tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-112134432012-01-22T07:56:54.147Zre GrOOmIng Brim for ArChiveC Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11950053072248270770noreply@blogger.comBlogger48691100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-12451492103150973622008-11-08T16:52:00.001Z2008-11-08T16:52:31.876Z

poet runneri left the airportmade a beeline to the futureno one was waitingworld fell asleepwoke up undergroundwhere the fountain flows backwardswhere distortion turns the keysin my cellscrambled my thingsgrew mad wingslift off union square redemptionmade a pactwe bend to our spacekissed our timewith indigo lipspoet anticipatedthe proverbial misunderstandingthe petty mindset phenomenonhuman

Billynoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-89843852061764195062008-11-08T02:20:00.001Z2008-11-08T02:20:41.689Z

What black wolf waits in the grove? He does not tire of waiting. And so not unlike my soul, he crouches down and listens. He is not alone but is alone; his purpose joins him to his pack. My soul a shadow to other shadows cast and breaking loose to capture what is found.

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-1591546107255171322008-11-08T00:47:00.000Z2008-11-08T00:48:25.531Z

This afternoon, the verses read, every poet questioning the glare of sunlight, the black-footed night, the wild-purple iris (why are they considered wild with such a gentle disposition?) Today I vow to leave my worries to the air, the fragile frightened moths who search for freedom, the struggling worm who works to move the heavy rocks that keep him buried. And if I have a soul today, I'll let it

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-62098130621334784002008-11-07T20:09:00.001Z2008-11-07T20:10:42.637Z

Red Boldfacenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-6737049584115147852008-11-07T16:52:00.000Z2008-11-07T16:52:25.635Z

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-71831969888854900992008-11-07T16:49:00.000Z2008-11-07T16:49:24.029Z

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-25098132272373792602008-11-07T08:29:00.000Z2008-11-07T08:30:34.761Z

lisa bebinoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-43082461883510760732008-11-07T02:17:00.003Z2008-11-08T00:03:28.068Z

Once I told you "we were cut from the same cloth". Your sleepy eyes, your father fury, the quiet blindness of your dreams. How could I know your threads were loose, your heart re-coiled and I was left with nothing but a child's balloon cut free. Now I weep and sew, a seamstress with an old and fading coat with scissors merciless and honed to wear another winter though the fibers never join.

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-64815854940824209112008-11-07T01:09:00.002Z2008-11-07T01:30:18.427Z

It was like this at one time:no heaviness, just emptied infinity.When we mature, instinctively reachingfor an anchor, we learn the burdenof gravity- a body falling down,creatures with wings that were nevermeant to fly, the weight of luggagecarried onto the train stuffed witheverything we are; how we pulland fight to stay grounded.In the "underside" of weight and slownessa part of us exists-

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-54177427660413600222008-11-06T19:02:00.002Z2008-11-06T19:02:50.732Z

Micknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-83627372290764385562008-11-05T03:56:00.000Z2008-11-05T03:57:10.172Z

I have completed what I set out to do today... first, I listened to voices that promised me struggle. Not everyday but this day, fog rolling in, the sound of winter in the distance. Next, I interrogate the world- who are you? why am I allowed to live? Why do you keep me from sleeping? Apparently, there is more joy in mystery than fear. Then the pages open, the door swings wide. All

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-48819495065666743072008-11-04T21:45:00.000Z2008-11-04T21:46:02.762Z

darkness begins a Monday out of it fell the frost on plants and objects real or human-made     why curse the white sheet on your wind shield because your ancestors moved about and chose or not to settle in this wondrous place both très chaud et très froid—here comes winter the cave of our local history twice visited for work today still didn’t look or feel like home where i should be winds off

Joe Bladesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-85454742366440593162008-11-03T13:53:00.002Z2008-11-03T13:59:00.510Z

flightpathin the burning airthis is the tug's dinearly   9n3 sleepwalkers  scoop pumpkinsphinx gone purgatoryfaint translucent spiderarm of rorqualNovember starsobedientwet Yorkiebarksomeother grave

michaelnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-81756961000801128512008-11-03T06:35:00.000Z2008-11-03T06:36:38.272Z

