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Article 3

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David Baptiste Chirot


HEADS, FACES



















David Baptiste Chirot lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He makes Visual Poetry, Sound Poetry, Prose Poetry, Performance Scores/Events, Short Stories, Essays, Reviews, IS IN VIDEO ON YOUTUBE, in print and online, all found by a Google/other search
 
 
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Article 2

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gobscure


01 exisle


leash un selfportrait


02 xaisle


outsider


03 sexiled




gobscure has 2 print on demand publications now available via http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/gobscure

!cooolest weapons these games ov throne. 2017 c.e. wz a year when satirists couldnt keep up but heres wee-poem / visualweekly collab thru that strange year

rouse yer cwm. scratch-torn-faded cut-ups culled from european public texts this past decade+ — a collective for the broken narrative alls living thru & widely distributed

 
 
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Article 1

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Sabine Miller & Richard Gilbert


from Poetry as Consciousness:
Haiku Forests, Space of Mind and an Ethics of Freedom


Emily's Darling
dried rose petals and thistles on watercolor paper


Poems … are waiting to be perceived. They “see you”; some may be too hot and need time to cool off to be touched (the poem resists the reader’s desire for meaning). Others need warmth: the fires of insight behind one’s eyes suddenly spark, sensing invitations to depth.

Our world is made of keys—cars, doors, logins, proper manners, forms of greeting, situational responses, making conversation. We judge and evaluate ceaselessly. We are often “typing” unconsciously. Perhaps gracefully as well, but aren’t we missing something, socially? Within the egalitarian arrangements of our categorized “fragments” of persons, relations and things, are there wholes that remain invisible among our daily utilities?

To seek the perception of the unique is also to be sought. We seek participation and are lucky to encounter it, whether in a person or an artwork, and this dual perception is rare—a depth akin to aesthetic arrest: in whatever we find artful enough that the mind is stopped and the world for moments becomes holistic in perception, untypeable into any schema, category, set of qualities, properties, gender or genre, and impossible to divide into fact versus fiction. In such moments, what has hitherto been least tangible arises as matchless fulfillment of reality.

Our poem under purview may be arranged as furrows in a field or brow, feel of a specific or timeless age, be born in some far country or written next door. We may note the identity, gender, age and such of the author, at some point. And all this will matter again soon, just as it mattered, if differently, before. But in the perception of the unique, as Wallace Stevens said, “the lion roars at the enraging desert.” This roar, incommensurate with any other, is everything we are. Without this roar, an impeccable cry of intimate, incomparable being, there can be no seeking of deeper truth—this is the roar of the heart’s rage in
The desert of modernity … [when] the heart has no reaction to what it faces, thereby turning the variegated sensuous face of the world into monotony, sameness, oneness. What is passive, immobile, asleep in the heart creates a desert that can only be cured by its own parenting principle that shows its awakening by roaring.... The more our desert the more we must rage, which rage is love. The passions of the soul make the desert habitable. The desert … is anywhere once we desert the heart…. The desert beast is our guardian in the desert of modern bureaucracy, ugly urbanism, academic trivialities, professional official soullessness, the desert of our ignoble condition. We fear that rage. We dare not roar … we let the little lions sleep in front of the television…(Hillman, James. A Blue Fire. NY: Routledge, 1989.)
Rage here means that we are willing to fight for our need for depth and won’t stand for less … The perception of the unique unavoidably involves the recognition that we too often live within psychic wastelands—environments composed of fragments of things measured against each other, sliced, diced and categorized in various ways. Decent though our environments may be, and decent though we may be, concerning value, normative perception and normative consciousness are not enough.

To love is also to be loved in being perceived as unique—this experience also occurs within passions and obsessions (non-derogative) of taste, activity and poetic craft. Consider those moments when knowledge falls away in rapture. It’s not just being “head-over-heels,” but the forgetting of self that’s important: direct involvement beyond “measure,” a deepened experience of embodiment. The perception of the unique leads to embodied consciousness rooted in immeasurables of depth and metaphor.


Anarchic Sanctuary
tulip petal pulp, lily pollen, lemon juice, water, and Elmer glue on watercolor paper




Sabine Miller started experimenting with using flowers as paint/brushes in the woods of Lagunitas, California in the late nineties. She now lives over the hill in San Rafael, where she writes, paints, and studies qigong. A chapbook of poems, Branch to Finch, was published by Ornithopter Press in 2016. More of her “floragrams” and watercolor collages can be found at Otoliths.

