Posts tagged with ‘poetry’

An Inference is a Slyness

An inference is a slyness: intersexed, but not unpolitic,
like satirical cork in your prenuptial embassage,
like elastic partridges waving to us from the quadratical balcony
while beach drones seize and consume.
I am a maniacal hairpin when you use Spinoza letterhead,
salt that sits for weeks encrusts on the lips of Virginia Woolf,
whose sex parts are volumes of yes.
Present-day moles caper on waitress highways
driving engineers mad. Every line of Agrarian poetry
becomes a wrist playing a necklace of bites.
Afrocentric archaisms kneel before libraries
and nonlibraries, waking up only those who go to the gym.
My sister-in-law is a bright light shining in Chile,
understood only by one wrinkly parent who goes to clubs
with dairymaids. Your head is a houseplant
and this is Boston in picturesque conductivity. 

art by inserirefloppino

An Inference is a Slyness

An inference is a slyness: intersexed, but not unpolitic,
like satirical cork in your prenuptial embassage,
like elastic partridges waving to us from the quadratical balcony
while beach drones seize and consume.
I am a maniacal hairpin when you use Spinoza letterhead,
salt that sits for weeks encrusts on the lips of Virginia Woolf,
whose sex parts are volumes of yes.
Present-day moles caper on waitress highways
driving engineers mad. Every line of Agrarian poetry
becomes a wrist playing a necklace of bites.
Afrocentric archaisms kneel before libraries
and nonlibraries, waking up only those who go to the gym.
My sister-in-law is a bright light shining in Chile,
understood only by one wrinkly parent who goes to clubs
with dairymaids. Your head is a houseplant
and this is Boston in picturesque conductivity.


art by inserirefloppino

Not Just Any Old Poem

Not just any old poem can become an amazing walking stick.
You need to renounce your possessions, your wives,
and come to a place of inner silence. Listen to the breeze,
the whales far off under the earth, the helicopters.
It’s not about keeping your inbox empty: there is no inbox.
Or, everything is your inbox, and all the insects are singing
and you’re wearing a golden belt. The music begins.
You’re on a non-stop bus to New York city, and you’ve got 
a sandwich, apple and Snickers bar in your lunchbag.
You are seven hundred years old and so beautiful
as I look at you while you’re sleeping in my bed.

art by A.T. Velazco

Not Just Any Old Poem

Not just any old poem can become an amazing walking stick.
You need to renounce your possessions, your wives,
and come to a place of inner silence. Listen to the breeze,
the whales far off under the earth, the helicopters.
It’s not about keeping your inbox empty: there is no inbox.
Or, everything is your inbox, and all the insects are singing
and you’re wearing a golden belt. The music begins.
You’re on a non-stop bus to New York city, and you’ve got
a sandwich, apple and Snickers bar in your lunchbag.
You are seven hundred years old and so beautiful
as I look at you while you’re sleeping in my bed.

art by A.T. Velazco

Do you know Taylor Fayle, Todd Lidh and Ali Znaidi on Twitter?

We’ve all been there: 
chandelier hair crazy in the wind,
the disbursal of meerkats and acrostic crochets.

Tension is the lost face of happiness,
the furtherance weeping
of insemination and untruthfulness
in the archepiscopacy.
Cyberpunks on their violincellos 
bleeding us, who are alone 
in this perfect barometric night.

Do we have your correct mobile number? Yes—
and the gods have bioactive skyways
flaming out when your hands become part of my face
in Russian literature class.

art by brancusi7

Do you know Taylor Fayle, Todd Lidh and Ali Znaidi on Twitter?

We’ve all been there:
chandelier hair crazy in the wind,
the disbursal of meerkats and acrostic crochets.

Tension is the lost face of happiness,
the furtherance weeping
of insemination and untruthfulness
in the archepiscopacy.
Cyberpunks on their violincellos
bleeding us, who are alone
in this perfect barometric night.