Substantially plump Beck Madigan intoned, ‘Jesus to God almighty, move from the stairwell, my dear man, I abjure you, ex pluribus dais!’ Razor stropped and held aloft Madigan rinsed the washwater from the crone of his face and smiled, ‘Tis a day for mollycoddling and slight-of-footing, be cautious, dear men, to sidestep poor recently deceased Passy’s gravestone, in lieu of flowers, a nice tardy

Stephen Rowntreenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-44473989999437212952008-11-03T02:50:00.002Z2008-11-03T03:06:56.946Z

Like so many, she stayed hidden; like the dead, disguised beneath their granite stones. Inside her ribs a gem-like flesh pounded joy, the music of her distant home. At night, summer moths flocked beneath her window, each one a tiny version of her own addiction to the flame; wings tattered, burned could hardly lift her up again. To most people the world is filled with longing; to her the darkness

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-32688896184252774592008-11-03T02:49:00.002Z2008-11-03T02:50:04.909Z

Micknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-91134034190566238732008-11-02T05:00:00.004Z2008-11-02T06:48:12.886Z

I have given you reasonto turn back; no one likes himself in the past.Even nature re-visitsitself, attentive tothe weather's cycles-a tulip bulb sleepingunencumbered by history.You should have loved me.O how you could haveloved me! Like the bladeof a knife, like a machine gunon the battlefield.But this is not paradise.And though the wolves arebeautiful and tender, their teeth are not strangersto

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-3551790627153009082008-11-02T02:41:00.003Z2008-11-02T03:11:32.931Z

Of the garden (what gardenfulminating weeds) where oncewas frail sprout, white roseshaded by paternal oaks-my soul shriveled by heat,by absent hands and rusted tools. The metal tongueof dirt and ore sucking outlife's thick, green fluids;darker fingers still, shredthe vines, a trellis to anotherworld. Of memory the plump facedmoon looks down through fogand rain as if it were a quiet shellpoking

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-1659534411322032032008-11-01T14:01:00.001Z2008-11-01T14:04:36.801Z

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-58116121727430821612008-10-31T22:42:00.003Z2008-10-31T22:58:07.722Z

right where i left it!and here now

drosspriddlenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-14568295557233274532008-10-31T04:28:00.004Z2008-10-31T04:53:17.198Z

Where I came from: outlinedin flames, beautiful orange-steel cooled inmother's milk. Open-mouthedand trusting, circles of motion and color. Who I am presently: now white-chaos, blind, restless,lived in; travelingin terror. Making storiesso quickly like woundsin a car collision. What I will be: black-rotted,wood-flesh, collapsed, condensed,unreal. Earth, hair, bones, nails.Soil soaked memories.

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-49825940265366645212008-10-30T15:35:00.000Z2008-10-30T15:36:38.505Z

I aint use to calling you bitchBut you want to hear it from me.Many men have done you wrongBut baby I’m a modern made ofAn old fashion wonder in the fairest sex.Lady woman, my penis is a penThat writes your name in spermsAnd these lost sons caught in the tip of a rubberAre all ways ready to swim toward the Egg of tomorrow.You want me to call you bitchBut it’s a bullet that I can not spendI will

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-29729981316939114292008-10-30T01:27:00.001Z2008-10-30T01:27:26.749Z

Legislated marsh, with wind across a moment finding torrents of last hour battering some compost and the organisms under a rock, till the chill refers to some class of registration, the sun almost over the trees but untouched, a drill into the same trusting note of change, poised for a the fall of leaves into the full sky, marking a history that rolls, powered by increments of colour turning

Allennoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-15344007251893012112008-10-29T18:03:00.007Z2008-11-03T08:49:39.777Z

______________ The students scamper to and froas I count the pleats on thighs.Large or small appendagesbounce towards some fullness.My mind is bent and batteredby the shapes and sexy scenarios.Not young enough to trip into acceptance,I taper my desire for youthfulnesswith thoughts of another chance.To caress the casual lovereffortlesslybecause I am but flesh;but if my mind has a motiveit is

Pembinanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-49557210503039000712008-10-29T14:23:00.000Z2008-10-29T14:23:28.573Z

