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Accessible version of text-poems which appear here as images/screenshots.

             - Verity Spott

             - Rae Phillips Smith

             - Maya Uppal

Rhiannon Auriol - Invocations to Charli XCX

                            - MOTH LUV

                            - Public Sex

Alli Warren - Modesto

Honor Grigson - Aster

Jane Hartshorn - from Partitions

Go Sing - Song I from Songs from the Grasslands

Brandon Brown - Starfish Time  

                            - Anarchist Lake

Nicks Walker - from Two Vapourwave Classics

Verity Spott - Poem - Orinsaigh, 12th July 2021

Jeremy Allan Hawkins - ars t(r)opica

Mai Ivfjäll - Halo II

                  - Gurlesque is Dead Long Live Goop

                   - Halo

Max Henninger - from DISAPPEARANCE ACT

Tawnya Selene Renelle - Nightmare Journal: Years Unknown

                                        - Journal Notes: Varying Years

Keir Batchelor - Inspiration Mug Part III

Michael Black - Getting Drunk in the QR Codex

Azad Ashim Sharma - from Ergastulum

Rae Phillips Smith - #hyperbole#
                         

Maya Uppal - Rupinder Bal

                      - butch seeks femme to hold hands and fantasise about other                                    people with

                      - Mahasweta Devi

                      - a conversation with █████████ (deceased) in St. James                           Gardens (cemetery)

Julia Rose Lewis - from JADED DAYS  (IV, V, IX, XXIV)

 

Asta Kinch - Re-flux

                    - Brine City

Charlotte Heather - Last of the sky pirates

 

Invocations to Charli XCX

Rhiannon Auriol

visions of apotheosis in the poetry factory
Charli wld u be        my ketamine valentine?
     somewhere in internet heaven i find
the WordArt Angel of un-insides snake_divine
     high priestess of hyperpop glossy kinesis
i just wanna go to parties     on Venus      said Grimes
nft pretty young things pretty good at video game
                     production software      at python
     i'm interested in the simulation of devotion
intern at Art, Inc.
          electrics flower here strange Medea
               like yr style like yr hair
like god giving u a kiss           then teasing u forever
rapturous synth-barbie i just wanna party
     with jesus with SOPHIE x FKA Twigs
& cast a spell a hex a gigantic motherfucking hex,
feel the heat
     from all the bodies.
                         thrive, rats. let's.

MOTH LUV

sad generations seeking texture
       EDM excalibur
pulled from treacherous moss
       oneiric lovecraft in the cryptoforest nail me
       to your lovely cross
i'm frostine ecofetishist engage in
   sacred sadism
       the forbidden orgy of gethsemane
with outsider theologists of the astro
logical renaissance
       unseelie psalm dweller
in wyrd situ
   another week of my room with a view
                                                               over golgotha
listening to sigur rós
       winona /// forever
   winged beings idyll here where trauma unflocks
the mythic iceland moth        ppl plzr
i luv them lots i
would hybridise           i must
get     up
ilysm

Public Sex

since i became a centaur

i’ve gone no-contact with poetry.
smite me. dominatrix


of the anti-ballad form. slapdash
orthography and the love-bomb
of Big Data. the summer


of love was meaner in Essex. so
was the ‘anthropause’.
we’re elite


in seven languages.
most vulnerable at five pm
& in the shower.


we boycott Starbucks,
Costa, Amazon,
white supremacy.


well done.
the algorithm is here for thee.
fake freckles were a cultural


reset &; now i’m actually lovely.
i radicalise. epic increase in knowledge. yeh we do
want to eat jeff bezos it turns out.


@ higher self say hi

to inner child. it’s okay
to write about the sparkling


of blingy flowers again. a party
in your eyes. is this what they call ‘healing’?
huge feelings everywhere.


showing up is still hard. childhood
an orange smartie on the backseat
of an old car. i’m dreaming


for real this time. good shout.
i can’t wait to have another bowl of cereal,
for the slap of serotonin


as i sell another crop top
on depop. conversations like this
are what put us in the fast lane


of the infinite mob. surprise!
we are more alive than we’d hoped for.
the cuteness of


the avant-garde,
art by Mira Dancy
& this poem all have


the same energy. it’s going

rlly great thanks. soon i will come down
with another idea


to (dis)orientate me.
what’s that supposed to be
about baby.

