Saturday, December 29, 2018

Rupert M. Loydell, NEW SWARMS

Untitled Drawing, image by Rupert M. Loydell 


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


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



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

Friday, December 28, 2018

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.


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

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

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

Sunday, December 9, 2018

Casimir Wojciech, Atomos

Operetta for Ikarus by Magda Blasinska



maneuvers relevate circuitry, floored
of fixation

if i stand on the ceiling
of my teeth &


a territorial mandate—

leave, the television running
leave the television, running

: luminous revelations
through filament of exegeses, leprous

tetra esteem theory of worlds
in aquariat, looking

…swimmers ear
third-eye omnivisions
, break



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.)


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 
i saw the animus forsake

divine &


—departure, until: of
bursts to the world

see abundance
see dislocation
see asphyxia
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

—Casimir Wojciech

Wednesday, December 5, 2018

Adeena Karasick, excerpts from The Book of Lumenations

From Checking In II

excerpts from The Book of Lumenations 


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

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


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


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


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.


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

vey iz mir
tears shmear
where fear
is clear

as mirrored ire / error
where flared air
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

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


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