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-9902010793432571702008-10-29T07:44:00.003Z2008-10-29T07:48:53.955Z

L'expérience, ainsi que les vérités issues de certaines traditions nous disent que le comportement humain peut être modifié.Experience, and truths from certain traditions tell us that human behaviour can be modified.And I'd really like to believe that. Will we persis as a group in our destructive activities as those for which we are globally responsible?I rather think so!...Et j'aimerais

daniel guimondnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-83432147607343091462008-10-28T05:11:00.003Z2008-10-28T09:13:42.868Z

What is it that holds you backfrom me? I was already yours,waiting to hear your voicein a sea of voices, to knowyour face as if it were my own,each habitual trace of your bodyan enduring memory. Now everyday you are moving awayfrom me, a great bird disappearinginto a halo of cloud; the last sound,the final sound (I cannot say yours or mine)a call, a cry or howl.

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-69506851618604229252008-10-28T04:48:00.002Z2008-10-28T04:51:12.125Z

see the washman, under the snowtakes me back to the rageof walking on the dime, that riverstrolling to the rocks, the ungodly,the house was strung on the bluffsthe washed nature of memories.mind fill the house with dislocatedpurpose. that image mezmerizes.("you got a plughole—I'm not looking at anything")

The Wordmannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-52407015457059020712008-10-27T01:39:00.002Z2008-10-27T01:47:07.093Z

Red, white,Blue—Black?Get usedTo it.

Steve Caratzasnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-55806799415026352922008-10-26T21:38:00.003Z2008-10-28T08:17:23.987Z

Free Collage Artfor random acts of kindness

onehumannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-60802506284868328152008-10-26T19:46:00.003Z2008-10-26T19:53:50.934Z

And what if the book and the pen must become my only lover? What if no one else will be able to… love me this way… make love to me this way… with the power of such feeling?(a thousand valiant horses pounding on my brain, dizzying sex like opium or headlights, flushed breath, insane noises, all flock towards me… eaten by birds)A deranged spinster in an attic flat filled with birdcages and Venetian

Clarenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-10886423747030332282008-10-26T19:00:00.003Z2008-10-26T19:31:14.289Z

Along the ridges of loose jeansthe folk singer spills another meal.Food is good for thoughtand all the singers want a chanceto mend a melody without stating the obvious.Rote is rotting like a demension of inner peacethat longs to celebrate the eternal.The wheel of seasons brought to the next,over and over again like trees dropping fruit.One hand makes a sound,even the smallest atom screamsfor the

Pembinanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-3509801314391680762008-10-25T17:09:00.002+01:002008-10-25T17:36:45.341+01:00

The other day (the one preceding today) I saw a woman who looked like Nikolaus Karl Günther Nakszyński (Klaus Kinski). I could have easily mistaken her for the great German actor, the principal star of such films as Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes, The Secret Diary of Sigmund Freud, Nosferatu a Venezia, Les Fruits de la Passion, Burden of Dreams, Kinder, Mutter und ein General, Ludwig II: Glanz und Ende

Stephen Rowntreenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-31370367004711758072008-10-25T02:34:00.004+01:002008-10-25T02:39:26.003+01:00

Le salon n'est pas encoreThe living room is not yetTotalement plongéCompletely darkDans l'obscuritéLa plus grande découverteThe greatest dicoveryDu siècle caducOf this forgotten centuryNe vaut pas une heureIs not worth an hourDe véritable souffranceOf real painVoilà pour l'histoireSo much for historyPar une raisonFor a reasonNon falsifiableImpossible to fakeToutes les espècesAll of our

daniel guimondnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-7994270567004520482008-10-24T05:11:00.001+01:002008-10-24T05:11:15.336+01:00

Gravity pulled the book to the floor. Even words are bound by laws; the teeth of adjectives and nouns biting down on paper. To burn a word, a branding on the heart, this word defies erasure, floats on blood, knows no up-or-down or trips or falls. Is it our fault that love will kill us; have you seen a dead bird fly? With ink, we write the feathers of the wing: a mountain top, a steel-blue sky, a

