skicka

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

2007-10-03T16:10:00.000-07:00

Grudge-Fucks

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.

Screw

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.

Duration

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.

ek rzepka; three poems

2007-08-11T15:20:00.000-07:00

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
mop
evangelization

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

apically

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

misidentified
the bestowed isn't remembered

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

inurn, cinemas
people are involved as moving pictures
notches
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
elections

boding bodies,
clamber

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

what gnarl & piffle makes an intermittent
afflict spark

Nicholas Grider; from BECAUSE THE NIGHT

2007-07-09T12:40:00.000-07:00

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

Andrew Lundwall; three poems

2007-05-14T16:05:00.000-07:00

'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
however

you
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
penetrate
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

Alana Madison; five bash slasho poems

2007-03-10T11:50:00.000-08:00

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
Quasi-diamond-dripped
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

Tomas Ekström; six poems

2007-02-23T20:46:00.000-08:00

JAN WOLKERS DREAMS

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

GETTING SOMEWHERE

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

NIGHT IS BLACK

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

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

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

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

II
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

III
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

IV
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
exist

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

HARVEST

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

ASTERISK IN FEBRUARY

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

SEMICOLON

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)

Aaron Tieger; four poems from NOISE

2007-02-16T12:05:00.000-08:00

NOISE

the space between

notes fills

space noise

needs

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

NOISE

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

NOISE

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

thick sky &
heart goes boom

jeroen nieuwland; five poems

2007-02-09T20:15:00.000-08:00

an angel must have fallen from the sky
with blinded eyes (so as not to shame the earth?)
she rests silently between two boys that carry her
away to safety, of which she is in need.
although no one else can see her, they innocent
walk, one pouting, one with defiance on his face,
preempting any who might question them.
she wounded, holds white flowers in her hand
that droop, to not offend the wings draped wearily
along her arching back, damaged from tumbling
through the sky. unclear who bears the weight,
that they themselves perpetuate. this remains,
two boys, an angel, flowers, in equal burden
bound, without chance to quit their covenant.

(written after the finnish painter Hugo Simberg's (1873-1917) painting the wounded angel)

*

Shall we go to bed they both said as
he sat at his desk and she stood before
the mirror that hung in a wardrobe

far away from where she might have heard
his voice or seen him turn as she spoke
but he did and he did and she did and
she sat as he got up to stand then she stood

to undress to lie stiff as if cold
on the left half of her mattress so he lay
his back flat his head pressed hard to his pillow
with his right hand hanging down from the edge

to forget is to rest to remember is to regain
contours clear or barely out of focus
by gazing into undetermined space
solitary silent an activity

*

Parking lots are vacant.
Birds are flocks or
caught in flight.
Bellies heave or are
soft and white and heavy.
Once a decision is made
there is always time left.
Between a shopping cart
and the car in which
the shopping goes
one pavement cracks,
several noisy babies,
divorces undecided as
of yet, dinner in plastic
dinner served from
plastic. As long as things
are just for now, but how
long is that. If the
homeless person had
spoken you would
have taken his words
for wise. for what reason
did both of you return
the other’s smile.
Don’t buy his paper
if what you want is
to break your bill
for the soda machine.
The other ideas remain
within the lot’s confines.
They dissipate and multiply
and the parking’s concrete is
not much different in the end
some thoughts are acted on
sometimes awaited actions done.

*

All you say in the sunlight. Your day to arrange

with the small wooden bench and the trees and the

joggers. The smile that you smile at the warmth of

the breeze on

your face. That you run to catch out of breath and
keep smiling because you know you could not go
any faster. When you open your mouth in the wind
and you

breathe in and out against it. So you stop and you
laugh in the air without sound and you say in the
sun. Arrange your day on the small wooden bench
in the

park where an old lady sits on Sunday. Every week
you imagine that she waits there for a disappeared
man. He has left

long ago, before you were born. She was not there
today, is it Sunday. Would she want you to sit. You
sit down.