Do we have your correct mobile number? Yes—
and the gods have bioactive skyways
flaming out when your hands become part of my face
in Russian literature class.

art by brancusi7

The Death of iPhones

5 uutku

Waking up beside
bodies of twilight and steam
and soybean asphalt.

Sad death of iphone
factories, sick in purple
of alien glare.

Obstructing pimples
and patronal codices
with passenger slime.

Mayhem leeches
abstractly combined 
with tilefish. 

biblical gunsmens’
psychoeducational
stenosis

art by JohnMoProductions

The Death of iPhones

5 uutku

Waking up beside
bodies of twilight and steam
and soybean asphalt.

Sad death of iphone
factories, sick in purple
of alien glare.

Obstructing pimples
and patronal codices
with passenger slime.

Mayhem leeches
abstractly combined
with tilefish.

biblical gunsmens’
psychoeducational
stenosis

art by JohnMoProductions

Will Time Ever End?

September 15

Raisins are popping in the black brain of Monday morning.
Mickey Mouse-shaped hands point at me 
in my corduroy jacket biking to work. “It’s fall,” they say.
Who says, “they say,” anymore? I might pull an old
surrealist rabbit out of the hat and say "they say"
no one will ever invent a boiled egg peeler.
That will make the agrarians feel real smug. 
Classic hard-ons come from only certain parts 
of the crowd. As kind as the chivalry 
of raving skyscraper beams turning brown in September rain.
When things are well-rested and organized—only then
does one start to get a kind of poetic spirit about one.
So listen to those people: they say get enough sleep
in college. They’re right. And the aftermath of 
a giraffe crackers becoming grownups with sticks.
A great treasure trove of surrealist artifacts just disappeared
and all its infinities forever lost. The gas lamps react
with clothes and sleeves and colleagues.

art by Mariano Peccinetti Collage Art

Will Time Ever End?

September 15

Raisins are popping in the black brain of Monday morning.
Mickey Mouse-shaped hands point at me
in my corduroy jacket biking to work. “It’s fall,” they say.
Who says, “they say,” anymore? I might pull an old
surrealist rabbit out of the hat and say "they say"
no one will ever invent a boiled egg peeler.

That will make the agrarians feel real smug.
Classic hard-ons come from only certain parts
of the crowd. As kind as the chivalry
of raving skyscraper beams turning brown in September rain.
When things are well-rested and organized—only then
does one start to get a kind of poetic spirit about one.
So listen to those people: they say get enough sleep
in college. They’re right. And the aftermath of
a giraffe crackers becoming grownups with sticks.
A great treasure trove of surrealist artifacts just disappeared
and all its infinities forever lost. The gas lamps react
with clothes and sleeves and colleagues.

art by Mariano Peccinetti Collage Art

What Happens When You Cross George Hitchcock With Theophile Gautier?

I tumble headlong, down… down…
into the edges of the mirror 
into the sanctuary of machine-guns.

Too high, those hands of white!
The death-march band, with lean brass,
coagulates on the ground.

Paris is muck—lorsqu’il est sans blessure—and it 
prefers flesh. The codfish cantaloupes
take off their black bones, nodding the haberdashery
of small birds. 

How sweet to see, at one moment, the right angles
of schism. At the next: a great flower 
in the waves, and monsters blazoned of old
extremely into the liberation movement for mosaic Barbie
and her ear-rings of melodious bronze. 

seed text: Selected Lyrics by Theophile Gautier; The Wounded Alphabet, by George Hitchcock
art by Michael Tunk

What Happens When You Cross George Hitchcock With Theophile Gautier?

I tumble headlong, down… down…
into the edges of the mirror
into the sanctuary of machine-guns.

Too high, those hands of white!
The death-march band, with lean brass,
coagulates on the ground.

Paris is muck—lorsqu’il est sans blessure—and it
prefers flesh. The codfish cantaloupes
take off their black bones, nodding the haberdashery
of small birds.

