Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Toss by JKD

After Miranda’s “Never Without Visions”, Sean S’s "Old Poem" as well as Rufo Q’s "New Poem"

Whisper—the most present edge
false earth of broken—things solidify
earth imaginable a window
fallen—view—wood, could not have
...................Whisper cresting
for—in this instant, many pasts
the flipped coin dropping

down, drown—if
overheard, believe scratched contexts
joined—nick of every
thing said
shaped—knot, knotted nothing
showed ghosts—edged,
nudged (you) out of things.
Taken (eye) unformed
to what end of beginnings?

And—from—you seeing
(me) through (me) now
sills—thrown sashes—taken whole
imaginable false—relatively uncorpor, incolore
to what end of ?
......................Whisper more—or
less ghost are—hour—our
of whirlpools—measuring—weight
sent wrong things:
tongs, tinsel, treasured
to meter out wire
and why
in this turn, tumbled.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

old poem by sean s

after NEW: poem by Rufo Q

the most present false earth imaginable

the most imaginable false
whirlpools sent
to what end of ?sills
thrown sashes:

ah ghosts
ghosts are only the relatively uncorpor.
why measure the wrong things
the wrong things measure why

Monday, July 27, 2009

NEW: poem by Rufo Q

the pointless practice
makes the point:
to what end what you do

your world disappearing
like a turd in a whirlpool

what earth
will this silage feed?

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Something About Rhyme by Jonathan Wonham

After Jon's comment on Boîte sans rien dedans: "Something about rhyme just made me laugh, and think this is so you."

You just think something and your laughter rhymes so it is
so just about laughter this rhyming makes me think I'm
rhyming about something just to make me think this
so I just laugh about this and it is you I make rhyme

and so I thought about you just laughing I made something
so rhyming and something about you and this is
so laughable just rhymes about something I think
I'll make your laughter rhyme just so you think about this.

check this box by lisa pasold

after Boite sans rien dedans by Alex Dickow & Unboxed by JKD

limping with nothing inside, this morphology frustrates the collage of symbolism. the iris dilates, liasons forced open, abandoned. lips usable but held hostage by some nullified journalistic intention. we'll meet in Barcelona, that eldest of home. the flame extinguished like a body falling upon it. that's the place, matted, positioned. the limbs dare their next isolation, their skating trick, their Tour de Ance.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

New: Boîte sans rien dedans by Alex Dickow

Sonnet morphologique (d'après les symbolards)

Que vous ayez, pleins d'étés et d'ises,
Até les oirs vers l'itié et l'aison,
En illant très haut les élés et les ises
Et m'itant l'ure à l'euse d'une aison;

Ou que l'ation endit d'ules itiques
Où s'iole, telle une ollue itamment
Ilise un or de ses èvres otiques,
L'aisance arrée qui m'isite ablement.

Quel inage ote une aliste aux iesses
En cette icieuse auté d'une aintive esse?
Nul ose utile à l'isateur de l'ain:

Ainsi est tive aux alités l'escence,
Oyant telle qu'aux iliaires l'ain
Quand l'euil d'onna la seule désinence.

Zerochre Zerochrome. by sean s

after Unboxed by JKD


It occurs to
gift wrapping, shiny thin
holiday mornings
stuffed in a paper bag


Zerochre. Your presents are gone because
they are unwrapped.
We will bury now the torn, abbreveiated desire shiny
that is - mercantile sides up, as pleasing
to any discarnate sky father,
always about the front holes.
and their coveres. Maps. The Emperor card.
Thank you doctor.
You've remolded my mind into a heaven on eartht.
Oils thick with grace, the fluid of earth, thich
words, fuck, come. Dry land, doctor.
From doctor. Form, decor.


Dirt back in place, a grass
placemat to shield us tables trajectories from
the glasses' circles of moisture.
Condensed folds of flesh full of grace
stone for a head

Which remainder misbarren, what maskun.
Tsones and hsales. Build us off the numbnis of markers
numbers, toubwers of piled invention. Build

us into starlight, ships of icy skein, plie
the implicit emptily inhmane skie
underneath above the thin atmostpher one in
in all gravites and curvess between
every ancient collapse and explode.

filled stairs by sean s

after Midnight on the NY Subway by Justin T

Mom's purse hangs a
heavy slap to hold to hold to
Filled with leaves
and crying boys and
the smack of lust walking downstairs below you

Saturday, July 11, 2009

New: Midnight on the NY Subway by Justin T

Mom's purse hangs heavy.
Slap. Hold it, right! Smack. Hold it!
Leaves. Purse hangs. He cries.

Unboxed by JKD

After "After Lucien Freud" by Amy Hollowell, posted 21 July 2008


Torn utopia.
Ancient in the unabbreviated shadows
of us.
Naked. Shorn. Ochre.
Dirt in place, or placemats where we are
thick cushioned folds of graced flesh.
What draws him to
predestined trajectory?
Full frontal reconfigurations,
as seen through primacy, mercantile.
Always consider the indispensability of custom,
body’s ancient remainders
barren with motion, language
as it is crafted.

To unmask the implicit sky?