From atop a garbage heap someone shouts Amanda Deutch

After "skulture" and "box that contained champagne glasses" by G. Vance and "shine" by S. Browning,

today weaved to freighters
I spy saliva in the checkout line
little else to buy in Queen’s bodegas and corner stores
empty shelves sell over priced milk,
cornpops, raisin brain, a splotchy green bell pepper
cubic emptiness in these parts is costly
swallowing a shopping bag would help you fit in.
bone to bone glints thick and shiny, but everyone on the street has eyes pasted to escape. they’ll never. the sea is just a short train ride or walk from here. but muscles weaved to magazines and propoganda machines know so little of freedom. are you tired? try this. my doctor prescribed it. poetry is almost illegal here in this the glass industry of self. If you take the pill, you will forget all about future and mystery.
I’ll just keep on walking.

Skulture

by george v after ‘My head...’ by A. Deutsch


I spy saliva
E-flesh, merging E-rect
vous & your toped velocities
this bed-everness found in a byre
geschplittled received all right
rest ablurred, history’s anything but


เจดีย์

My Head in a Petrie Dish by Amanda Deutch

After "Last Rites of Meteors: More Riddles" by Jonathan W. and "Scavenged" by George V.

emerge from which flesh
erect, sparkling?
dry spittle at flash lit eye’s corners

vous lost you topia

as if there were ever a bed
a place to get anything but blurred rest and history
bound in fire

take my splittle,
alright?

earth,

I’m awake.

Shine by Sommer Browning

after May by Rufo Q posted on November 27, 2007


The tin glints and someone shouts
Alleluia. A fish bone dislodged,

a shopping bag
thick with swallowing. What tours

with you?

Mussels weaved to freighters,
sea pasted in the captains’ eyes.

new: conundrum

by george vance (after all)




snug bug rug
mystery-wrapped insider enigma
rushin’ dolls in these unlit darks
mislucent fuddle with unzoomed iotas
treeblurred forests pointilized with debrightened clearingups
unrevealed calves over haired bareness
clothed truths, truthed-up falsities
bared falsies & crackproof nuts
black whole



^^

Bits by JKD

Nonriddles, after J Wonhams many puzzle poems

Nommer est /
....................et
.........................devenir

++++


If she weren't all linguistic spirals,
the map would lead her.

NEW: box that contained champagne glasses

from Industrial Totems
by G vance


Grapesgone .. glasswhat .. whodrinks
cubic emptiness ... youdidit ... yourfault
the roundness within
escaped free!
of us .. of it
where’llwe ...how ... when’llwe ... why
this’llnever
kaputyou ... going out ...


^^^^

Last Rites of Meteors: More Riddles by Jonathan Wonham

after Sliver by Jennifer K. Dick

I'm priceless when chipped,
no mother-of-pearl,
men fever for me, best friend
of a dream girl.

++++++++++

From which part of my body
emerges, well, sparks?

++++++++++

Supine pose
converging sap
and insect -

round your neck
transparently
wrapped.


++++++++++

I'm
levelled

language
I'm

depth
shakes

I'm
rippling

sound
I'm

earth
awake.

+++++++++++

Wave
lets
spike,

brace
lets
break,

hard-
ness
two,

stone
that
skates.

+++++++++++

Last rites
of meteors,

spittle and fire
emboldened:

take me, I'm
yours...

+++++++++++

(answers in the comments...)

RENEW: LIVERS

by george vance (right after 'Sliver' by JKD)

p-piched
father-of-moral peever
con dreamtained
(emerges from which body?)
Spell warks!
con (verging
sine unphew
eevell angluid anglluage
eaves f-fake wipple-erects
woundsaves
let’s wave
skipes!
[racelets] orb-b [rakes]
lotch of spermeotrites
reshowed
pittle and sire (for)
out dere morf dem bolden sharknews)
earring hehe

^^

"Sliver" (New) by Jennifer K Dick

chipped
...................mother-of-pearl fever

.........................................................dream
.................................................................contained

.........(from which body emerges?)

Well
......sparks
....................................(converging
......................................when supine
...................................................leveled languid language

........leaves wake ripple-effects

...........................................................soundwaves
wavelets
...........spikes

.....................................[brakes] or [bracelets]

splotch of
.........meteorites
..................................showered
................................................................spittle and
........................................................................(or)
.............................................................................fire
...........where from out emboldened darkness)

here....................................................................hearing

NEW: Riddle by Jonathan Wonham

I'm rock, but I roll.
I'm not brave yet I'm...?

+++++++

(answer in the comments...)

Scavenged edit (tardy entry)

by george vance after 'Could' by L. Pasold

unstuck flash-lit flesh
bound in a solar-iced blackroom

custodial argue-meant conciergial cant

key of lost-utopia

vous. do that voodoo that
conceived her s’well
(bed of the stricken pickup, history of)

finger-feeling into blurred silhouette. semblant.

as if there were a ‘were’


^

Committee by Barbara Beck

After reduced by L. Pasold, Point to the Eye by B. Shimoda
and others...