How sweet to see, at one moment, the right angles
of schism. At the next: a great flower
in the waves, and monsters blazoned of old
extremely into the liberation movement for mosaic Barbie
and her ear-rings of melodious bronze.

seed text: Selected Lyrics by Theophile Gautier; The Wounded Alphabet, by George Hitchcock
art by Michael Tunk

umbrella shaped moon

wordlings

the weather was a night-dribbling patois
patrols of light not daring to cross
half-human ribs, boulevard Saint-Germain
thick, looping taxitram trains
punctured uncertain
grease transformed
smoking fires parked
self-driven cars
even segmented breathing
possible kicks behind
the umbrella shaped moon
muttering into his mustache

seed text: first page of The Last Days, but Raymond Queneauart by holly pilot

umbrella shaped moon

wordlings

the weather was a night-dribbling patois
patrols of light not daring to cross
half-human ribs, boulevard Saint-Germain
thick, looping taxitram trains
punctured uncertain
grease transformed
smoking fires parked
self-driven cars
even segmented breathing
possible kicks behind
the umbrella shaped moon
muttering into his mustache

seed text: first page of The Last Days, but Raymond Queneauart by holly pilot

What Happens When You Cross Richard Wilbur With Ben Mirov?

I’m nervous and feel left out.
I take huge leaps to get to a garage 
full of leicas, binoculars and jewelry.
I’ve taken on too much of everything. 
The wind can only stay for a moment. 
A cracked brain is sold for amulets of mistletoe.
I don’t know who sleeps, don’t know who
issues rebellious from the leaves.

Now beget together, strange leaves,
a blanket
and a little black fist.

Now, something, blaze! 
Release, O rawhide bowstring,
the stillest arrow. Tie a bandana
around my head.

seed texts: New and Collected poems by Richard Wilbur; Ghost Machine by Ben Mirov
art by anthony_cudahy

What Happens When You Cross Richard Wilbur With Ben Mirov?

I’m nervous and feel left out.
I take huge leaps to get to a garage
full of leicas, binoculars and jewelry.
I’ve taken on too much of everything.
The wind can only stay for a moment.
A cracked brain is sold for amulets of mistletoe.
I don’t know who sleeps, don’t know who
issues rebellious from the leaves.

Now beget together, strange leaves,
a blanket
and a little black fist.

Now, something, blaze!
Release, O rawhide bowstring,
the stillest arrow. Tie a bandana
around my head.

seed texts: New and Collected poems by Richard Wilbur; Ghost Machine by Ben Mirov
art by anthony_cudahy

What Happens When You Cross Clayton Eshleman With Walt Whitman?

Hush, hush—
he is about to say a thing
with no more than ripped lips. And education
shall become the salesman leaving the store,
the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving 
like tapeworms,
trying to get back into poetry at any cost.

I clean the windows.
I put elk rump expressions on my face.
I roll myself upon you as upon a bed.
We do ha ha to each other.
I put dandelion death
in crisp autumn’s first waters.
I put a wife making cardamom chicken
in the middle of the lightning storm bowl.

Below: the bases of peninsulas
and the hospital room fans.

Everything we actually wanted in the ’90s
is now unfolded out of the folds of the woman’s brain. 

seed texts: Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and The Name Encanyoned River by Clayton Eshleman
art by Javier eme Castro

What Happens When You Cross Clayton Eshleman With Walt Whitman?

Hush, hush—
he is about to say a thing
with no more than ripped lips. And education
shall become the salesman leaving the store,
the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving
like tapeworms,
trying to get back into poetry at any cost.

I clean the windows.
I put elk rump expressions on my face.
I roll myself upon you as upon a bed.
We do ha ha to each other.
I put dandelion death
in crisp autumn’s first waters.
I put a wife making cardamom chicken
in the middle of the lightning storm bowl.

Below: the bases of peninsulas
and the hospital room fans.

