Posts tagged with ‘instagram’

these greys

these greys
curve up
thru the sky

to devour
the courtesy
in my toughened flesh.

I do not know
her power;

if she sat
effecting
the wolf 

the spin
cut away
a yellow ghost

through which
he-who-must-die
is willow—

it occupies
where the bones
sung

so many
blue-veined hands
that spilt
the law

source text: Loba, by Diane di Prima
art by bran__santos

these greys

these greys
curve up
thru the sky

to devour
the courtesy
in my toughened flesh.

I do not know
her power;

if she sat
effecting
the wolf

the spin
cut away
a yellow ghost

through which
he-who-must-die
is willow—

it occupies
where the bones
sung

so many
blue-veined hands
that spilt
the law

source text: Loba, by Diane di Prima
art by bran__santos

such a man

I hold that
such a man
presently did
give himself airs

to divert
by removing from place to place
the sword’s point;

for we see men
mad
cupping-glasses
towards another

wholly
to land again
naturally,

a boundless, an irrefragable
lavender
making shipwreck

some contrary
country
to satisfy
or excel

seed text: The Anatomy of Melancholy, by Robert Burton
art by Sylvie Théraulaz

such a man

I hold that
such a man
presently did
give himself airs

to divert
by removing from place to place
the sword’s point;

for we see men
mad
cupping-glasses
towards another

wholly
to land again
naturally,

a boundless, an irrefragable
lavender
making shipwreck

some contrary
country
to satisfy
or excel

seed text: The Anatomy of Melancholy, by Robert Burton
art by Sylvie Théraulaz

some

some dreams are
said once upon a time
in Boston

tempting
as it were
by long accumulated prestige

later she
would not be there
thinking of another

bigger than 
dwarves

they
kicked again
to say it
and inserted 
not loudly;

it was sudden
not strange

and there was never 
women
obstinate
when this
was 

how they did
to be here

seed text: Ida, by Gertrude Stein
art by Magaly Urgate

some

some dreams are
said once upon a time
in Boston

tempting
as it were
by long accumulated prestige

later she
would not be there
thinking of another

bigger than
dwarves

they
kicked again
to say it
and inserted
not loudly;

it was sudden
not strange

and there was never
women
obstinate
when this
was

how they did
to be here


seed text: Ida, by Gertrude Stein
art by Magaly Urgate

organized

we evidently
encroach
the organized 

such an apparently
common case
by the things which
inrush

subsistence
as a repetition
and account

the nervous system
to communicate
some simple mode

Voltaire
seeing stars,
a lightning flash—

architecture
blurred and diffuse

stimuli
capriciously downwards

convenient to separate
and sensitive

seed text: Principles of Literary Criticism
art by Loïc Bahougne

organized

we evidently
encroach
the organized

such an apparently
common case
by the things which
inrush

subsistence
as a repetition
and account

the nervous system
to communicate
some simple mode

Voltaire
seeing stars,
a lightning flash—

architecture
blurred and diffuse

stimuli
capriciously downwards

convenient to separate
and sensitive

seed text: Principles of Literary Criticism
art by Loïc Bahougne

circumstantial

the deepest submarine
was between the things:
shield
for the normal water

all parts of it
becalmed

it risks
not to be cleaved
until given back

not always
sheep and cattle / 

the ovum drinks
nor more than a
circumstantial
axle’s width:

these guard against 
the laws of growth

out of
dative phonemes
emergent
from the ground up

seed text: Capacity, by James McMichael
art by Carl Wolf

circumstantial

the deepest submarine
was between the things:
shield
for the normal water

all parts of it
becalmed

it risks
not to be cleaved
until given back

not always
sheep and cattle /

the ovum drinks
nor more than a
circumstantial
axle’s width:

these guard against
the laws of growth

out of
dative phonemes
emergent
from the ground up

seed text: Capacity, by James McMichael
art by Carl Wolf

Cruel

You are cruel,
bad-looking,
equally painful /

and the autumn air,
can’t undertake to work
from subsequent and more cruel occurrences—

enough material 
without the thought.

seed text: The Turn of the Screw and Other Short Novels, by Henry James
art by d0125

Cruel

You are cruel,
bad-looking,
equally painful /

and the autumn air,
can’t undertake to work
from subsequent and more cruel occurrences—

enough material
without the thought.

seed text: The Turn of the Screw and Other Short Novels, by Henry James
art by d0125

Almost Go On

What he gave them
wouldn’t almost go on.