Richard Gilbert studied with Beat poets Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Peter Orlovsky, and Gary Snyder at Naropa University. Japanese haiku became a focus, under the tutelage of Patricia Donegan. He earned a Ph.D. in Poetics and Depth Psychology at the Union Institute and University in 1990. In 1997, he moved to Japan to pursue Japanese haiku research. He is currently Professor, Graduate School of Social and Cultural Sciences, at Kumamoto University. Poetry as Consciousness: Haiku Forests, Space of Mind and an Ethics of Freedom (Keibunsha, 2018) follows The Disjunctive Dragonfly: A New Approach to English-Language Haiku (Red Moon Press, 2013). A previous word/art collaboration with Sabine Miller appears here.
 
 
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Article 24

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Johannes S. H. Bjerg


























Johannes S. H. Bjerg: a Dane who writes in Danish and English simultaneously and mainly haiku and haiku related forms. 1 of 3 of the editors of Bones - “Journal for contemporary haiku” (http://www.bonesjournal.com), and sole editor of “the other bunny - for the other kind of haibun” (http://theotherbunny.wordpress.com) and “One Link Chain” - a blog for solo linked verse and haiku sequences (http://onelinkchain.blogspot.dk/) Has published several books: http://megaga.dk/?page_id=530

Recent releases:

19 Gestures and Their Corresponding Words - Timglaset / Timglaset.com (limited edition), 2018. (ebook version at Timglaset.com / https://timglaset.com/2017/12/30/johannes-s-h-bjerg-19-gestures-and-their-corresponding-words/)
6 Palimpsests / 6 palimpsester (ebook) 2018
Litanies / Litanier (ebook) 2017
Apple / Æble (ebook) 2018
 
 
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Article 23

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M; Margo


blue ghost open close open


pennines


no dispute


song for xan




M; Margo is a person who writes and resides in Cleveland, Ohio. They are Founding Editor of Zoomoozophone Review and Publicity Director for Gold Wake Press. Their most recent books are yr yr (Ghost City Press, 2017) and Blueberry Lemonade (Bottlecap Press, 2015).
 
 
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Article 22

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Carla Bertola



La chose la plus belle


Sirene


Del silenzio delle Sirene A


Del silenzio delle Sirene B


Del silenzio delle Sirene C


Les ponts d'Avignon





Carla Bertola– Writer, verbo-visual and sound poet, has taken part in international cultural activities since the 70s. She lives in Torino where she was born in 1935. Her works are in catalogues and anthologies in several countries, she exhibits in group and solo shows. As a sound poetry and ‘Poésie Action’ performer she has taken part in many events in Europe, Canada, Brasil, Cuba, Mexico, Serbia. She has published verbo-visual books in Italy and abroad. Since 1978 she edits the multimedia international magazine Offerta Speciale and organizes visual poetry and Artist Books exhibits.
 
 
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Article 21

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F. J. Bergmann


With Reservation

my name is great citizen.
I believe in me usually if
propelled by unseen forces
maybe a copy of my person
must have you nevertheless

I would not hesitate to
sorry necessity and become
exclusive partner to you
maybe bothersome rather
benevolent in the search

I would like to know you
to furnish authenticity
with deceptive intention
would be willing to elucidate
if personal need arises

I would be very grateful
truly hearing from you
soonest before the contact
give this my proposal to your
I came across consideration

note that this is not connected
to the possibility of looking for
data whom it may concern
forward for mutual benefit
you may imagine my disbelief

dear sir



Weathering the Storm

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp  from a TV station weather instruction guide

Weather never leaves. Keep your eyes flat
on the ground If you see these symbols
keep calm; information can be handled
safely and will appear around you. Pull
out the map and take cover immediately.
To keep safe, avoid expiration. Recover
spontaneously. Do not take refuge; seek
shelter. Keep in touch, even if it isn’t
raining. General safety tips to follow
if your hair stands or your skin tingles.
Don’t waste time trying to attract and
concentrate; other depressions may sweep
you off. Avoid being frightening. With
other people: severe, dark, turbulent-
looking, headed your way, spread away
from each other if there is any doubt. Plan
an escape. You are in immediate danger.
Get off. Get out. Stay away. In a group,
those who appear dead should be first.
Those who show signs will probably
require other injuries. You need victims.
Go about your normal activities.



