Sunday, December 18, 2011

Stille Nacht ~ Sir Simon Howard



So we hustled a creature into a car slamming doors the storm and the cold etc. And drove through black night and glimmersilk day etc. Then we ordered a creature out into that strange calm with flakes of snow falling in our heads. And we felt so heavy and weightless. And there was this smell of chips and she puked up her guts. And for several days we were asleep or dreaming of sleep and my eyes had turned to glass and my feet to seaweed. So we fucking uselessness of art aesthetic theory above vulgar objects of use scraggy neck lips like medicine. And he lay face down on the earth howling for the sheer hurt of hurt and gulped booze and puked up his guts and even puke and shit and piss are recuperable as art loveable as materials of pornography. Then we lifted our exhausted heads from the ground and looked up into the vast blank of a night sky and stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth. And we went into a small shop and bought some Christmas cards and for several days smelling of chips the day black as her pale throat in love making her lips thin and. Slamming doors the storm and the cold. And we walked out into the middle of the field and begged them to shoot us to put fucking bullets through our fucking heads. And we drank supermarket vodka on the train out of there etc. and some cunt looked at us and we said we’ll fucking throw you out of the train and night came along the tracks silkglimmering and so beautiful it made us pray. And for several days we were like in a dream only we had nothing to eat and our guts ached and she crossed the bridge to the other platform and the train pulled in and the train looked so small from where we were hanging from the rafters. And there was this old fellow collected the cards of prostitutes from London telephone boxes 16 years ago and he would walk out into the early winter mornings sockless in his shoes and read the messages out loud and we gulped booze and crouched in underground stations and listened to the echoes smelling of chips and the pure wordless snow. 




So we hustled a creature into a car slamming doors the cold and the storm etc. And drove through a blue night and a dull day etc. Then we helped a creature out into that strange calm with flakes of snow falling into our hands. And we felt so happy and weightless. And there was this smell of chips and I puked up my guts. And for several days we were asleep or dreaming of eyes turned to glass and feet to seaweed. Above vulgar objects of use lips like metal. And he lay face down on the earth howling for the sheer hurt of hurt and gulped puke and shit and piss recuperable as art loveable as materials of prayer. Then we lifted our exhausted heads and looked up into stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth. And we went into a small shop and bought some Christmas cards and for several days smelling of chips her pale throat in love making her lips thin and chewed. Slamming doors the cold and the storm. And we walked out into the middle of a field and begged them to shoot us to put bullets through our heads. And we drank supermarket vodka on the train out of there etc. and smiled at us and said we’ll fucking throw you out of the train and night came along the tracks silkglimmering and so beautiful it made us nothing. And for several days we were like in a dream we had nothing to eat and she crossed the bridge to the other platform and the train pulled out and the train looked so small from where we were hanging from the rafters. And there was this fellow collected the cards of prostitutes from London telephone boxes 16 years ago and he would walk out into winter mornings sockless and read the messages to himself and we gulped booze and crouched in underground stations and listened to the echoes smelling of chips and the pure worldless snow.

~

And etc. And looked into the heavens where we were nowhere seen our eyes stiff with ice. And he threw up on the bed and sleep the afternoon viciously cold and the cold radiator up against his throat and so on etc. And there was this smell of chips and this fellow collecting the cards of prostitutes from Then we lifted our exhausted heads from the ground and looked into the vast blank of a dayless sky and stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth telephone boxes years ago and she curled herself along the bench and put her fingers to her mouth and began to pray. Der gestirnte Himmel ├╝ber mir und das moralische Gesetz in mir. And we looked along the dirty looking field the hut with its ribs beaten in and its guts spilled out we fucking said the snow is fucking jet black and commuters frantically gulping pills are you a symphony orchestra or stepmother / son porn? Crepitus. And the lovers all lived and worked in an eel factory only allowed out by dark to buy darkness with its wildernesses and information plenitudes. No. Pathos. Number. Umbrella. Coordinate. And he pissed the bed in A&E the gleameringed snail on long string of fire and sublimity. sockless and read And the bizarre like all the limbs were interchangeable and leant out the window a few early passersby their countenances the countenances of angels and dreamily. Slamming doors the cold and the And she slammed the window down on her fingers and laughed and they kept looking at us and left-wing politics when all desire is desire of desire and he sliced the tips of his fingers to escape detection. And two of them walked hand in hand the length of the field and across a ditch and the great sun rolling along a path a few yards away from them and the moon with the shakes behind a chimney and a and bought.

There was this fellow he never seemed to be without a friend and they walked all day from street to street till they were out in open country and one of them made pictures and they would stop at houses and shops and go into pubs and try to sell these pictures and not often they sold a picture pictures of everyday objects like children or trees or a robin on a garden fork and at night they would simply die and the next day they would be alive again and then the situation was reversed. For there is nothing that cannot be recuperated, be it a situation or an art that concerns itself with piss shit snot puke with broken bodies dislocated shoulders things abandoned rank food etc. And one night it was snowing and the fellow and his friend walked an empty field mysterious messages in footprints and one of them the fellow who made pictures stopped to wipe the snow from his lips and then his friend was gone and he was alone. And there was a smell of chips and she puked her guts up the underground and other passengers looked at her and she said you want me dead and they said we all desire death like desire desires us and that was recuperated and night night night etc. So with his friend gone he took out the picture he had made and looked into it as snow fell on it and he wished that he could be alone now that his friend who was never without him was gone and it got lighter and was day hard and brilliant and we walked out into the middle of the field and begged them to shoot us to put fucking bullets through our fucking heads. And he wrapped the picture he had made and left us there and it was so quiet it was as though there was that except for the traffic on the road at the field’s edge. Etc. That’s what they were hoping for. There’s no symbolic order against the symbolic order of order, ordure or no ordure. He said I used to love to dance. He said I wish I had a warmer coat. He said it’s gloomy in here we should put the light on. They said did you make this picture? And hit him and kicked him etc. And she hadn’t eaten for several days and it was warmer then and raining. 