 

Modesto

Alli Warren

every fall I think summer
has gone but it’s not yet come
butter melts in the time
it takes bread to turn
to toast to Grace I give
a swing for the fruitless
mulberry in high bloom
I place hops in the hole
my mother made me through
and tiny musicians
perform a symphony
to make a memory for me
an audible curtain
in the groaning grass
a whole town of crickets
obeys the moon
and I obey the animals
it’s a way to be among
a melody to cast the spirit
of work from me
I know wealth should flow
like water fill up
the lowest place
I yank the tide inside
to have and hold a glimpse
porous life in all its light
and form telling time
like the geese do
and these seedpods
are my kids
lately I’m just as is

 

Aster

Honor Grigson

Default
Left open, a cool shade resting under the onion
I make a mistake; I cross it out. I re-do it
I make the same mistake again.
I fuck a man,
                      I re-do it
Flourishing, my saviour turning the other way
(I lost my deity instantly, via the deity instant
Small but gluttonous octopus head on the end
Of my wand) my saviour under me
Suddenly feeling the humiliation of my burden
And astonishment at my strange manner
Of being carried, leaning upon instead of
Getting up on and with an elegance
That is embarrassingly overgrown.
Drapery laid over an invisible hump


I don’t make a mistake this time,
There is a very accurate thin glass tube
With a convexly bordered drop inside
A quadrilateral droplet that convinces you
To smash the tube then and there
As it seems worse than a stuck kite.

 

from 'Partitions'

Jane Hartshorn

'Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. […] Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me.’

                 – Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca

The past year has felt like traipsing through some kind of
expansive dreamscape, between partitions of glass.
Memories fold over and into one another. Places of
significance have warped, lost their shape. Houses appear
where once there was marshland, a thin burn threading
between them. 


*


The hyacinths are pushing through the soil; closely packed
flower-heads like purple conifers. Planted to mark the
graves of guinea pigs, they were in bloom when I returned
to Ayr a year ago.


In March 2020, I wrote in my diary;


‘The rhododendron flowers open as the purple hyacinth
dies; its stalks lying bare on the ground like overcooked
spaghetti. It was only yesterday I saw the pale sherbet of a

bee clasped in its starfish mouth, fizzing apricot with
pleasure.’


I haven’t lived anywhere for more than a year for the past
6 years and the re-emergence of the hyacinths signals a
looping of time that is unfamiliar to me.


*


Everything has myriad memories attached to it. There are
places where time congeals, overlaps, becomes knotted.
Sticking points that hold multiple versions of myself. I
circle these places like I’m haunting my past, looking for
evidence that I once lived there.


The details of these memories are not always clear. If only
I could scratch at the soil, uncover layers of sediment,
watch the past materialise like charcoal leaf rubbings.

 

An altercation at the end of Dornoch Park. My sky-blue
corduroy jacket. A kirby-grip in my pocket.


*


A school friend once told me a man in a long coat flashed
her down by the river. Her house backed onto the river,
and there was a path that connected it to the school
playing fields.


On breaks between lessons, my friends and I would hang
about the concrete playground adjoining the car park. The
only thing that prevented us from walking towards the
river was fear.


*


On the short walk from the bus stop to my house, I used
to try to remember the grooves of the pavement, the
places where the tarmac had sizzled in the heat. I would
slide my feet across the oily bubbles, wonder if the
pavement recognised me.


*


I’ve returned to my childhood home 17 years after I first
left, which also happens to be half my lifetime. I'm finding
it difficult to connect the roads and paths of my present to
the places of the past, to re-place memories, and join the
dots between changed landscapes.


I wasn’t born here, and didn’t have a deep connection with
the town growing up; the site of so much teenage misery,
but this hasn’t prevented feelings of bewilderment and
disorientation from arising.


The air feels thinner, as though I can move between states
and periods of time. As I lie in bed at night, the smells of
my childhood come back to me: Sudafed, Calpol, Twist &
Squeeze, 10p mix-ups. Pink and violet light filters through
my curtains, waking me. I don’t know what year it is.


*


I remember once walking to the end of the cul-de-sac I
lived on. Even as a child, I had a feeling I shouldn’t be
there. At the end of the street, I wedged my toe in the gaps

between the stones in the wall, and peered over the top.
There was a diamond of grass, luscious and overgrown. It
was flanked on each side by a high wall, missing a gate or
door to admit entry.


I search for this diamond of grass on Google maps, but all
I can see are the striped rectangles of mown lawns.


*


I don’t drive and I am dependent upon my mother to take
me places. 


We return to the site of the old campus. Up to our ankles
in mud, a fenced-off section, a playing field. Paths through
the grass that trail off to nothing. We walk alongside a
fence that seems to hold no function; behind the posts and
wire lies tufts of grass, hillocks, and brambles.