Frangipani

Knowe whiz the thyme foreign o third eager Russian in tooth a freak cog nit if reap pub lick. Thee nab bit ants lieu cam uh chill Ike thew once he rebut twit thpp ink ert heath hand up lez ant erects press shuns. The yawl ha veg ob sith ale I kith hat paix tree melly wealth hay all dewy chaw Thurs. moan eland derring. Hat fir sty fealt till a tease, becaw size poke the lain goo wage oo ith has lite ax sent an doe an lethe vague sty dea of watt Iowa sane, butt aft era fee ooh mine norse et backs, onceth ade dee sighed edtha tyke ooh den knot pa sib leah ave gar landed thar ought tire ron fents around ding tude if rent park sat top o’ sit ends of this it eew withal live erse oft tune knocked urn Al Jung late ease I’m ult. anus lea I inst. all demi cell fat wah nuff Thibet urb Ed and bah reck fast stew egg sever ream orn Inga an diss eh tout twin gray she ate mice elf withal lo-cal a cad em icks purse oo ant óu ember Cajun up on nacre rear ink ree ate if gran trite ting. In ish alee, isle oy turd nth ash heinie nubucks tore soft this it tea, butt there cline tell all ways see med tube bee in a her eon dim my if awning o virtue rest owe hard like leap ray worm et with bah rusk ree buff eerie. But the nice tarted go wing towhee oozed dybbuks tors.*




* Now is the time for another digression into the Free Cognitive Republic. The inhabitants look much like the ones here, but with pinker teeth and pleasanter expressions. They all have jobs they like, that pay extremely well—they all do each other’s money-laundering. At first I felt ill at ease, because I spoke the language with a slight accent and only the vaguest idea of what I was saying, but after a few minor setbacks, once they decided I could not possibly have garlanded the wrought-iron fence surrounding two different parks at opposite ends of the city with the livers of two nocturnal young ladies simultaneously, I installed myself at one of the better bed-and-breakfasts (two eggs every morning!) and set out to ingratiate myself with the local academics, pursuant to embarkation upon a career in creative grant-writing. Initially, I loitered in the shiny new bookstores of the city, but their clientele always seemed to be in a hurry, and my fawning overtures toward likely prey were met with brusque rebuffery. But then I started going to used bookstores.



Whoa Nelly

Are we there yet? It was a nice
place to fizzle, but I wouldn’t
want to live. To be from there,
OK. We were poor but dishonest.
A structure of reckless optimism
and other past mistakes. Take it
from me, not a likely basis for
comparison. What we gave up
that others might suffer too.
Nobody asked you to live
downstairs from a tuba player.
Nobody asked you to dance,
either, but there you were in
the middle of the floor, spinning
in slo-mo like a scale model
of the galaxy or something
equally important. I was beside
myself; not a good combination,
considering our taste in lingerie.
Soonest mended. Yeah, right.
And there you are.



Long Haul

I was carrying an old peninsula
in ruins on the back of the truck,
heading out on the road again
to punch through the change
of seasons—we have our own
special version of that boundary,

which clusters like a cloud pearled
about one hard core both
ghost and human. That’s what
I named my truck, “Hardcore”
—get it? It’s painted in fancy
script on both sides of the hood.

A force invoked under the full
of the moon stood shivering
in the chilly dawn, rapt in the damp
fabric of its nature. Some mornings
it’s hard to get going early
but it beats driving in the dark.

It superimposed magic
upon the other world like
a tour guide pointing out marvels:
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp  here, a statue is brought to life;
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp  there, the spirit and body reunite in flame;
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp  yonder a plum tree blooms and withers

and blooms and dies again and repeats
until no more blossoms come. You’d
be amazed at the weird shit I’ve
seen, driving down the road.

Quiet, please; only look,
do not participate: these rituals
require years of loyal service and
even then they are usually performed
inadequately. These days, there just aren’t
any more reliable mechanics. Even gods fall
apart under the relentless weight
of their unending memories.