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-80769224474151100402008-10-24T05:07:00.001+01:002008-10-24T05:07:31.957+01:00

Peter Ciccariellonoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-10511938626830972782008-10-24T04:38:00.003+01:002008-10-25T05:41:32.086+01:00

How much longer will we search? All night, the blackness cherishes its splendid gifts- the spotted owl, the thin and hungry wolves, white-skinned birches where bobtailed deer graze on clover. But we are kept from paradise cradled by what-we-are-denied: knowledge of the light, acceptance of the darkness. In an open field, at dusk, a falcon huntsfor mouse or rabbit,without a sign, he circlesround

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-43431059477431164462008-10-24T02:55:00.001+01:002008-10-24T02:58:17.243+01:00

hip bones ache with loneliness,press your ear to the flesh;listen to them weep.Thoughts dissolve slowlyin a vase of murky water;the last and only flowers ever boughtturn to dust and fall into my mouth.These hidden messages go unseen.I intricately weave them to my heart,suffocating the very life,the weak and staggering beat that is left.You look at me - your lingering ghost;a haunting that you

curvaturesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-46362864013554398532008-10-23T14:40:00.002+01:002008-10-23T14:43:51.890+01:00

Overbalancing season'sseismic aura shuddersthrough troubled dreamsof longer nightslower horizonswider skiesand twistingblack shadowsof southbound wingsflickering acrosshills and hummocksof hardening earth.

coyotenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-71197339763103262542008-10-23T05:05:00.001+01:002008-10-23T05:06:44.296+01:00

Shake 'emDownWith yourRun aroundStyle.

Steve Caratzasnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-62899798044659681692008-10-23T01:52:00.000+01:002008-10-23T02:08:16.902+01:00

Hushed with lips hiding violent secrets;you dressed me in her clothes,licked the shell of my ear - her name stuck in your throat.You've lingered for too long in the past.Tongues that find their way over vast distances,but you are desire bound.So my feet drag on, in the endless desertof your heart.I want to come home.Honesty like a sobbing woman.Courage like a dying man.Hands that hush my nervous

curvaturesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-2082679573400943372008-10-22T18:31:00.000+01:002008-10-22T18:32:18.938+01:00

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-56427209249291789282008-10-22T13:30:00.000+01:002008-10-22T13:31:16.296+01:00

Agricultural no man's land / blood on the chest / the intestine of a small animal squeezed out / coiled like an embryo / slinky cat in window / eyes fluoresce / sliding images speak / a loss of visual contact but still talking / her violence framed in pigtails / my inanimate face / blank documents / shredded addresses / her fist tender / beating out colours / red / blackening yellow / cheek

d_roodnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-10587266972331663262008-10-22T09:20:00.000+01:002008-10-22T09:21:35.762+01:00

CHMnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-4348648460152793422008-10-22T09:06:00.002+01:002008-10-22T09:07:17.054+01:00

Because I love you, the night disobeys its hidden God, makes my hands immortal though they hold the fire. We are grains of fire crackling to ash. And while I loved you, the moon became a jealous eye, a jilted planet whose beauty was extinguished by our glowing bodies; what galaxy, what whiteness shares our wounds? When darkness comes to kill us, eats the energy between our thighs, our mouths, our

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-18233801082392033892008-10-22T08:30:00.000+01:002008-10-22T10:01:24.972+01:00

It's hard to stopthe catapult towards mercy.Would I be inconsequential if I were sin-less?While the spirit knowswho is responsible for grief,I have forgotten history,the root, the seed, buriedbeneath the symbols.Of blood and nerves,I laughed, I danced, listenedto the red-bird singing fromsuch a distance like bloodleaking from its deep incision.Now I lie in waiting,the peace of sky, the

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-10069039460332478042008-10-22T05:56:00.002+01:002008-10-22T06:20:58.591+01:00

kerbock, seeing more than the artist saw, easy enough to makeit actual, this is not a painting,self-portrait badge, a red circlewith nothing in it, this is refer, what’s your insect, questionpostage, siamese twin erotica,naka beyond, emphasis on the amp,do you recognize the fruit,certain things, ye ole eye lamp,a chance for data to flow,grown-ups and grown-downs,this text needs to be set free,

drosspriddlenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-35750568399614584722008-10-22T05:22:00.002+01:002008-10-22T05:30:29.424+01:00