 

'Song I'

from Songs from the Grassland

Go Sing

i’m talking about the fading into
liquid wets
nothing seen I am an
ear witness
stroke the strings
of my timidness
clicking yes
clicking yes
lovers always shape me
watch me undress
look at her at her
she has the winning edge
the spike in her eye
stroke the strings
of my timidness

CLOSE UP

big lens
zooming in


 

you see
3 friends, making their move through a

lush green meadow 

the plain foggy, slightly curved

under the weight of your love

hairy legs and ponytails bouncing on the

upper side of their crack

shapes flowing
all along the steepy slope getting
to the picnic site

voices erupting
from those translucent fleshes
yes yess
  yesssblll

    bluurr bllbl 

    urppp rp

    bblllrrr rppp

    ddd ooo ddd tt

stiff, carpet and gravity

spotting the lushest spot
average grass coverage but well hidden 

flowers popping and smelling like

 crisp fart

under their fingernails fresh grass and

fat petals, trapped 

the 3 girls lying in the meadow forming a

circle 

their soft bodies, adding to the hills

flowing around them 

small droplets of sweat form a glistening

film

second skin

glowing faces, reflecting the light
a small bug crawling on a closed eyelid



 

[viewer]

they sit on grass and ride

heartless animals with long manes

sky floats like dead fishes

one sound

a high

pitch voice

guiding you all along

their plucked belly 


 

lashes and diamonds

flickering

bodies moving

in a droning

pace grass cracking

they ask to be named

they won't be delivered

 

one sings

genitals 

sounding like 

glorious flower

she waits for signals,

simple tones

 

AAaaH 

you like her hair?

 

OK

just bought it

 
STARFISH TIME

Brandon Brown

starfish have no sense of time at all                           
James Schuyler

there’s so much bad shit happening all of the time

maybe that’s what time is

a mayfly lives for what we call five minutes

in that span they swarm, fuck in the air, maybe flutter to the ground, lay four hundred thousand eggs

four hundred thousand eggs! 

I hope the fuck feels good

let’s just agree it does

an octopus lays about a hundred thousand eggs

our joke is I will carry the baby 

it is as much a wish as a joke

today went by so fast, I got a mayfly feeling climbing the stairs 

I’m sure a starfish is just like me

just wants to wake up and give at least one other starfish pleasure

and to give Pasta pleasure, flattening fish in a bowl 

how many species live in our house besides Alli and I, Pasta, and the bacteria our bodies are?

octopi are cunning changing colors, building shields

I want a cigarette so bad

I could have one I guess

in Half Moon Bay there are a lot of starfish

Parker was from Half Moon Bay

Aristotle did not know jack shit about dreams

no, really, he did not

not gonna be friends with anymore goddamn Christians sorry

Alana dreamt that I lived by a river and had a theory about fish 

a theory about fish and time, that we all shared the same time but didn’t know it

I would never travel to outer space but I would definitely travel through time 

I’ve been to Half Moon Bay three times and each time was on a date

big lighthouse out there, hella starfish

two of the dates were with Alli

tomorrow is our sixteenth anniversary

at 9:15 we’re going to watch an episode of The Flight Attendant

flirting with a starfish would be so annoying

there’s so much bad shit happening all of the time

also Alli and I go pinch plum blossoms for a relish

the last time I took psilocybin I remembered my own birth, jesus

now feel like a minor courtier bravely popping lion’s mane

fungi live at most a month

miner’s lettuce will grow until you eat it

a tick will sit in a tree for like literally one thousand years

one thousand years seems long to wait

but patience is not my forte

Pasta likes to pause before he leaps and claws

sometimes I get up in the middle of the night

sometimes in bed I can’t tell if it’s been five minutes or two hours

and Alli is an apostle for sleep

but not “apostle” in a Christian way fuck that shit

I told the party about Pasta capturing baby hummingbird, pinning it to the ground

I told the party I felt bad about the baby hummingbird in Pasta’s paws, but, then again, hummingbirds only live for one day

that’s not true the party said, confirmed on their phones

and there I was a geyser of fake news, about to watch Thelma and Louise and eat Cheeseboard 