F. J. Bergmann edits poetry for Mobius: The Journal of Social Change (mobiusmagazine.com), and imagines tragedies on or near exoplanets. She has competed at National Poetry Slam as a member of the Madison, WI, Urban Spoken Word team. Her work appears irregularly in Abyss & Apex, Analog, Asimov's SF, and elsewhere in the alphabet. A Catalogue of the Further Suns won the 2017 Gold Line Press poetry chapbook contest.
 
 
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Article 20

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Ruggero Maggi




(The diptych above was exhibited in 2017 at the Non solo libri show at the Officina Open Gallery of the MAGA Museum. The photograph was taken by Marco Valenti.)



Ruggero Maggi is an artist and curator. He has participated in 49./52./54.Venice Art Biennials and at the Sao Paulo Art Biennial in 1980. His main artistic interests are visual poetry; copy art, artist’s books and Mail Art; laser art; holography; and chaotic art based on the theory of Chaos, fractals, and entropy.

2006 Underwood site-specific installation at the GAM Gallarate; 2007 curator Camera 312 – promemoria per Pierre at the 52. Biennale Venezia; 2008 the project “Depth 45 – Michelangelo at work” about the report Art-Technology. He has realized the installation “Ecce ovo” for an Italian-Thai art meeting dedicated to the problem of global warming at Villa Glisenti and at the Silpakorn University’s Art Centre in Bangkok. In 2009 he has arranged a site-specific installation dedicated to XX years of the Fall of Berlin’s Wall. 2010 “GenerAction” Mail Post.it Art project - Università del Melo Visual Art Gallery – Gallarate (VA); 2011- 2013 Tibet Pavilion of Venice Biennial - Italy Pavilion – Torino Palazzo delle Esposizioni – Sala Nervi, Museo Diotti (CR), Laudense Library (LO). 2013 Tibet Pavilion (II ed.) Santa Marta Congressi – SpazioPorto – Venezia with of City of Venice patronage Assessorato alle Politiche Giovanili Centro Pace 2014/2015 Tibet Pavilion – Bienal del Fin del Mundo Argentina 2016 Tibet Pavilion – Castello Visconteo Pavia 2016/2017 “Earth|Rawmatter” Mail Art project – Università del Melo Visual Art Gallery – Gallarate (VA) 2017 Tibet Pavilion (IV ed.) Palazzo Zenobio - Venezia.
 
 
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Article 19

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Michael Gould



Correction Fluid


Paintbox Poem




Paintbox Poems





Michael Gould is a Canadian New Zealander, resident in Wellington for the past 25 years, recently retired from a career in administration in health and education; now writing full time. When his book, Surrealism and the Cinema: Open-eyed Screening (1976), was published he had already turned to making visual poetry. Some pieces were published by, or exhibited at, two of Canada’s main venues for experimental art and included in Canada’s first exhibition of colour Xerox art. He was then writing as “mr nice guy”. He then stopped creative writing; starting again only in the past few years, mostly light or lyrical verse. Poems have recently appeared in Snorkel, Meniscus, Landfall and The Spinoff.
 
 
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Article 18

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Robert Ford


Living next door to a man who keeps pigeons

We only compare notes at first light, when he goes
to open up the hatch, grey bib-and-braces, ill-fitting.

They boil out from the coop, and I stand gawking,
open-mouthed throughout their exercise hour,

following each hypnotic circuit overhead as they pass,
a mist of frantic wing-beating, synchronised like a

herring shoal slicing up the sea, flashing silver
on the upstrokes. I will strike him as a bored ghost,

perhaps, there at the window. Or an abandoned
mannequin wearing unfashionable clothes in the

window of an empty shop, mutely oblivious to those
eye-sized spatters weeping down the sash-panes.



I want to kill your dog

Actually, that’s not true.
What I want to do is
take him out for coffee,
somewhere quiet and
unthreatening –
that new place just off
the High Street, perhaps,
where you sit on bean-bags
and they play Coltrane.

He could have whatever
dogs have, and I’d
offer him that little
amoretti-flavoured
biscotti from my saucer
as a goodwill gesture,
although I imagine
he’d prefer a beef
or chicken-flavoured one.

Because I’m sure we could
connect in a different,
less rudimentary way,
you know. Maybe not.
At least I would be
careful to keep my hands
under the table, out of sight.
I wouldn’t want to make him
feel uncomfortable.





