Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Adam Fieled; six poems from When You Bit...


This, crazy, water-leakage:
I slip-slide away into you,
out of you, into her, out of
her, we’re oil-slicked birds
squawking out minor-key
laments for lost closure. I
hang on the end of clothes-
lines: I’m ten sheets, each
dripped w grease, blood,
butter, milk, a catalogue of
epic grudge-fucks. Not that
anyone has come. Each kiss
is a suicide Jack in a game:
sixty-nine innings. No draw.

I’m Down

Forest: within it, I’m
field mice, I scamper.
Over still streams I
watch your beechen
green strips fold off.
I hide beneath logs,
consoled by slugs. I
intermix w acorns, I
sharpen my teeth on
pictures of you. I am
down wells. I’m down.
My body is grounded.
I’ve been pounded by
solitude: thus, I frown.

Three Sets of Teeth

Three sets of teeth: who
can check for cavities?
A three-way circuit: who
will start the striptease?
Three lovers in three ways:
how merrily the dance
begins. We spin, we spin,
we forget our instincts,
anima, the part of teeth
that cuts. We are sluts.
There is an “I” here that
stands for all of us, but
its eyes are shut. Sleep
lulls it to rest, not think. Or speak.

Cocaine Gums

I ache: dull, sharp,
in a heap of paper.
All paper: picture,
bright, bold, dark.
I have nailed you
to a piece: black.
I darken touched
things: I’m used.
I write you, you,
you, as if kissed
by a fresh body,
rose-petal bliss.
I drowse: numb
as cocaine gums.


I want you to be like a bull.
I want you to call me a fool.
I want to be ass-proud for you.
I want you to call me to screw.
I know this iambic is dry.
I know this excess has to stop.
I know I can laughably cry.
I know blood can come drop by drop.
I come for you kicking my ass.
I’ve come to be making a pass.
I’ve come undistracted by “I”.
I killed off my “I” as it’s dry.
I start off these lines in the sand.
I want to end up in your hand.


This eclipse: I’m durable
only before, after. Throat
parched, nightingale loud
in my trees, I’m beechen.
I’m green. I send myself
into forests after you, I
skip over streams, being
stone: heavy, jagged, on
top of slugs, worms, dirt.
My heart: too thick, aches.
I don’t want beer, I want
to be wound around you.
Deliverance: beds of muck.
It’s what I can say you suck.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

ek rzepka; three poems

it will be realized that
despite all the aglow and talent
all the pinions and perfection cytologies
it will be acquiesced to the periodic and dregged

that arbitrary
that grim, mauled
that rehabilitate
that meretricis and syringe
that rosette

that venturing forth into redesigned and gathered
into indites and the severe obscene
the seduced, montage
affable montage through surmise

that each abbreviated sustainment and noiseless
lurks gushing torn (cicatrize) on the most tactile of
splint then vibrate

across the way, we will call love what the transfigured


they have collated the benumbing, they speak tongues, hone
the cognati become famous for their speech
for their paddles

the bestowed isn't remembered

his wife, pencilled in afterwards in haste
she was remembered for her echoing appearance in black and

inurn, cinemas
people are involved as moving pictures
the string language, drying, dead fish jelled, trimmed

merging and mutating how you've felt about mexican rancheras
and mailbags

how you've wished and gored and overwhelmed

a darwinian ancience, sense, affliction
superstructure committed over rib and finger

too belated
we've reheeled and shapely applied
compost and cough from the coterminally dilated

terrorize through syphon
& chiron suffocate
though tram and defect
conduce apical pious, dowel captivate

begging it's captivating the exuded and consulted
apprehensively dare, wellness

shadowgraph trammel
the shadow will talk of syphons
the planless will speak through elections and doodles
choir disguise scaled through torn & pious flesh
such necessitous energy, needed sorely by the community for

boding bodies,

clamber, the consulted unsure
which has mutated into the most attractive and excruciating

what gnarl & piffle makes an intermittent
afflict spark

Monday, July 09, 2007

Nicholas Grider; from BECAUSE THE NIGHT

Because the night belongs to
institutions, solace, news coverage.

Blank pages. Bright lights.

A little night music because
the music is too quiet, because

blank pages

because naming rights

Keeping manual labor private

he says, “boy,” he says

a few more weeks of twilight

Eyes open, blank night
pages, because the night, sponsored

seven years of indecision

all over again, getting
elected to a windowless room

Amnesty instead
of adulthood, because

“life experience”

or where he says “the night”
begins to turn

Monday, May 14, 2007

Andrew Lundwall; three poems

'powder this however'

kissable lampshade lips
grasp the cocaine glow of go

such nomadic in the mind felt
gone mad up into this wind

the less i've seen the more
i've earned back minimum wage

this solitude is beefy to run
a roadmap by so and so much

chunks of sorts that fall
from heavens' lap to now

raining night stars
such crucial given take

i've an urge to shadowbox up
my belongings here and there

powder this

wish too

'solitude deluxe'

the shock of
intimate fade
and thinking
dark long nights
less room to mind
her secret sound
where eyes my hands go

i've eggshells
kept aside especially
bitten alike and melodious
as her silhouettes
an unsupportive truth
to drink solitude away
feeling guilt fountains
such crucial belongings
do a curtain a tremor
i'd laid glow of make