Sri Lankan fig 2,222 years at least

Patagonian cypress old as Stonehenge

Great Basin bristlecone pine in the White Mountains called Methuselah

clonal tree called Pando even older

mayfly eggs fat as one sixteenth a paddlefish

daydream the menus in line for the vaccine

those soldiers down the ramp will help you

pedestrian bridge formerly for the walk from the train to the dubs

over gross estuary, somebody’s backpack looks like actual back

I once sat next to Zack as they blew doja at the Oracle ducked into their shirt 

bought a weed brownie from a guy on the street called Chaz

starfish time, years ago now

once really high on weed at the hot springs I wrote in my notebook that poems slow down time and make it strange
just like the tubs do

you should have seen me on LSD at the hot springs the other day

THE ANARCHIST LAKE

It has been two hundred sixty 

days since I was in a pool

splayed astride double noodle

in the pool you want to break the law

a noodle can feel rigid on the groin

depending on how you mount it

anarchists are so great

lakes are fucking excellent

and bay leaves and strawberries and frothy cream

spread on something nice, like an English muffin

most people want to warm before they swim

I’ll go in room or sometimes chilly

that's not to brag I know some otters

who love to brace their backs in icy water

I love thinking about our neighbors

hearing Ariel and I read our poems to each other

Sara just learned nachbar is the German word for neighbor

swimming in the pool is a collaborative practice

but on the beach you can be an anarchist

at the beach it’s you and endlessness

the fools who misrecognize the ocean

are fucking fools I guarantee you 

swimming in a river kind of depends

I like an anarchist like Courbet painting waves

those Courbet wave paintings are pretty tight

there’s one at the Legion of Honor in San Francisco

it’s called like A Wave 

the Legion of Honor is pretty close to the water

but that’s not swimming water

I liked those boozy weekends at De Valle

before we learned about the feces

I don’t want to swim somewhere yucky

I want to break the law

then end the law

a lake is a good place to party

and I like partying with anarchists

nachbar literally means “next-dweller”

I liked this bar in Iceland called “Naeste Bar” 

it just meant “next bar”

we stayed in this great big house full of Reykjavik anarchists

for three days they had poets in their attic

swimming in Iceland, I dunno

I love holding Alli’s body underneath the water, love feeling that

otherwise I fire back and forth and count

or float on back and watch the clouds through shades

or go out into the middle of the lake and looking back

try to figure out some way to break the law

 
from Two Vapourwave Classics

Nicks Walker

The saxophone is full of bubbles.  I like eating bubbles.  

They slip in and out of my mouth.  Drooling on the hotel

sofa in plastic wrap.  Me and you, latex fruits in heels

always one falling off, always one dangling on the ankle.

We will live forever in the liminal space before passing

out dead or high or waking up or.  You taste of balloons

and party bag bottles of bubbles.  You taste of

saxophone polish and metal.  We’re here in this dream

and you’re in the chastity cage again.  I am in the tights

that make ivy grow out of my pores.  We hose them

down with the insecticide fungicide bottle with the nice

digital drawing of the strawberry, covered in ants and

you make love to me in the liquid latex pool.  We drown. 

 

                                                           ♨

 

 

Bubbles in my saxophone please.  I want tapioca vagina

and I want to give birth to a plastic egg.  Can I have that

by Tuesday?  I can’t lose money, it always appears

somewhere else.  It doesn’t matter who has it so long as

it exists. 

 

                                                           

 

Now we only have evenings and pineapple water.  I

laugh at your statues and live in your tongues.  The

airport will never come again.  It was a vomit of history, a

tipping point.  We live in the tip, in the rubbish, we drink

cocktails of lions and I wonder if the sun will ever go

down again. 

 

I hold you. 

 

One day you split open like a thousand flowers, invert

and all your not-mouth becomes mouth.  I feel your

thousand mouths milkshake and stroke the spaces

between.  So many teeth milking.  It takes a lot of lion, a

lot of water.  

 

You cannot see your statue garden any more so I

become eyes to look at it for you.  One day my irises

turn inside out and you eat me whole.  In double

darkness, there is the softest orange light.

 
Poem - Orinsaigh, 12th July 2021
Verity Spott
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ars t(r)opica