Robert Ford's poetry has appeared in both print and online publications in the UK and US, including The Interpreter's House, Dime Show Review, Butcher's Dog and San Pedro River Review. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com/.
 
 
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Article 17

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Carolina Skibinski


sushi sushi sushi submarine

There’s some damn dank seaweed
around them sushi. Feed it to them
red hens. See how they flip
the green strips from side to side.
That’s some damn dank sushi.
No one can give it away in this state
now it’s for a reduced price—
that works well for a mall gull
like myself, keeping an eye on the flotsam.
Squeeze a little extra salt, if you please’m;
if you find it to your taste
let the fish kiss your meat.
That’s some damn dank—
I gotta keep myself upright somehow.
It’s a flexible stick, just apply the right force,
and it propels the travel-wearied skyward.
That’s some damn sushi.
Are you sure you need a rest? and are wanting to sit down?
because we can arrange for someone
to manage five more hours out of you.



team player

The colours belong to teams.
Red. The burning of coal.
Blue. The waves between islands.
Green. The grass upon which
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp  our sport is played.
I look down at my T-shirt.
Which do I wear? I am green,
always in green—the ground
upon which the figures run. I am figuring
the figures—noting their footsteps
in the fibrous extensions of my being.

And so I chase after the ball,
the patch-worked, leather-bound air
of pressurized darkness,
and I find myself, after having scored a goal—
the breath caught in a net, and exhaled
to make its round once again—
I find myself in my individual
body, while the bodies
of others blur into one around me—
and I catch the cool, transparent air
within the warmth of my lungs.





Carolina Skibinski grew up in Adelaide with her post-Cold War, European refugee family, and studied literature and philosophy in Sydney. After managing to avoid being ultimately ordered in Canberra, she returned to Adelaide to share the joys of her young child with her family. To read more of her work, please search through Cordite and Transnational Literature (forthcoming).
 
 
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Article 16

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Alberto Vitacchio




















Alberto Vitacchio was born in 1942 in Torino where he still lives. He has always written poetry and published in many magazines in Italy and abroad. During the 80’s he began working on Visual Poetry and, at the same time, started doing performances usually with Carla Bertola, working on the idea of “Stagepoetry actions”. He performed widely in Italy and different countries: France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Ireland, Serbia, Brasil, Mexico, Cuba, Latvia, Canada.

During the 80’s he also started to work on Sound Poetry and Visual Poetry. He personally produces and mixes his works and has also done sound installations. In Visual Poetry he usually works on collages following a personal technique obtaining color from the surface of paper, a procedure he calls “pulling up”; recently he is using blowing up from fragments passing through photos and then laser copies. He also works on Artist’s Books. He has taken part in many exhibitions in Italy and abroad. Since 1978 he is co-editor of the International Poetry Magazine “Offerta Speciale” which is devoted to visual and research poetry.
 
 
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Article 15

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Tim Wright


on garnet and tinning


like you said about that umbrella
‘impressively fucked’
the day dangles out past its last leaf
growing tones
why remember those ports?
the age’s bragging turbines
it’s the next day now
a magpie moving like a cursor on the grass
i’m drinking wine and seawater
at the four moons
wattlebird = porpoise
humiliating pulse or memory fragment
bikes opinion
cars sulked on the side of the road
in adriatic glebe
say a cast appears — you ‘day’ into one
that makes a nice argot
and human squall signals
adduced sun, temperate
bits of broken up brick
and muted surf
one gallops on, more like a nation now
its bloodshot maps
just-perceptible gradient
the core loosens . .
bore water stains on asbestos
evidence — tobacco fleck
and tamped down generationally




Tim Wright's collection Suns will be published in 2018.
 
 
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Article 14

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essa may ranapiri


ON FORGETTING

what is it to throw out a memory • to gas a whole climate of thoughts • and untether them • to shove those pains into a chunk of wood • or mix them with ink saliva and acrylics • to make pains out of this rejection of pain • in the form of backwards facing razor blades • to cut up instead of down • the skin will not forgive you • and make shredded lettuce sores on the façade of your rotten balance • your equilibrium of mass is a picture where the weight • where the focus is drawn to one side • but the colour is elsewhere • a pallet a pale outlet of oneness • one mess grafted from a patchwork of patchworks • unthreading the hook pulls up loops that your brain runs on like tracks •



G-d saved a corpse born too soon.