Simon can be found at walkingintheceiling

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Rules of Disengagement ~ Austin McCarron



Harness the energy in pools
of heated water but do not
release
the flame until silence burns.

Greet the world with your back
turned and know it is
filled with companions of stone.

Outcasts the soul of blood is full
of riots and dissent
and the spirit of
perfection is a light that wounds.

Beware the high minded and
deformed who gather in doorways
like homeless beings
on the edge of a sudden crowd.




Austin is from New Zealand but has lived in London for many years.  Poems appeared in various magazines such as Great Works, Decanto, Neon Highway, Survivors' Poetry, Message in a Bottle, Moodswing, Van Gogh's Ear and others


 

The Hunger of Starvation ~ Austin McCarron


The food is not well.
Huddled around wooden
flames it eats hardly at all.

Its skin is like stripes of water.

The fiery wind twists its bones.

At its table scraps of dust with
light blue veins.  All its
conversation is with animals.

Stuck in its mouth tremors
of dry vomit,
the gnawing
sensation of eternal dissent.


Around my Winter ~ Austin McCarron



Around my winter more
strict elations
and shorter versions of rain.

On my face life is printed and
it seems only the eye bled by
tyrannical races is not alone.

There is light but it is like a
photograph of noise
and sees darker sounds arriving.

Before a tower of blinds I watch
inexplicable figures write on my
calendar words to be forgotten.


Sunday, December 11, 2011

Minimum Security Prison Dentistry ~ S J Fowler

Mr S J Fowler's latest from the wonderful anything anymore anywhere. Go get it!

















 "Imagine a Boys Own Paper landscape with True Crime architecture. Laurence Harvey dodges from building to country trying to evade CCTV whose sound footage runs through Babelfish.  The smells are Jack London, the light is Genet and the memories are Edgar Lee Masters.  Equally in words is Steven Johannes Fowler's Minimum Security Prison Dentistry: elegant, coldly funny, at times emotional, textured with occasional accidental/intentional solecisms; but getting the work done.  Nowadays most pages labelled "poetry" are unreadable and uninteresting: these give hope. Anyone who can name-check Joe Arpaio and Jacky le Mat, and reference the cover-texture of an Anselm Hollo book from the sixties rides my particular range."      Tom Raworth



where he grew


I sicked up ~ Bobby Parker



I sicked up a bit on the way you say 'beautiful'. We agreed to swap stories in the garden. Midnight moon kind of Miles Davis choking on cheap vanilla ice cream. My story was about a man who wakes up one morning to find that his hands have turned into a bickering old couple. They argue about cigarettes and wine, a whore from 1949. Yours was about a man who sicked up a bit on the way his girlfriend said 'beautiful', and so she suffocated him in his sleep using a dressing gown once owned by Elvis Presley.



Thursday, December 8, 2011

The Outline Concepts Take Before We are Given Their Examples ~ Charles Freeland



Eulalie knows where the sky is vulnerable. She paces about the rectory. Three bald-headed men confront me in the garden, and I am reminded of the Iliad. They recite their prayers with the tips of their tongues forever in contact with the roofs of their mouths. As if they have been coached. Eulalie dabs at my elbow with a piece of cotton that looks, in the dim light of the universe, like the outline concepts take before we are given their examples. Everywhere the mountain groans. It’s as if we were expecting souvenirs, says Eulalie, her patience worn to a point that glints. And what we got was ordinary apples. 



On Self-Strangling Semiotics ~ Charles Freeland



I have been doing nothing but practice my whole life. And still, I have yet to move beyond the point of origin, of drawing up and reflecting in my head. The whole world has yet to get started. It has yet to step forward even a millimeter. But you – just look at the ease with which you tear at that bunny! The dead glossy gaze you give with your enormous eyes! It’s like you are made of the very substance that is the opposite of doubt -- whatever that might be. As if you had been born fully-formed. And of adult stature. Otherwise, you’d be left wondering why you have to keep sloughing off skin cells at such an alarming rate. Why you feel the obsessive need to study all those old novels.



Charles Freeland is Professor of English at Sinclair Community College in Dayton, Ohio. Twice the recipient of the Individual Excellence Award in Poetry from the Ohio Arts Council, he is the author of a dozen books and chapbooks including Eucalyptus (Otoliths), Eros & (Fill in the Blank) (BlazeVox), and Five Perfect Solids (White Knuckle Press). His website is The Fossil Record (charlesfreelandpoetry.net).

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

poem ~ James McLaughlin



-  as riverbank slipping
colour fest to cone line
how outline
-  peel if irregular
as characteristic
and establish red
cool does
the sudden with flower
and contagion
- if fly rite and asking
go something
as played frond
on the widen
wire stem blue
- it afterwards
now falling if on
and transitive by
a verb wide
or noun tip
- so generate force
in this way were
sleeves of this warm
- stretched hue
woke tone
yawned lay
go particular continue
of time
 budget
- collectively violation
physical spire
on green
resplendent condition
other than novel
- environment or type
intrinsic of some
pink to
disposition for reed
scent as appearance
place or the
- portrait on aspect
the grace versus