Jeremy Allan Hawkins

burn easily and I just never left

I guess my clients the bar 

in the middle has free wifi 

and massages

of the night I wake up 

golfcart sandals my laptop 

to work I live simply

if I need to to bed later 

I have a client

in Paris in New York

I have a client understanding 

everything fits in this 

one bag quietly 

to ask myself just 

try this drink why kill

myself every morning look 

at this view why 

winter when a slower life

in the yogic mode

to the mainland

hospital by ferry

when else would I surf 

the lessons in local 

cuisine the daily torch

the chance to parasail

a client in Doha

with fewer material possessions

living my life outside 

the sea giveth great

blockchain myself a scuba 

shop waves left on my tide chart 

always wanted to if I miss it 

ask how the bar regular 

beneath sunsets 

consider going back 

on the tax incentives

the bug bites itch though I 

have a client in Mumbai 

two minutes really dreaming

to the beach the life

in terms of commute

if ever I get lonely

at this hour can’t imagine 

the metro there’s always 

someone new passing

the world bumming through

seasons I don’t while

I’m young the loneliness

it’s always beautiful 

out call it human driftwood

slower pace and beach 

glass free of the grind 

the weather could videochat 

my parents if I’m twice a week

lonely on a boat 

to the big island packages

and a dentist for its peace

flies do get into the sugar

so I meditate until

life carries me elsewhere

at home from worldly

myself I finally feel

things I’ll read sea

a murder mystery

on the bleached white

lifestyle could never 

miss the city on a little boat

I take them small businesses 

ask me how 

I decided to sea caves 

for a shack foreign fruit 

sweet rice savings account 

and leave it all behind 

to sleep

with them opting 

always new for an excursion 

to swim 

with local handicraft 

hooks nets I tied 

myself snares guided

where the tours

never end

up going without shell necklace 

pig spit bongo scandal

and catch what I eat off

grid for the offshore

waves and breaking groundswell 

over who could get 

water this clear as lonely 

as sunspots spreading 

over my face as this sand 

so white

 
Halo II

Mai Ivfjäll

to refuse the dawn

to fall out of time

 

into the taiga

into the reverb

 

to create intimacy in the void 

to beget roses

 

a solitary

cutie

 

eternally entangled 

with materia

Gurlesque is Dead Long Live Goop

all the bodies

you might have been 

earthbound

dreaming

 

of all those dying bees

of all those angels

 

winter blossoms

as if it wasn’t a metaphor

 

the apocalypse is now

even if it’s avant-basic to admit

Halo

shedding this swan skin dreaming roses, writing roses 

eating roses (death is a rose i carry in the pocket of my dress)

eating roses, writing roses, writhing roses (i want to trace the edges 

of every petal with my tongue) call me persephone as i sink 

down down down marry pain underneath snow & dirt 

 

fuck pain slowly, quickly, not at all, let it linger

unravel it onto the hospital floor, let pain become my prayer

let my prayer become my incantation, my lullaby

my dirge — tender, porous, rare, wild, soft, sensitive — pain

becomes a bud, a leaf, a bird, is gone 

 

that erotic feeling (i was never young but 4 you i will be ageless)

of being a body buying artificial snail venom 

at sephora — the syncopated rhythm of every cell as my body binges 

on desire until all that is left is the hollow hallow of healing exhaling 

health until health wraps around this skin a raiment

we delete the past like browser histories  

 

from DISAPPEARANCE ACT

Max Henninger

Keeps his lost tooth in a salt shaker. Relieves
himself in plain view of the neighbors. Yellow
ray warm as the Gulf Stream cold as the
Humboldt Current. That's Peru to you. Heard
myself coughing nextdoor the other night.
Walked on the ceiling flushed your toilet
trying to lead by example. The builders start
at eight by nine the noise is really. Talked to
your mother about. Just sleep it off. Saw
myself crying on a park bench middle-aged
back from my therapist. Legs heavy as lead
and I still haven't paid last year's taxes. Yes
that's the party I mean. Did we really screw in
the ball pit. Two days to discreetly reacquaint
yourself with your basic bodily functions. You
were a thin membrane quivering in an empty
room. Inhabited a high-pitched ringing noise
from inside the spiral canal of your inner ear.

A hundred hungry prisoners banging metal
mugs on a concrete floor. Hiding under a
hospital bed. I want my life back, I wrote on
your pocket mirror in my very own invisible
ink, part saliva part you don't want to know.
The problem with most parents is they lack
even the most elementary confidence in their
child's abilities. Though of course they will
always claim otherwise. Your mother's heart
for my dogs. Good morning.

______________________________________

Gnashing of teeth side one. Survived by his
sister. Weeks of rain. Severed wing plumed
apostrophe on wet cobbles. Children. A
schedule. Light is milk. Caught in their ABC
network trying to remember. Trying to repair
the damage. Lost parcels forgotten passwords.
A steady undertow. Just another way of

grieving. Pieces of sea glass. Feathers.
Gasoline. Gnashing of teeth side two. She
doesn't want to do this any more. Boringly
unquiet neighbors. Another government of
goons. Cities. Disappearing taking our stories.
Streets scarred with scarcely credible
postures. Talk won't cure a thing. The
vocabulary's been overstretched. Notorious
belt known as full day of nausea. We know
where to find each other.

______________________________________

Old midnight knows it's true. Becalmed and
drifting for weeks on end. Never knew when
to stop or how. Ragged dawn awful news.
Woodworms dry rot. Rancid taste. I need a
place makes me feel alright
. Don't wait. The
night will be
, you know, blanc et noir.

