Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Blue Babies ~ Lucy Hilton

I see a generation of
Remixed geniuses
Weakened and dreaming
And seasick from unrelenting undulation,
Caught between destruction and distraction.
Conditioned by the screen and watched over by machines
of loving grace.
Connected but never seeing.
Never Being.
Swimming in dubious data pools,
Transmedia, transcending.
Their new age appetite
demanding instant enlightenment.
Too bored and blundering to boycott
The Ipad is their Clairvoyant
Demonstrating the presence of spirits in the room.
Notable charlatans.
Ringing bells, levitating objects, performing the rites of passage
Coming of age in the technological rocket ship
and moving freely through unutterable margins
Infiltrating the co-operations,
Sidestepping the protocol.
Power to the hijacker,
hacker, slacker,
Happy slapper.
The twinkle of his phantom eye
Stills behind their webcams.
No where is safe for the pilgrim.
He cant escape the omnipresent rhythm.
They must
Draw the line between truth seeking and obsession.
Answers lead to utopia or hysteria.
You have a choice
to live in
Permeable membranes, spindly fringes of the hive
Or reach the limits of what you can cognize.
Neil Armstrong is Alien backwards.
Space helmets are halos.
Over saturated and shattered by
Broken promises of salvation
The pool of inner peace,
Your true nature is a
Watery end.
The future is transcendence.

I love you from Holland to England ~ Lucy Hilton

Deep in a cathedral of spiny rhubarb
Stalks look like reptiles and birds.
Where stalagmites made of succulents,
Bloom around a primordial ooze.
Palm paradises are placed on leaves shaped like clawed dinosaur hands.
It’s all about scale.
Large stars through telescopes and tiny crystals resemble each other, and
that’s a scientific fact, not a belief. Moon craters are raindrops on sand.
Puddles of liquid onyx.
Azure screens are surfaces of dominions to different realities. Like tabs
opened up on Chrome. Browsers and house elves can enter with a click of the finger.
I sense a message coming through from the other side.
The radio is intercepting a spirit.
I swim between islands in the sky of
Ganges River Dolphin pink,
 wizard white,
 warmest blues,
 holy hues.
The printer spoke to me in handwritten letters,
there was an
Image cannot be framed.
How does it feel when you are experiencing the impossible?
Tangerine porpoise shaped bolted together
papery sliver.
Aluminium seals
floating on one push over aquarium tunnels,
morphing obscenely obese then stringy
in Escher’s orbs.
Transcending time zones and species boundary in the belly of a narwhal.
A fish with a womb.
Buy a ham and cheese melt and receive a free twix!
Why do planes make your armpits stink?
Unanswerable questions.
The Netherlands are watery lines and drowned worlds treading water.
The mouth of the Thames is a lizard of languish
lovingly lapped in snakey snails and shingles.
The moment of reunion with my mother is imminent.


Lucy is a 21 year old fine art student studying at the Royal Academy of Art in The Hague, Netherlands.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Angelus ~ Howie Good

I began this fall by watching a thin red squirrel it would be worth it to go ninety miles out of your way to see. So what shall we do about this angel, broken wing on the left? The smell of piss is what. When I woke up this morning I knew there was horror. It will always be invisible, it will. My friends, still of this world, follow me to the bottom of the river. Suddenly there are hundreds of fishermen on the road.

Every Everything ~ Howie Good

The needle goes in / never pausing to narrate / just like the 9-year-old at Joy Farm firing an Uzi / the pretty young maidens / eat a pear in the French manner / jamming a fork in the top / & cutting chunks from the sides / the ghostly traces of a past life / every day for three years / drawing new maps of hell / in the French manner  / intimately / with a scalpel / & he who says doesn’t know  / & she who knows doesn’t say / that once it goes in / the wolf in the heart never comes out

Bergasse 19 ~ Howie Good

The sexperts are bewildered as to what’s causing the rattle in the production line of happiness. Others say it’s Freud who established a great emporium, a sort of museum of human misery, with parents and broken dolls and old crumbling shadows arranged according to the laws of chance. By coincidence, you’re visiting a city that claims to be Kafka’s birthplace, his name, or something that at least looks like it, carved on the trees. As you act the tourist throughout the afternoon, De Kooning’s women, all pink flesh and piranha teeth, rear up around you, and ash borrowed from crematoria shapes itself into extravagant justifications of future suffering.

Bureaucratic Pathologies ~ Howie Good

Admittance requires your supervisor’s signature, the dust from another planet, dolphins that spout music, obscure, anxious errands (sticking stamps on letters you’ll never mail or spending the end of August at the Hotel Ozone), photos of naked women in strange positions, half your autobiography, a belief that the day is longer than the night, and that night is the machine that makes everything disappear – the Paris of Toulouse-Lautrec, manifestos, conceptions of space, regrets, the punk era, hat check girls, you.

La Petite Mort ~ Howie Good

There was a crimson hearse / ask anyone / & before we could cover our eyes / rubble had appeared everywhere / it isn’t just a theory / common household vapors / can actually get you high / what WebMD knows / how to heal a cut tongue / the toxicity of speech / can’t be taught / swish your mouth / with something intangible / we have liftoff /  our flesh inside & out / zebra-striped at so many feet per second

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Footnotes ~ Sue Birchenough

1.  this pure Labour lineage  But far more influential was the power of commerce to deliver the free-market
gothic was architecture convinced it could influence.       It was infused      It became untethered        later it was adopted, for romantic reasons
when Victoria was on the throne, movements often arose

2.  there's a lot of it
I know more of some of it than you
you know more of some of it than me

3.                          paint brown trickling steam
                             runs into mosaic breaks ov
                             er time drops off in little pla
                             stic curls gunge compresse
                             d death from the softening
                             rigid silent long  ing to melt
                             on deep searching tongues

black gunge compressed death(sheet) mimics deathrings millimetres thin

(i) too numerous to mention bloody nuisance also

(ii) sloshing ecstacy of easy greed

4.   I can see you, DOOR !

Left Luggage ~ Sue Birchenough

future is
in my gut
                        stretch out
                                        out beyond
                                            I know
                                            an other
                                            some days
                                            far corner                                                 corner    right moment
                                                                 tongue’s tip on
                                                                        step by..........
                                                                      infront of
                                                                 broad shoulder

Sue Birchenough lives in Buxton, Derbyshire, and regularly attends workshops and readings in Manchester. She has poems in English PEN anthology 'Catechism', the Peter Barlow press anthology 'No Spy Zone', and the forthcoming Like This press anthology 'Austen, Bronte, Shakespeare'. She has a poem/object accepted for zimZalla. She was Highly Commended in 2014 Erbacce poetry competition. She has a sound poem accepted by Alan Halsey and Martin Archer for their antichoir Juxtavoices.