Everything we actually wanted in the ’90s
is now unfolded out of the folds of the woman’s brain.

seed texts: Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and The Name Encanyoned River by Clayton Eshleman
art by Javier eme Castro

Phrases that Didn’t Make It Into the Play

Outwardly feasting
on the coral spectrograph of feelings.

Garlic toothbrush 
in a layer of haste.

Incredible mink.

Levitation
at any cost.

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

Phrases that Didn’t Make It Into the Play

Outwardly feasting
on the coral spectrograph of feelings.

Garlic toothbrush
in a layer of haste.

Incredible mink.

Levitation
at any cost.

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

Borgeois. Quaratania I.

Eskimos
in their new homes in Florida
take to being slow

holding a candle
but not holding
a button-up dress.
Nothing angry can be gathered
in this chapel.
Alcohol meat
with inuit breath.

Borgeois. Quaratania I.

Eskimos
in their new homes in Florida
take to being slow

holding a candle
but not holding
a button-up dress.
Nothing angry can be gathered
in this chapel.
Alcohol meat
with inuit breath.

Giacometti. Woman with Her Throat Cut.

At last
at the interstices of nature
and nightmare
the tendrils and exoshells
of godliness.

Tell us about 
the tin-barometer
of the psyche.
Weave your holodeck controls
and layers of tarp. 
Oversee 
amounts of lemon
controlled by phones
in the Netherlands.
We wonder aloud
at your happiness.

Giacometti. Woman with Her Throat Cut.

At last
at the interstices of nature
and nightmare
the tendrils and exoshells
of godliness.

Tell us about
the tin-barometer
of the psyche.
Weave your holodeck controls
and layers of tarp.
Oversee
amounts of lemon
controlled by phones
in the Netherlands.
We wonder aloud
at your happiness.

Giacometti. Hands Holding the Void (Invisible Object).

Back into the century
of being amphibian

but with helplessness
in our mouth and hands—
with symbolic systems in our eyes
and a bronze torture
in the leg
like the emigration bus
of Ayn Rand.

Giacometti. Hands Holding the Void (Invisible Object).

Back into the century
of being amphibian

but with helplessness
in our mouth and hands—
with symbolic systems in our eyes
and a bronze torture
in the leg
like the emigration bus
of Ayn Rand.

Ernst. Lunar Asparagus.

Elide with those big eyes,
white vegetable saleables
cast with fire,
nicely slimmed 
into palindrome talk.

Ernst. Lunar Asparagus.

Elide with those big eyes,
white vegetable saleables
cast with fire,
nicely slimmed
into palindrome talk.

Mussolini Wept

See Zizek touching his nose.
See it replaced by another kind of liability: 
sweet Princesse de Parme waving across the aisle
celebrating a very approximate breakdown
in the eye of eyes.
Leaping peppers could sometimes just as well be defined as
internal forcefields 
in the neverending story
of your white elephant salad.

Mussolini wept; catwalks fell;
and carefully manipulated concomitance relays its
retrospections, anticipations, and red breasts.
From the waste down we are the suspension of disbelief.
From the tombs of our fathers to now we are the activity,
or rather the presence, of the narrator himself.
Nothing can overreach its own nonorganized position.
All possibility laughs
like kind hatchets
in the unrealism garage.

seed text: Narrative Discourse, by Gérard Genet
art by recombiner

Mussolini Wept

See Zizek touching his nose.
See it replaced by another kind of liability:
sweet Princesse de Parme waving across the aisle
celebrating a very approximate breakdown
in the eye of eyes.
Leaping peppers could sometimes just as well be defined as
internal forcefields
in the neverending story
of your white elephant salad.

Mussolini wept; catwalks fell;
and carefully manipulated concomitance relays its
retrospections, anticipations, and red breasts.
From the waste down we are the suspension of disbelief.
From the tombs of our fathers to now we are the activity,
or rather the presence, of the narrator himself.
Nothing can overreach its own nonorganized position.
All possibility laughs
like kind hatchets
in the unrealism garage.

seed text: Narrative Discourse, by Gérard Genet
art by recombiner