______________________________________

So maybe we should just drink ourselves to.
Not as sexy as your but what. Like the radio
deserves any better. Landlord tax man
sometime employer. Not much you've surely
noticed. They can choke on this sordid
remainder. Draw up blueprints discourse
poorly on nth power of absence. A loss they
failed to own. Our dead will teach them exile.

 

Nightmare Journal: Years Unknown

Tawnya Selene Renelle

9/7: A ferry boat becomes a spiraling vortex that sucks into itself


27/3: zombies and blunt instruments


7/4: gigantic wooden splinters digging under my nails


2/6: two spider houses attack one another


28/8: elevator dropping from the highest floor to the lowest over and over again


20/9: digging my own grave in unknown catacombs


24/9: broken glass all over and I am eating pieces, when I open my mouth blood pours


27/2: a man in a brown suit says I owe him something and slaps me across the face


6/3: a never-ending earthquake and melting maps


27/3: a ceaseless phone with only screaming on the other end
 

14/6: a giant spider bites and will not let go
 

15/7: locked in a fake world and I cannot escape that nothing is real
 

19/7: a bear is right behind me and as I run barefoot, splinters in my feet
 

10/9: I stare at the ceiling and in the corners of the room are fires

Journal Notes
Varying years

Dreams:


man with roses tattooed on his chest. We are skinny dipping at the beach. There are rickety stairs. Everyone else is wearing white robes. an abyss as a tourist attraction. People scattering ashes. Colourful and strange. Like Dr. Seuss. People on the ground look through holes. Some people are stacking furniture. a library themed restaurant. Something scary I can’t remember. an airplane upside down, spinning around. It lands. Crossing a river by jumping on red logs. I give up my ticket for an event I cannot remember. so many ladders. Christmas trees hang from the ceiling. Cobras. Volcano erupting all over the west coast and lava was coming slowly closer. The year is 2196.
 

Dream Searches:


Search Roses: affection and admiration. Search Naked: vulnerable. Search Stairs: moving
forward. Search White: innocence. Search Robes: portent. Search Abyss: emptiness. Search Ashes: disruptions. Search Holes: memory. Search Furniture: willing. Search Library: investigations. Search Airplane: fear. Search River: journey/flow. Search Red: courage. Search Ladders: influences. Search Tree: shiny. Search Cobra: harness. Search Volcano: explosion. Search Lava: transformation. Search 2: communication. Search 1: beginning. Search 9: finished. Search 6: intuition.


Interpretations:
 

Admire the vulnerable moving forward innocent. The portent emptiness and disruptions of memory. Willing investigations of fear and journey/flow of courage. Influence shiny and harness the explosion of transformation. Communication the beginning finished with intuition.

 

Inspiration Mug Part III

Keir Batchelor

                                      Appear broken, wasted, and a laughter
                          only.
                                     Professionals make you fail shots,
                                     100% crayons only,
                                                                    you've been it's sparkle.


                                     That can happen, epic you. The built
                                     titanic is afraid, if possible
                                    amateurs will breathe, will remember:
                                    dream the net be braver - don't.

 

                                     You do. Days of keep stops
                                    never matter,
                                    vibes, everything,
                                    something new leaps – ride’s you.

 

                                     Life. Believe. Miss trying. Without
                                    everything beautiful - you are this day:
                          take.

Plaque
            builds
             up in
             the brain
             and is
             found
             frequently in the CAT scans of Alzheimer
patients, tucked
             between the nerve cells and the hippocampus
which is the
             part of the brain involved in the preservation of
memory. I spend
             Sundays threading floss up my nostrils until it
reaches that       tender
             lobe and I can clean away the muck that disturbs,
disrupts               moments
             I cherish dearly and reflect upon in the long
nights and bitter            mornings
             where I lose the difficult argument, Camus
posited with that             gorgeous
             smile and famous linguistic charm. Good
morning memory,               you are
              here again, and I tell you if we had not met
statistically you                           would
             have met someone else and I would have met
someone else                   and we
             would have fallen in love regardless –
statistically. I wheeze, can’t
             breath – I am not well. I am happy when I am
running away, look

             back at the object I run from and laugh. Let’s not
talk today.        I’ll
             write some poetry about my black dog period or
my other                          lost
             weekend – pain is not an inspiration, it’s an itch.
Scratching                    ‘till
             it bleeds. The ideas expressed by Mark Fischer in
Hauntology         best
             summarises the ironically numb sensation of
living through the   lens
             that only makes you sorry and wish you hadn’t
lived it in the        first
             place. Today I begin not beginning – this Is not a
new day, it is  the
             same banal Tesco meal-deal advert it was
yesterday – welcome to
             Leverndale – I never really left did I, home is
where your pills
             are. I must gain weight – if not I might spread
myself too thin.