She told him
that his house is poisoned
and modesty
anything 
conferred
by the 
the smooth hard floor.

His poetry
still passed:
a sort of sense of looking
in simplified, intensified essence.

I will go
about my absence
a new person:

the matter
going off there

inveterate,
afraid.

seed text: The Turn of the Screw and Other Short Novels, by Henry James
art by d0125

Almost Go On

What he gave them
wouldn’t almost go on.

She told him
that his house is poisoned
and modesty
anything
conferred
by the
the smooth hard floor.

His poetry
still passed:
a sort of sense of looking
in simplified, intensified essence.

I will go
about my absence
a new person:

the matter
going off there

inveterate,
afraid.

seed text: The Turn of the Screw and Other Short Novels, by Henry James
art by d0125

Mining the Buried

Brian Beatty

Your jewel-dark blue, green and brown 
work shirts weighed down
cold wire hangers 
in the closet in the corner 
of the garage for years 
after you were gone— haunting me. 
I hurried to grow into them
for what felt like forever. At the time, anyway. 
When they did finally fit,
nobody else in my junior high
had their own low-hanging cloud 
of coal dust, diesel fumes and dry rot 
following them through the cruel, crowded halls between bells. 
Not even the secret smokers barking up lungs 
out in the alley behind the school 
in that old local tradition.

art by Christian Watson

Mining the Buried

Brian Beatty

Your jewel-dark blue, green and brown
work shirts weighed down
cold wire hangers

in the closet in the corner
of the garage for years
after you were gone
— haunting me.

I hurried to grow into them
for what felt like forever. At the time, anyway.

When they did finally fit,
nobody else in my junior high
had their own low-hanging cloud
of coal dust, diesel fumes and dry rot

following them through the cruel, crowded halls between bells.

Not even the secret smokers barking up lungs
out in the alley behind the school
in that old local tradition.

art by Christian Watson

The Stars

The stars—
where did they take you?

Into themselves.

Their black mouths
wrapped in silence.

The iron
nakedness.

There is only one subject:
the blind man
at the windows

the eighty-third room
the blue the green
the shadow
and the sea.

seed text: The Second Four Books of Poems, W.S. Merwin
art by cimek

The Stars

The stars—
where did they take you?

Into themselves.

Their black mouths
wrapped in silence.

The iron
nakedness.

There is only one subject:
the blind man
at the windows

the eighty-third room
the blue the green
the shadow
and the sea.

seed text: The Second Four Books of Poems, W.S. Merwin
art by cimek

of what use

of what use is
the ex-inner sanctum

to live in
says the universe

yellow pink light
of a fractured Heaven

the memory of something 
we dream

a long, soaking rain
bonytoungued

part of a swarm
awkwardly on top of itself

its specificity
inverted

among the xylophone-flora
I could have hatched

as others have
atonal though rhythmic

a kind of finesse
of being

seed text: The Arcadia Project: North American Postmodern Pastoral
art by aci2

of what use

of what use is
the ex-inner sanctum

to live in
says the universe

yellow pink light
of a fractured Heaven

the memory of something
we dream

a long, soaking rain
bonytoungued

part of a swarm
awkwardly on top of itself

its specificity
inverted

among the xylophone-flora
I could have hatched

as others have
atonal though rhythmic

a kind of finesse
of being

seed text: The Arcadia Project: North American Postmodern Pastoral
art by aci2

where love resists

so much rain
in the mind’s
soundless azure:

night’s improbable snake
with his voluptuously swept
single feather

fanning out,
a dense powder
of good acts

ghost of lillith,
the volcano they called the “phonograph”