'blaring loss'

she and it you'd regarded
with cocaine face of burden
miles of gray like a beard
thund'ring overflow
on all fours blaring loss
excessive strip club mouths
that screw chunks of sleep
a wilderness urge bewitching
hard with now raining night
into neon veins that blaze
smoke the heavens' fingertip

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Alana Madison; five bash slasho poems

Gonna Booglarizee Your Basho baby

This tablet has never been known to sparkle
Like this but as it is true in nature
So it is that a new home
Needs milk so well flavored beauty

And youth to create that just so cardboard smile

But you are only a businessman and
Have no time for a long sexual stimulation
And we are getting plowed on paper
For our old sex narrations

Be easy in the beginning
The year is sixteen so so you
Want to pull
Want to be sure as we
Had to visit loads of temples
Before we found a realistic looking
Flaccid penis

Only to get destroyed by
Stunning schoolboys
Doing aesthetical liquidation

And the roads inland of
This territory is hard sienna
But I hold to it to remind
To be able

Able to remind me

Barely legal poets gangbanging granny Basho

Inserts japanese
Smoke raised poetry
Paper passionate filth

Up off fossil lodge
While fireworks and
Crane heresy

You will tussle brier
Practice hanging and
Gently obliterate

A library corporal
A nymph sounds the alarmed

Busty bend dips
Giving you that avalanche of sperm

Lewd Basho posing shaved in black leather jacket

A golden boy
Wearing just flickers of
Candlelight will fuck
Like a star

Make sure to take a good
Look as heaven declares civil
War suicide bombing
White horses enflamed

Cheerleader dark
Nights and day hot drippings

They do a nasty
Thing with their chicken legs
Still screaming
Bok! Bok! Bok!

Basho's mild tourettes

Burst of flavour in every bite
The pussy willows on a bun
A droplets cling to blonde
Welcome to boner heaven
Get thrusted by that passing train

Water meat
Real spices
Real good eats
Stiff authentic texan
Chipotle golden

Outdoor Basho bondage in the snowy forest

This awesome lightening weight

Swear he looks exactly
Dreaming of weaks
Of slack damn–looking
And knives
Even tho i'm a chick

In trees mooring
Fish men float
Tugging nailed between
Trees bare and capitalizing

With great success
Clownishly birch
The moths honest
And a better dread comes
Soft boy hair everything

The names of all the gods all sound
Pervey dream white heresy
Soft so magnificently disguised

Friday, February 23, 2007

Tomas Ekström; six poems


Just before I fell asleep
I saw a sheet fall,
the country sinking deep
beneath the sea

On an island Jan Wolkers sits
twisting sculptures
out of his aged body,
he keeps prying and scratching
where the words gave out

With his back he holds
the North Sea at bay

On the mainland the roads wind
away lost in the fog
and the sheep steadily sink
into the swampy ground

Jan Wolkers dreams
of a morning long ago,
of the smell of piss from thousands
of crowded cattle

He dreams of the woman
who sat in his sink
and a cold hollands


The dying Ezra Pound
looks back upon his life-work
regrets everything

"A swollen magpie in
unsteady sun"

To see:
the only real
knowledge is
in uncertainty


On the street corner
on a winter sunday
neglected in an unexpected

Only a fool listens
to the alarm clock
on a day like this with
a tired

I look too long
at somebody,
take out a criminal
claim for the snowstorm

When you should be
not a crack
in the wakefulness leading
back to the dream

I lie sleeping, turn
carefully to the left to the right
but not too much
On my back a cat lies putting me
to sleep with claws in my back

One day maybe all this doesn't
mean anything anymore, not even
A dog who was named Fidel
Or a record by Orup
that someone I liked thought was good

I lie sleeping, dreaming of
an autumn in Johanneshov
In the leaf-fog I see someone lose his
blackness, come closer with the dog
on a long string

It's like being a tourist
not knowing where to go
when the souvenir shops are closed
One day maybe all this doesn't
mean anything anymore, not even

Sometimes it is thinned out
and our shadows rattle
through the door

Here in an unfamiliar wakefulness
the world looks neither
kind nor common

Here the sun can hardly burn
away all decayed annual rings

Deep beneath the railroad tracks
the shadows of the trees are taller
than the trees
Winds pass there,
elusively they circle
and turn their faces
to a sun that doesn't

We are below the storms,
the developers
and the ink cartridges
Harvest will be good;
I lift a dampened
to the wind


Roadside, august drought:
the second lets
it's refuse drop

Harvest of clothberries
and mustard heather
Everything here crunches

Lavender burns
by the roadside, I see a
road sign, august drought


Heaven hatches house-sparrows
Children bred to kill and be killed
Nail nails and throw apple-cores
squelch in mud


The air smells of metal


You ask me
where the misery is.

It’s not here.
On the contrary:

the joy of a semicolon
at seven in the morning.

(poems translated by lars palm)

Friday, February 16, 2007

Aaron Tieger; four poems from NOISE


the space between

notes fills

space noise



I know my secrets &
why they are

my poison
is for weaklings

Everything counts
(in any amount)

& I tell myself
I don’t know


Telling lies I don’t
believe to cover truth
I don’t believe say
no more


Under light
of city valley
rises to hill chilly right
out of machinery

thick sky &
heart goes boom