 

Getting Drunk in the QR Codex

Michael Black

I

 

Winter space crept us dangling.

Each time Fredric Jameson talks

about a Whiggish girlfriend

I take a drink of whisky in Tesco

In a poverty sense

this is a posh country

in the extent that a country poses

supposes its knows the rosary bead

nicely precisely a rose disponible

compost to recycle my payslips

 

II


 

somatic IKEAS envelope lush persistent

pronouns to relieve not forthcoming

I am a coming over hey there curious

more than calming across to say

well, no time to chuckle facetious

or whisper proper finder’s foetus

for named objective spirits of UR Sonata.

It’s just your Schitt’s geek making curt noise

chiasmus as we spark a solipsist cake

hand baking narcissism forth and bread line

 

from Ergastulum

Azad Ashim Sharma

Dusty corduroy

           perched ever so

           slightly over

                      canvas hi-tops

The bass levelled us it was like a movie

or a journey or somewhere in between–

What we moved

           as in the dance

was swooned interpretation

Reading aloud in each other’s ears

in the ensuing set of shade

                                                                       / it was so lit.

Erring on the side of upcoming brilliance to only

have been consumed by </panic.> it was a trance-

like state of </overcoming/> what went into us

 

to write is to exitenz as [of] and [in] at the otherwise

quantum-similitude of the long axes </to say is to subsist>

being part of our anguished ink-wishes as it was always.

 

Bear with me Lucretius we come [in] at the afterwards

singing our [qawwal] in cantos of guided vantage points

at the demi-verge of requisite remonstrata [we] desired

 

[out-of] remained in the foregoing of c̶o̶n̶c̶l̶u̶s̶i̶o̶n̶ for

faculties of deep dirt to find odd futures with fishy tones

how g̶r̶e̶y̶ could the sky actually get <?> maybe more so

 

From down [;] we made it <./through> a break w./ love

where care becomes enmeshed with the politic of it all

not to be able to integrate the notations with the d̶r̶a̶f̶t̶

 

There w/ each other it came to be that the chainz didn’t

hold much but a space we could exit into or from <!>

for they aren’t always already the same in the first place

 

No python will build a p̶a̶r̶t̶h̶e̶n̶o̶n̶ / no country for tuna

Finding ourselves toiled by the land we longed for oceans

we’re made of astrologers who lived [airless] on comets.

Re-/processual über-thought

 

                       a touch of bad circulation {blue fingers}

 

some parabiology of kinship that awoke in and around us

 

[choice exits where fate enters]

 

           </ & history forgets what it needs to re-member>

 

deep faked rhododendron

 

                                   came through all mean and slimy

 

the big questions like h̶o̶w̶ to live or w̶h̶a̶t̶ to stand by

seemed off when asked in conjunction t’ / how are you?

 

                                              We stayed put / lingering–

 

#hyperbole#

Rae Phillips Smith

Picture 1.jpg
 

Rupinder Bal

Maya Uppal

Rupinder watches dating shows from the early 2000s

for fun. She likes that y2k had the potential to be an

apocalypse. She is not sure how she feels about our

current end-of-days…

butch seeks femme to hold hands and fantasize about other people with

After Pipilotti Rist, Ever is Over All, 1997.

they remind me of sugary mice on a

confectionary stand those little pink

and white / melt in your mouth /

dissolvable things with puffy red

eyes designed to gurgle in the

bellies of small children. they live

for dolly mix aesthetics / and purses

full of artificial sweeteners. they eat

palma violets that taste like

citalopram / flying saucers that

smell like zoloft / and paroxetine

that kills their sex drive. they like

the way faux fur feels on their skin

more than the feeling of wax on

their fingertips / something about

squiggling squelching sensations

makes them uneasy. they’re a

freelance director of porn on twitter

 / they get paid to write ad

     

 

Mahasweta Devi

campaigns for the over 50s market /

they’re the head of their department

which now I am editing, I realise,

cannot exist

 

 they are the only one in the office /

they are eaten up in the first hour of

life but rebirthed from the baker’s

mould / they rub amla oil into their

scalp every night / comb it out

every evening / to sooth the dry

texture of their soul. they collect

knock off fabergé eggs / diamante

gemstones / and authentic knocked

out teeth. They don’t read poems,

but they do read lonely hearts.

They are searching for someone

else to be imagined. They too will

be written down soon.

     

 

Mahasweta has one more story to tell. It is full of

names she doesn’t recognise and platforms she has

never heard of, but she felt as compelled to write it

down, as you might feel to read it.

mayapoem.png
 

from Jaded Days

Julia Rose Lewis

IV

It will litter

glitter regulates themselves

crystal to crystal salt

indentation.