&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp there is a capa city &alimit in the iron bird you got
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp seated under in ur spotted internal
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp or gan
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp ice to retard the movement outwards

9months complete in the brittle lung
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp your blossom didn’t need it freckled by three months turn
spellbound Augustus glut crunch
littered October into the Strait
Sept-embered memory- oh phoenixed gasket crashing

hospital dripbuzz in the high-end u laugh at the drugthere aretheatrics
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp trapeze
appendicide !// the wrist can move in multiple directions can-wound inside the
mortal-staggerprimor/dial black like walls closing in and sensationbruise good
u motherfucker bruise re-use the bones for curry powder pollen:
eight hundred grams of
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp good-virgin fleshquiet quiet quit___
the mother of the child will write a poem about it and hold it next to the body to scope out the tie
a red one about the neck
the skin is softcarapace up and downu mustn’t touch it yet you mustn’t touch
patter null mx zero mx
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp stick the flat version of the thing to the wall of survivors
the child has no voice
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp scart
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp merg
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp ghurn-
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp a sepresiable language

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp a capsule of liquid is the dose of you is the municipal mammal tooled for artifice
it might as well have died was the logic in a cube:


&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Infants neutral body
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp temperature range heat
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp production normal
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp birthweight post natal
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp age the infant
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp naked oxygen consumption
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp glucose use
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp persistent hypothermia stores,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp metabolic acidosis
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp hypoglycaemia
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp surfactant production
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp caloric requirements
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp chronic, weight gain.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp convection radiat.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Nursing care critical,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp thermoregulation ongoing,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp assess environmental interventions

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp /the little shit is dying



APATHETIC

She went opshopping without me.

So I gave her a price, battered her unloved for a music box. Couldn’t even play in tune, didn’t jerk me off a lullaby. Useless.

Cracked open her heart and tossed it with all the nostalgems. I never cared for her cleft melody. A joker with a thief of tone all spittle no substance. Couldn’t stand it. But sometimes I just wanna lie down&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp  her stroking hands through my hair. Remove them for myself.

Make a metaphor out of it. All rusty and tired. On the tissue boxes I’ve wasted in you. A chime in my crystalline body. That rings hollow and I listen and let it settle into my stomach.

I’m so tired from holding myself up. But I deserve greatness.

And she was the perfect support as fractured as I liked it.



essa may ranapiri (takatāpui; they/them/theirs) is a poet from Kirikiriroa, Aotearoa / they have words in Mayhem, Poetry NZ, Brief, Starling, THEM and POETRY Magazine / they will write until they're dead
 
 
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Article 13

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Thom Sullivan


‘Diesel & Dust’ homestead [a landscape]

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Barrier Highway, north of Burra, South Australia

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp 33°38’20.8”S 138°54’27.7”E



f/8.0
32.5 mm
1/180
100
Flash (off, did not fire)
JFIFVersion – 1.01
X-Resolution – 72 dpi
Y-Resolution – 72 dpi
Make – PENTAX
Software – Adobe Photoshop 7.0
Date and Time (Modified) – 2011:07:03 12:06:26
YCbCr Positioning – Co-sited
ISO Speed – 100
Exif Version – 0221
Date and Time (Original) – 2011:06:25 15:34:21
Date and Time (Digitized) – 2011:06:25 15:34:21
Components Configuration – Y, Cb, Cr, –
Exposure Bias – 0 EV
Metering Mode – Multi-segment
Flashpix Version – 0100
Color Space – sRGB
Sensing Method – One-chip color area
File Source – Digital Camera
Scene Type – Directly photographed
Custom Rendered – Custom
Exposure Mode – Auto
White Balance – Auto
Focal Length (35mm format) – 49 mm
Scene Capture Type – Standard
Contrast – High
Saturation – Normal
Sharpness – Hard
Subject Distance Range – Distant
Viewing Cond Illuminant – 19.6445 20.3718 16.8089
Viewing Cond Surround – 3.92889 4.07439 3.36179
Viewing Conditions Illuminant Type – D50
Measurement Observer – CIE 1931
Measurement Backing – 0 0 0
Measurement Geometry – Unknown (0)
Measurement Flare – 0.999%
Measurement Illuminant – D 65
Camera ID – 72157603795924599
Camera Type – Digital SLR




Thom Sullivan grew up on a farm in Wistow/Bugle Ranges in the Adelaide Hills. His poems have appeared in The Best Australian Poems, Australian Love Poems, and as part of Australian Book Review’s ‘States of Poetry’ anthology. He was the winner of the 2017-18 Noel Rowe Poetry Award.
 