On his way down from the Kyber Pass, perhaps in the holy city of Taxila, Alexander gathered to his tent ten wise men whom Plutarch calls Gymnosophists. They were probably Jains. The Macedonian emperor questioned them under pain of death and said that he who gave the worst answer would be killed first. Here are the questions and their answers:Which are the most numerous, the living or the dead?The

Martin Edmondnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-37739640343622288752008-10-21T20:18:00.000+01:002008-10-21T20:20:02.390+01:00

Am Always Coming Out To The Citysomething in my genescompels me to count the lettersof the words in my eyeshackles me to tired informationbleeds the adjectiveeven before my mind speakssomething borrowedgarbled hip hop languageam always coming out to the citybefore the beat knocks on the door.

Billynoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-14116967285823300652008-10-21T19:21:00.008+01:002008-10-21T20:21:55.879+01:00

mesopotent paradisiac1.while (inside) the outside is code the code is outside the outside is coded the outside is codingso we bleed2.in between momentsyour body will be beatenby bats spreading their wingson the inside& your thoughts will be crushedby heavy trafficbetween your thighsin between momentsour eyes will have eateneach othera billion times& all your rats willhave started free artson my

dirk vekemans:noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-42133372144216154722008-10-21T17:51:00.002+01:002008-10-21T17:51:40.432+01:00

Peter Ciccariellonoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-16301315547458699622008-10-21T14:22:00.002+01:002008-10-21T17:35:09.706+01:00

Ryan Manning interview me, Prathna Lor, Tao Lin, and a bunch of other people here: http://metaphysicalthinking.blogspot

Red Boldfacenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-33905720555129666172008-10-20T19:09:00.000+01:002008-10-20T19:10:17.772+01:00

Deep blur / highly defined / pixellated khaki / fatigues / the soldiers appear as digital glitch on the interminable screen that covers every surface of the world / pregnant scenes belch babies into realities / into soap operas / placenta cross fades into terrorist explosions / the soldiers dodge into the happy crowds of adverts / reach out arms / extended with jagged knifes / slash / cut into

d_roodnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-7106109197110426252008-10-20T05:30:00.003+01:002008-10-20T08:54:54.374+01:00

Inspiration arrives in many forms; why is mine elusive? Perhaps I do not stop to look at trees, immune to nature's guile and grace. Won't you make the rose desist and drop her poignant beauty; imagine all the dreamers she would fail! But you, my little moth-sized bird, you're neon glittered throat, your vibratory wings; you are just as fast and brief, nearly hidden by magnolia stamens. You and I

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-79734226248887832672008-10-19T15:01:00.002+01:002008-10-19T15:02:13.849+01:00

Peter Ciccariellonoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-27435262989694608752008-10-19T14:58:00.002+01:002008-10-19T15:00:06.633+01:00

Peter Ciccariellonoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-52884487142352328852008-10-19T13:34:00.000+01:002008-10-19T13:36:19.250+01:00

My love, my love where did you go TarquinoThe cold winds of lost love did blow TarquinoYou left me beneath a blanket of snowNow my memories are filling with woes TarquinoAnd by my memories am I held low TarquinoWell do I remember when I held your form TarquinoWell do I remember how sweet and warm TarquinoTo be wrap in your arms against the stormThat

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-32082816870898784242008-10-19T05:19:00.005+01:002008-10-19T09:12:00.567+01:00

Poetry has yet to emerge;my life! where have you been?This song I sing is not forthe faint-hearted; suicide is notfor children. O where has my beautygone? When will I be crushed,recycled?This is the long hallway toanother hallway; a staircasedown to further down. How Iremember the snow's descentfrom higher beginnings- somecall it drifting.Have we forgotten that God exposespieces of Himself; a

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-36328478133639080002008-10-19T00:28:00.001+01:002008-10-19T00:30:07.332+01:00

onehumannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-58500166821168415382008-10-18T06:40:00.008+01:002008-10-19T09:12:32.903+01:00

I have a theory; the femaleis invented. Like strings orparticles, the body quantum,the curve of hip, the whitenest of skin, the animal eyesgrown accustomed to night like the surface of moon.Understand, men are cumbersome,gravity, a heavy hand, dark rapidheartbeats followed by apnea; selective creature, a formof death. One-eyed man,he holds her anonymous facein his hands as if he loved her.