/

leaning on the broken column
I find my impossible cigarette

but that’s life
unless I surrender
to the face,

a music of whimpers
within your watery brow

between two chiseled
enormous indigo flowers



seed text: Captive of the Vision of Paradise, by Ivan Arguelles
art by zenoiii

where love resists

so much rain
in the mind’s
soundless azure:

night’s improbable snake
with his voluptuously swept
single feather

fanning out,
a dense powder
of good acts

ghost of lillith,
the volcano they called the “phonograph”

/

leaning on the broken column
I find my impossible cigarette

but that’s life
unless I surrender
to the face,

a music of whimpers
within your watery brow

between two chiseled
enormous indigo flowers


seed text: Captive of the Vision of Paradise, by Ivan Arguelles
art by zenoiii

December 9

schitzophrenic winter mix
in long criss-crossing strands
on the expansive glass
of my head

against which the saints lean
beyond which is the world
wet and green-cold

while melancholy concrete
displays its benevolent hair
beside the grey smoke
pluming toward
the disguise of
grey sky

art by spathumpa

December 9

schitzophrenic winter mix
in long criss-crossing strands
on the expansive glass
of my head

against which the saints lean
beyond which is the world
wet and green-cold

while melancholy concrete
displays its benevolent hair
beside the grey smoke
pluming toward
the disguise of
grey sky

art by spathumpa

over it

it was nice just being
over it
one might say

sudden reversal
on its hinges

like serious implications
of the sparse
though pure
flag
stricken with the power of the floor

its truly sensitive surface
all but unreadable
in the new financial age

losing permanently
the orchard that was right for you
in the new climate
you thought your life had been

seed text: Flow Chart, by John Ashbery
art by jccssd

over it

it was nice just being
over it
one might say

sudden reversal
on its hinges

like serious implications
of the sparse
though pure
flag
stricken with the power of the floor

its truly sensitive surface
all but unreadable
in the new financial age

losing permanently
the orchard that was right for you
in the new climate
you thought your life had been


seed text: Flow Chart, by John Ashbery
art by jccssd

in general

We should have pleased each other
in general,
a single human being.

The force of 
abstemioussness
without preparation.

The contemplation of truth—
a description of 
what scripture tells us is certain.

A privilege torn by power
and the common question
in a strange dress.

At once 
a convenience that 
attacks upon him,

a sufficient specimen
that will grow in the open air.

seed text: Boswell’s Life of Johnson
art by rudydesouza

in general

We should have pleased each other
in general,
a single human being.

The force of
abstemioussness
without preparation.

The contemplation of truth—
a description of
what scripture tells us is certain.

A privilege torn by power
and the common question
in a strange dress.

At once
a convenience that
attacks upon him,

a sufficient specimen
that will grow in the open air.

seed text: Boswell’s Life of Johnson
art by rudydesouza

Away

They took away those
odors of morning

afraid of the long glide
in all our worlds.

All the denizens of the deep
suffer such
in the soughings of egos.

To be respected
in one direction.

It is
at work grinding
toward graveyard

is equivalent to
a fast-aging chorus

belying
bodiless form
with a simple surface

barely good enough
to empty the ocean—

something lustreless
that produces paradise.

seed text: The Animals, by Richard Grossman
art by minehost

Away

They took away those
odors of morning

afraid of the long glide
in all our worlds.

All the denizens of the deep
suffer such
in the soughings of egos.

To be respected
in one direction.

It is
at work grinding
toward graveyard

is equivalent to
a fast-aging chorus

belying
bodiless form
with a simple surface

barely good enough
to empty the ocean—

something lustreless
that produces paradise.

seed text: The Animals, by Richard Grossman
art by minehost