 
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Article 12

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Michael Brandonisio



Thinking About Jesus


Black Sheep Ode





Visual artist, poet and photographer, Michael Brandonisio has previously appeared in Otoliths and elsewhere.
 
 
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Article 11

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Brendan Slater










Brendan Slater is a father, born and living in Stoke-On-Trent. He writes Japanese short form poetry and creates digital art. He has been published widely in mags, ezines and anthologies.
 
 
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Article 10

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Madeline McGovern


LEAVING/FINDING/DREAMING/HAUNTING

I.

Leaving:

Set yourself adrift upon the world. Lose all sense of belonging. Lose all sense of the familiar. Let it become a feeling tapping at your shoulder, asking oh— what is it you have forgotten?

I don’t know what but it is something I never really stumble across in these wide flat streets. Images springing out of the ground like a dream. I find that light falls different across the earth. The sky a different flavour. Do the clouds hang different too or is it just the way I walk with my head turned upwards?

So the curve of the earth changes the colour of the sky. So the length of the seasons changes the colour of the leaves. I don’t know any of the trees here except as stories.

And yet—

I know you. I’m catching faces that look like home or childhood or

My back feels empty. Have I forgotten my keys? It feels like I have forgotten my keys. Or I have left you somewhere around a corner, out of sight only briefly, you translucent image of a dead world?


II.

Finding:

People say you find yourself when you are alone but all I have discovered is that my sense of personhood has been scrubbed away. Characters flit in and out. If it signals anything it is that emotion and identity are temporary.

This is the kind of erasure we should seek. Searching inwards is burrowing inwards, is whittling, is reducing.

Searching outwards is the emptying of yourself into a landscape. Grey mornings and black nights and orange evenings.

Who am I who am I do I really need to care anymore?

When I have gone three weeks without being alone my mind keeps speaking in odd voices. Even in silence it chatters like birds, pecks like birds. I don’t know what they’re saying but I suppose I don’t mind the company.

Once, I get dressed in the dark and find the shadow of myself on the window. I’d forgotten I was grown this tall. Somehow time has slipped inside my eyes, creasing and stretching.


III.

Dreaming:

Living without reflection. What a way to be limitless!

We go out dancing and it is empty empty euphoria. I am not anyone I know. I am the hands and laughing faces of my friends. I am filled with light, I am become light, I am become undoing.

It is all a dream. It is all a dream.


IV.

Haunting:

So the old question haunts me. And I am?

Outwardly, nothing in particular. Inwardly, a silence like a yawn.

I expected existence to feel different but it doesn’t. Everything stays the same. Even when things change they stay the same. I walk down a street and it feels like a street. I want it to sometimes not feel like a street. I want to feel it more deeply, like art. I want emotions to be sudden and lifting. I want experiences to define me and change me. I want to never recognize the shifting face in the mirror. I want to grow up and move away from my childhood like I am carving a line in the mud. I want narratives to haunt me. I want to know the future. I want to know what kind of story I am in.




Madeline McGovern is a Classics and Literature student currently living in Wellington, New Zealand.
 
 
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Article 9

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Paul T. Lambert


















Paul T Lambert is a retired ceramicist living in Portland Oregon. He is a writer artist who first exhibited with the Group Lettriste in 1985 in Paris. He has participated extensively with the group Inismo. He is also part of the Avant Writing Collection at The Ohio State University Rare Books and Manuscripts Library.
 
 
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Article 8

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J. D. Nelson



the fastest way of knowing nothing

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp on the smaller,
wooden earth
without a moon

the struggling lake

&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp the flap&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp  ping
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp bat

the wet feet of bread socks



people & standing

today is rabbit day
the talking man

the little eye

this one is breathing
like a skinny moon

this is the earth melting




J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words and sound in his subterranean laboratory. Visit MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.
 
 
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