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-1143494166803139982008-10-17T21:16:00.000+01:002008-10-18T19:18:01.229+01:00

sam duffynoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-67138147145535135922008-10-17T12:18:00.003+01:002008-10-17T13:00:22.521+01:00

Fajarowicz gatheringajar · uaineas crisply broughtowl-light wisps across azureignoble fallCthulhu chirg · festoons druidrill's indigo · ignoblefallout ajar · lampoon crinkCulhwch ballast

michaelnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-20871656807785423772008-10-16T05:25:00.005+01:002008-10-16T05:29:04.124+01:00

" !s that Velour?"

onehumannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-52131209979134629572008-10-15T06:24:00.002+01:002008-10-15T06:31:23.324+01:00

When you greet me, remember who I am. Because I hold myself for ransom like a bomb or tightly structured as fibers in a crystal does not mean that I am ruined. You're such a child all fur and feathers, a cloud with bullets in its head. When I am private, cold cracked, corrosive, blue put my body on the coals to heat my bones.

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-43513554968194403612008-10-15T04:21:00.001+01:002008-10-15T04:22:56.684+01:00

My friends,Aren't you gladYou're notMe?

Steve Caratzasnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-49812718153320289992008-10-14T15:44:00.000+01:002008-10-14T15:44:25.293+01:00

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-23062945185895259252008-10-14T14:33:00.001+01:002008-10-14T14:33:52.517+01:00

CHMnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-84426105271278851882008-10-14T08:45:00.003+01:002008-10-14T08:52:18.435+01:00

my crystal steropticon’s fallen short of sendingthe right images to your left eye.rapid response to promises generally stick it tobright-eyed technicians burningin some grey room in a federal building. howdoes perception of sunlightplay into the birds’ singing when April’s fadedphotos go 2-dimensional?it’s trees muscling their way—roots-and-all— onto the LED screen, beneaththe tracks, up north

The Wordmannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-63850796992349622732008-10-14T00:46:00.004+01:002008-10-14T01:04:54.612+01:00

Now it's done; the direction of a body shoved through time. Gravity, the stress of beauty, feet walking barefoot on a bed of thorns, muscles of a mouth tense as rope, the optic nerve gulping light, beads of light running down its fleshy throat. Look back. Pull the reins. The clock is running fast, very fast. See time run. See it burn. Here is the shadow where we were born. Here, tailsof light

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-71851475627212733622008-10-13T19:46:00.001+01:002008-10-13T19:48:42.344+01:00

CHMnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-6465292618623247312008-10-13T05:22:00.002+01:002008-10-13T05:37:45.788+01:00

In Arcadia, I amWaiting for the light to changeGreen into red forest to fireSummer not summerLight that changes in the moment I lookAnd my before has flownAnd there is no rift! No temporal crevasseThere is only this point ofThe body wanting what it wants, nowWaiting for itThe kind of story we have been waiting forMy friend she has newly rejoined me she thinks we will go on as beforeAnd I will

Milenanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-56127569368460773632008-10-11T23:58:00.000+01:002008-10-11T23:59:02.182+01:00

But yesterday, the weather was of heat and sweat, heavy wool, the air stood still. Today, the winds swoop down chilled and urgent, small spattering of rain tapping on the terra cotta roof. Inside, I build a fire; I have the right to mourn what can't be saved or changed. It isn't easy to ignore the darkness, blackened clouds or ravaged trees, but here within the man-made silence, secretly

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-3467931222238540052008-10-11T13:36:00.000+01:002008-10-11T13:36:53.171+01:00

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-79312634767855944762008-10-11T13:35:00.000+01:002008-10-11T13:36:01.321+01:00

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-1541091364735902162008-10-10T13:09:00.000+01:002008-10-10T13:10:04.400+01:00

Burden of TimeWe bumped into each other on the small dark trail I always took when I was tired of mankind.'Pardon me son,' the frail man whispered like leaves rustling.'It's ok the way here is narrow,' I replied impatient to move along. He hesitated.'Please spare a moment son?' he begged. I sighed and stopped.We faced each other on the small trail suspended for seconds in the same time and space.

Billynoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-55995286331627941092008-10-10T06:51:00.003+01:002008-10-10T06:55:13.775+01:00

I am sleeping. Ceaseless horizon. The slowness of a stone. Gray steel bars of silence welded into night. It's said there is a river, black, whose banks are built from dying stars, waiting is a boat of bone to take us where the lifeless live. I am a sleeper more than I am wide-awake and weary. Here is my three-headed dog who has not seen the sky or sun here are my bloodless wings white and pale as

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-61520954505749588102008-10-09T16:27:00.000+01:002008-10-09T16:28:19.189+01:00

a cowl of fleshthistle bone woveninto the shouldersa garrotte of pigironturned round the spinethe day they spoke of camein shuddered whispersfrom the seabed belowshoulders nickeredthe spine shackledin pigbone

Stephen Rowntreenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-28686480550474425692008-10-08T23:13:00.000+01:002008-10-08T23:14:07.817+01:00

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-15562673663232882012008-10-08T22:57:00.001+01:002008-10-08T23:16:37.766+01:00

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-50479204766166355172008-10-08T14:18:00.001+01:002008-10-08T14:19:19.788+01:00

Red Boldfacenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-88041573144074142132008-10-08T09:33:00.001+01:002008-10-08T09:33:34.408+01:00

Because I know we're free to choose joy or violence I do not suffer as I should. Imagine hovering above the garden like mist or moth; the gate, the high road filled with stones- not a bitter path. What can this mean? Certainly, the absence of the heart is flight and just as quickly, the carefree moth departs.

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-1889882423305109562008-10-08T08:52:00.001+01:002008-10-08T08:53:30.527+01:00

CHMnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-11861964670748157722008-10-07T13:41:00.000+01:002008-10-07T13:41:49.306+01:00

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-69973564866619747862008-10-07T13:39:00.000+01:002008-10-07T13:40:10.991+01:00

 

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-42268954810353901722008-10-07T11:21:00.003+01:002008-10-07T21:58:22.271+01:00

If even once I stop to feel, I am closer to dying. A thunderstorm rolls over the horizon, upturned my face absorbs its darkness. I recognize a shadow in the window; how it grew then broke apart. I cannot learn to live forevor; follow me into the cold, black night. In the morning, mountains in the distance, clouds dripping orange light.

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-29738140587748388862008-10-07T08:49:00.001+01:002008-10-07T08:51:24.535+01:00

CHMnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-33018215796859153342008-10-07T06:24:00.006+01:002008-10-07T08:38:06.380+01:00

I am confident. I don't needyour symbolisms: a severely damagedheart, a sick tree, wilting or rottingthere is nothing left but to be courageous.The accidental cause shattering the stoicbone, the bright, white light recedinglike a burning fume, punishes only those who least expect it. I will not grieve forwhat was meant to be; I will resist it.Just now, the poplar leaves wrestled fromtheir

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-87002843706671683252008-10-07T02:08:00.001+01:002008-10-07T02:09:07.074+01:00

A doctor, a dodge, a fulcrum: all these and radiant choirs overstepping viscous marshes where onward flows the march of time. Or lately, the fading seizes a new set of nounsCheerful rejoinder seethes in the panic of another partly closed door. These are people, in our neighbourhood and drama. And these are friends, or else.That sense of family that doesn’t quite work instills this native

Allennoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-74266882873001186412008-10-06T17:51:00.000+01:002008-10-06T17:52:05.743+01:00

Leaves and clouds galore Falling, fading like old skin Pause to let Death in

Scarlet Sphinxnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-21735569875688549512008-10-06T13:10:00.001+01:002008-10-06T13:11:48.587+01:00

Autumn: The worldIsn't dying;Just fallingAsleep.

