

Is the error a mirror?

*

Here, her

in mired err

whose scar

is clear

Hear her / here / his hire

as ire / wears err’s

shared prayer / where

care is rare

in

her

vey iz mir

tears shmear

where fear

is clear

as mirrored ire / error

where flared air

colored

in your care

*

And as care curls / in her swirled whorl’s

spurred leurre / stirred

spur of porous lore

whose flurried furies fiery forêts folly, flayed fray

in the ripped wrought

of sobbing lot

whose fiery fuhrer folly foray flares

in the florid leure of lore’s floor

of soaring horror –

in the raging contagion

lips slip rapt lapse sic ops

lopped wrought / raw lot

In the black and unyielding light

alight in its own shivering dream

The light of fat language.

The light of stretched testing, widening hips.

The light of untidy probes which smells like

gags

thievery

acrobats

dancing bears

The light which reeks of

the light of the light that will not leave.

That I cannot write; that falls in its carrying

In the killing of its crushing, its clinging

and its excesses and its masks.

This is the light which lifts up and travels

from one word to another grimaces

in the torment of its hardening.

In its emptiness. In its own contamination.

Buried without madness. Drowning

in its own inexplicable cry.

And this is the light that does not write,

does not speak but in nightmares.

In the death of its enunciation

which rises, swells in indefatigable profusion;

in immediacy and madness. In hysterical

profusion. This light of doors, thresholds,

capacities, amplitudes, omissions and promises

de[p]ths and pleasures. That trembles

with tension. Stretched

in the torment of glyphs.

glas. gloss / glossary rasps lisps

in its missing. The light of the light

of the letter screaming

in the nostalgia of the present

CHECKING IN II

Thin Lizzy is watching her carbs

Fatwa is doing a cleanse

The Pre-Pesach Jew is clearing her cookies

Alfred Hitchcock is using Windows

The Smoker, the joker and the mid-night toker are wanting a vape
Old Man Beaver is wanting a 5 cent cigar
Loves Labor is Lost

Microsoft is getting hard

Form is wet with Content’s Dream

This content is not available

The Alte Kacker is with Kathy Acker

The Spy Who Loved Me is using Malware

The World Wide Web is at The W

The Cocteau Twins are at the Double Tree

The Giving Tree is dead

Hamlet’s Ghost is reading the Phenomenology of Spirit

Chick Corea is at the Tequileria

Deus ex machina is Raging Against itself

Florence and the Machine like this

E & G are saying F off

Happy Man is at Friendlies

Oh Fernando is at Nando’s

The Long, Long Sleeper is Woke

*

The sin-qu-a-non is overflowing

bp nichol is sinking in sin’s kin

Lynyrd Skynyrd is in the skin i live in 

Roland Barthes is with his exes[s]

driving a polished lexis

Emily XYZ is reading ex why zee

Bold italics are refusing to move into an upright position

The Riddler is with the Fiddler

The Saudi is driving an Audi

Siouxsie is eating sashimi.

Sad Boy’s Sad Boy is playing with his enWii

Kant is looking for Duty Free

**

Wynken, Blynken and Nod are at Sleepy’s

Gertrude Stein is at an airbnb

John Ashberry is where black swansdown settles on the city

William Butler Yeats is where the Inn is free

Yes Man is in the Noosphere

Google is mapping the territory

Narcissus is using his selfie stick

The House of Pancakes is waffling  

Aer Lingus is serving vaniglia

The Disillusioned Lover is enjoying some secondary Orality

Ludwig Beethoven and Ludwig Wittgenstein are now friends

Fed Ex is totally “shipping” this

525,600 minutes are at Midnight Moment

The Sixty Minute Man is reading The Hours

Minute Maid is taking minutes

Time is on your side

Copper and aluminum are exposing their inner mettle

The excluded middle likes this

Dirty Concretists are overwriting

Van Gogh is eating a mango

The pedagogue is in the synagogue

The luddite is going analog

and says binary code is such a USER

The system is closed.

—Adeena Karasick