The lake will outline itself in white.

I send out this pastel dedication

down and out a salt deposit

almost half a mile underneath the bad desert. 

Which bear is nearer—

the terrestrial bear or the polar bear?

V

The department of energy knows

without sediment particles less than silt

nitrates can ignite

billions.

Into the overheated day

it is only the silicates in clay working

to stabilize the nitrates transuranic or true waste.

The very organic dangers:

the overheated horse, the quartet of frogs, and wheat

they lead to pandemonium.

IX

Tacoform—

a little hoarse gives

beet sugar and salt to balance

a crow finger winter.

Vehement in the sense effecting to snow

very from beyond the oaken dresser

ripe is turning purple.

The light frog having a wavelength

that is less violent than the violent ending

and more than chrome amazes.

XXIV

Someone else has clams

I mean

my ankles might as well be sandcastles—

silica, water, and a little yellow

as if they were mostly grit. 

Bitters that

install locals at the rose and crown

to recycle themselves

as magic calm from the heat of the day

so they say the must consume hot mollusks to stay. 

 

Re-flux

Asta Kinch

is the regurgitation of gastric          acid and digestive            enzymes into the


pharyngeal area             the spell in my throat          stuttering futures      by the licking      of my

 

gums something pickled       this way comes       a long awakening through that sphincter         

 

mingling with spit             unpleasant water   holes     make sense    like I am bitter      in an open

 

throat       partying in a close                 the tightness of a breast     greatly desiring    I lunge        

 

into “love” once again        finding this want      this absence    this hole      that holding and

 

expelling are the same      two sides    of a hole       world        you gave me the word of your

 

body        I give body        and hold           sour mouths        in waiting        “love” gurgs     regurgs     

 

so strictly        like the never of a mouth                 cigarettes smoking the eat-brain       to a

 

relaxed       opening                 of a city         acidity, winking            my favourite café       shut        

 

my pores, clogged          this lagging sack          torso and down         eating apples in ignorance       

 

propped up to a 30 degree     angle            and feuding with Gord        bleaching    to the guilt of

 

lemon       in flux  ~

     

 

Brine City

Laila, the windows are dark
nothing changes but still
the night is eating
a mother not mothering
> windows
the day

 

the day
I try to remember everything on that side of the floor
the concept of the house                       alights
this message I’ve been pickling
:

                                                                                           I arrive at
                                                                                           Intestine

                                                                                           city

 

                                                                                           full of
                                                                                           markings
                                                                                           roadwork
                                                                                           and amino
                                                                                           acids

                                                                                           liberated
                                                                                           into me

 

                                                  like the scabs I keep:

                                                  turned public garden

                                                  leaves, branches
                                                  solemn drops of rain like

                                                  I am really there
                                                  I am really there

                                                                          to

                                                                          touch!

 

When I die, I am alone


                                                               I wash my hair.

My skin is a silky pillowcase I hurry from
on a great night, with slices of lavender and thighs

I sleep,
dreams come true,
my heartache and hurt disappear,
but I want to eat like crazy:

 

                                                         cheek tissue
                                                         where the meanings are
                                                         stomach, spit.
                                                         Mustard to sling a stone.
                                                         It’s my choice. And the hollow
                                                         of my mouth is the dome
                                                         over the mountains, tight
                                                         from the earth. “He”
                                                         walks with me and stays
                                                         on the edges. His work
                                                         has cheated me,
                                                         I would prefer
                                                         the sun

                                                                                       

                                                                                       working only to eat,
I have the dog in the hall and in my stomach                                            I am numbers
                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                                                                                                 waiting at
                                                                                                                                                                                                                 the edges
                                                                                                                                                                                                                 the house
                                                                                                

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Is leaking
                                                                                                                                                                                                                  my own

 

oesophagus climbing guide                         to the lips, the lips meaning
the shore

     

 

 

Last of the sky pirates

Charlotte Heather

This bed, this laptop

            a sanctuary

                        or

            a sky ship

                        plummeting groundward

                        swallowing clouds in gasps

                        or

            a simple bed, laptop.

 

does it matter?                                                (YES!)

 

they are what matters most

this is the truest matter

in a      room    condensed

with needs and fatigue

            that swallow you in a gale

of amplified gravity

 

does it matter?                                                (YES!)

you get by, you get into bed,

your ship your sanctuary,

you try to write and play on laptop

use it to steer you clear into forgetting

a flare, propel you into the sky,

free of gravity elbows                        floating

on pillow, you get by, you

                                                          just

                                                                         do.