Steve Caratzasnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-23483903890993569062008-10-06T02:37:00.008+01:002008-10-06T11:09:27.409+01:00

Look to the wolf for ideas. How tospend your time creeping through darknesstowards the nimble hearted who will leavethis world in nature's belly.Once, I believed I was made of stars;poor, sad shining light swallowed by wolveseach time they howl. And beauty wasa yellow eye that caught the moon,held it in its claws and mouth,caught the deer, the shivering mouse,the wavering gold-throated

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-79123907697616384422008-10-05T19:31:00.003+01:002008-10-06T03:48:07.093+01:00

The old copy was damaged by water.Still, I savoured the wordsand discovered your prayer of fellowship:no water drenching party or flesh fancy.Even the best of intentions are often awkward to carry;a tear dropped on a festival day is no different from any other.all the wonderlust is cased in dire dependencies.The call to ruin, the call to reward.Nothing means much for more than a moment.Somehow,

Pembinanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-82983813391612215812008-10-05T06:38:00.000+01:002008-10-05T06:39:11.162+01:00

The doom day paradeIs moving down a downtown street past the library celebrating the birthday of TS EliotAnd the population is gathered with their children’s hands full of balloonsThe nuclear bombs will bloomThe napalm will fly to bar-b-q the flesh of men and pets that aligned themselves with themThe missiles are aimed at the eye of a dragonflyThe doom day parade is only for humanAlthough it will

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-91749807955085188282008-10-05T03:07:00.003+01:002008-10-07T21:53:51.575+01:00

Bring what you haveto the edge of our bed;your hands filled with stonesand shells- a souvenir.I have no placein the natural world,the world you struggle todesign. See, there are no rootsto grasp the soil, no verticalrows of blooming vine. PerhapsI am the fallow field, quiet, coldand empty. And of my soul, mementoof the passing years, what glorywill it grow, when it is workedand tilled and

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-25238349712014870692008-10-04T16:29:00.002+01:002008-10-04T16:35:32.699+01:00

counterinsurgency forthlungfish answeringstoop · relish prayer wisp anthem islandsunderingbrackish agonist wetwork inkhorn accentmy affable boilcrackling strawshadows sluice out infirm Ogpu afterbirth

michaelnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-2300665585669199282008-10-03T21:54:00.000+01:002008-10-03T21:55:10.538+01:00

It was the last thing that I wanted to doTo do the day as if it was a man in need of sexIt was the last thing that I wanted to doTo do the woman as if she was a manIt was the last thing that I wanted to doTo do the child as if it was a manIt was the last thing that I wanted to doTo do the dog as if it was a manIt was the last thing that I wanted to doTo do the silver maple as if it was an

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-67335803343816010252008-10-03T20:35:00.005+01:002008-10-03T20:41:38.660+01:00

fanzine, where is thy sting? onlinethe cabbage is only money, but connotationdraws more sustenance out ofthin grey vocabularies than a rantcoming through on shortwave or boborygmoidchannels. it’s a screen of dollars & cents.always behind the technological 8-ball,you used to tell me. banish my fearswith a wave of your telescope. and anotherduck down the dark promised alley,into a still darker

The Wordmannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-42582989528791552412008-10-03T19:13:00.001+01:002008-10-03T19:13:37.425+01:00

Trust me, when vengeance finds thee out.All this shall nothing avail thee with out your trust.In manhood’s vigor I will bring theeSafely through those leagues of waterThat has magnified the seas and won for theeThe blessing that pledge to save thee. Your requests of a love that last forever andYour assault of passion shall come near meTo over take me with a province of its own Now, as then

David E. Pattonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-76446748653917374192008-10-03T06:29:00.008+01:002008-10-05T03:03:52.846+01:00

To be this night, dark garden of the treesand stars, this sadness webbed,a fragile gauze shrinkingin the dying shadows.Of morning, distantarc of blue and goldturns wildly silver-whiteas hair, as ice, as wings.With longing, ripeand amber as the moon-to live; shattered as a rayof light- to die filledwith fire, tears and blood.

Rachel Phillipsnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11213443.post-85220513228376807382008-10-01T23:14:00.000+01:002008-10-01T23:15:08.666+01:00

John W. MacDonaldnoreply@blogger.com