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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