We've been winging it means
a spinning mobile can rip our heads off.
All of us pinning our hopes
on a new profile closer to the laws
of physics. Jane runs the numbers:
this crescent based on a smiley
outlook, this scimitar to sever hairs.
Alex prefers a gondola mustache.
Vanessa moves that we limit
our activity to dissassemblage,
get ourselves into the youth market.
Another wrecking-ball universe,
says the pres. We open
and close windows, remember air
trapped in feathers, fur, ice
even as the origami minutes
fold inward. A closet full of dirty
ecliptics. Rubber gloves point
every way away is pinker
than our maiden math. What
did she say, does overhead
breed gegenschein?
That's why we're here, what
we're trying to figure out!

reduced

After "a pointing word" by lauren levin & "Scene: in the back of the closet" by J.K.Dick

here we are again in the closet eating hearts. tasting of fiberglass, pinning hopes on infrastructure--we're nitwit overfocused on disassemblage, blood-mouthed, itching.
even as packing proves the laws of physics are fallible--there's so much more on this inside, the wasted origami of ventricles, clean underwear, rubber gloves slipping past our teeth.

a pointing word (by lauren levin)

after "POINT TO THE EYE" by Brandon Shimoda & "Down to the Wire" by Amy Hollowell



.......reduced


a mobile spinning

....a crescent stretching


....the public toward

This Will Do by JKD

after "This Eiderdown" by Rufo Quintevalle

Praxilcontagent this conifer’s
.......cogniscent of clatter, prominent
.................backstained blood axes
........................an axel will do as well
................................violence undertaken of
......................................loaded lingo strung back to

This eiderdown by Rufo Q

after "Down to the Wire" by Amy Hollowell

This eiderdown
home, reduced
means means
praxis, no
waste vacant.

POINT TO THE EYE by Brandon Shimoda

after "Down to the Wire" by Amy Hollowell


the great gust
reduced to the wire
stripped storm




please, the white
mobile spinning
dire stems, extend

a thin vapor, corpse
in mortar
and maiden blind crescent

Giacometti stretches
limbs, loving
lean toward secret

Step next forth by Jennifer K Dick

after “un cap franchi” by Lisa Pasold
(Method: writing a line between each of hers)

culinary bruises, there's the space between
my eyes, furrowed lines sketching out
her names, heavy and constantly
volubile. speak, taken aback, trekked deep into that
white-night capitulating. all nightgown and balcony-
fondled, all caterwauling and lolita lollipops
bloodied juliet. every inflated disagreement
his back slammed to wall, to covenants
redressed, her receptions keep turning into
rosaries, daily ablutions fire-hot blessed water
my deceptions. rearrange my tattoos
a sketch pad or palimpsest clue-sought
and i'm set for the next amorous equivalency.
backgammon or years of chess played close to the bone
once swallowed, the question's rather less
tactile than plastified. her game overwrought more forthright
than promised: however many storeys up, the ground
is given over his name given up, spit out. my mouth
becomes moot.

Scene: in back of the closet by Jennifer K Dick

After, or a tissage of, Michelle Noteboom's "Untitled Landscape" & Amanda Deutch's "Scene 7: Amour, Mort, More"

Looky here, he is in the closet eating body hearts. It’s all going in the wrong direction, he is always there in between lanes corridors métro tunnels. Like a falling star. Like fiberglass. Like the gegenschein pinned on the tail of an autumn sky. This is it, why we are here, what we are trying to figure out! You mooncalf. You nitwit overfocused on the body substance, the blurred outline filtering forward from the sepiaed depths of a former century. A shift in the infrastructure, oh-so-subtle, is lookin’ out for, is snapped together, pinned to him. After all, it is the one who has the questions that prowls. Maybe that’ll teach you to, in this image, stop reflecting. Prowl like this for bloody organs, the kinds of activities employed to take tumblers and cylinders apart. But there’s, or there it is. And the fallacy folds inward. Again. We do not yet know his identity, or what he calls himself. You itch to unlock the origami. Madame D doesn’t tell me Courbet caught the origin of the world between a woman’s legs. Find your hands are gloved, the galaxy lulled. 1866 on only his first version, vision. She, yet. Doesn’t trust the métro (too fast) takes the bus instead. Just can the sturm und drang for once. He calls it “L”, toile d’araignée. You wastrel. Origins and mondes, wasted neurotoxins in the biohazard bag stashed by his old suitcases. What did you say? It was a good vintage.

NEW: Scene 7 by Amanda Deutch

new: another Scene from Amour/Mort/More

Scene 7

He is in the closet eating body hearts.
he is always there in between lanes corridors métro tunnels
This is it. why we are here. what we are trying to figure out.
it is the one who has the questions that prowls. prowls like this for bloody organs.
we do not yet know his identity. or what he calls himself

Madame D doesn’t tell me
Courbet thought the origin of the world
was between a woman’s legs in 1866
only she doesn’t trust the métro (too fast)
takes the bus instead

he calls it “L’origine du monde”
huile sur toile
...........toile d’araignée

NEW: Untitled Landscape by Michelle Noteboom

Looky here. It’s all going in the wrong direction. Like a falling star. Like fiberglass. Like the gegenschein pinned on the tail of an autumn sky. You mooncalf. You nitwit. Maybe that’ll teach you to focus more on the body substance, the blurred outline filtering forward from the sepiaed depths of a former century. In this image, you can’t stop reflecting on the kinds of activities employed to take tumblers and cylinders apart. But there’s a shift in the infrastructure, oh-so-subtle, and the fallacy folds inward again. You itch to unlock the origami yet find your hands are gloved, the galaxy lulled. Just can the sturm und drang for once. You wastrel.

Memories of Athena, by RS Oventile

(After JKD’s “Athena”)


See azure, hard snows; hear winds.
The barred window mirrors the rough, red arc.

Shuddered of her; she sprang out,
torrid, tidal, her face ancestral, brazen.

Her obsidian defiance,
Her stillness, her gazelle flight.

Wedded to bronze, to arrow shafts,
riding air, she shadows the meridian.