*

1. to me! the horseback general

2. from the man in his mercy seat, no sound.
death upon his body a fascinating vacuum

3. pick me. the antepenultimate boy then
the last boy, after all he is not a team player

4. somebody loves you. the evangelist girl big
brown eyed, had forced her card upon him
now crumpled in his open palm, he remembered

5. you’re a winner! shaking his daily fist at the morning
mirror to make the affirmation last until this evening too

6. no words from her who sits to peel skin
from her own body. she does feel something

1. forget. the general resigns descends leads
horse away from army and raging battle

Daniel f. Bradley; five from T=I=D=Y language

2007-02-02T17:20:00.000-08:00

or are people just animals that can speak and write and make up goddess and make up morals and not think about how we are really unable to reach the lofty goals that we dream and how we are really unable to look at ourselves honestly and see

what we are i have no problems expecting the worst of my fellows and when they are throwing around terms like innocent and victim and immoral i expect them to be particular depraved in the violence that they will do

coarse be sure to label me a sociopath with the intriguing defense affective reading and demonstration of some adventurous and nonstandard modes of suggestion of a kind of utopian horizon

one of the most important critics today and it's improper how she met him and her and she won't allow anyone to speak of her in front of her as she and him made her uncomfortable over something and i'm saying this like i know these bone heads but really they uninteresting verbiage and landfill

the prospect of fighting paint scared us a little but when she saw the poor colour all broke into identical evil grins never fight it wouldn't matter who's wrong or right

if a broken heart needs a giggles i thought you were suppose to be evil you know you wanna do it and it will make me very happy

i don't even know anyway went climbing last weekend managed to make it to the hey i even spelled his name right everyone see now there are few things in the world which can separate such a happy mob

evil grins on all of us care free in the streets pink baby loo the night before the wedding chorus of mama don't aloud no finger painting round here this is the problem only the words cum round anymore

never thought that a language was geographic thing may start like and they move or die they change or die

hey become something else or die if you wanna go top dog that's fine whatever language they need to get the funny fact it is pretty meaningless

like saying i like your eye colour pretty harmless cept ya killed cuz they have a wrong pink eye colour or they don't believe the goddess

*

your body cracks and i bathe in blood wallow in thoughts i condemn myself as i bathe

blood bathe in blood by pink eyes of the dead of all that have listened love and loosened us from our salt

us from our sins in order deaths of so that he could bathe in girl n boy bath

thus stay forever young or improve her complexion this was not mentioned trial order n' steaks of human flesh moth on ya bones till none of its left breath pest exhale

death imp blessed with text bathe in the infidel wanna do this

cast the first stone decide nothing those who count everything

they are the same ones who refused to stay undead yet you have so many spelling powers needed to find hidden terrorist groups

talk about shaking up the beehive it went from agitated to swarming jail them i don't care how throw 'em bee they are shallow bitchy elitists suffice to say any advice from this guy like he won first place

fat chance locked up more criminals for longer because they victimize when they can't accuse me of being a terrorists don't just give up and disappear they are not aliens

now how many parents do lessons the spelling today was the big day they set up just in time

dismissal so it isn't the rational kind of fear about kids have this book jammed up their asses from day one and of course they don't realize that there is a real world out there you say go get 'em in the airport

Adam Fieled; three dream poems

2007-01-08T17:35:00.000-08:00

Rowdy Dream (Andrew Lundwall)

I was slumming @
Andrew Lundwall’s.
There was a demented
cook called Seana
w/ tortured ringlets.

There was a cooking
issue, a food problem.
I ate something.
I stayed on the fifth
floor, away from

rowdies on floors
two & three. My
Mom broke in,
spoke of better
food, more rowdies.

I wanted to be
more rowdy, left
floor five. Seana
spoke gibberish to
me in the kitchen.

I wasn’t happy or
unhappy; I was in
the middle. All this
time Andrew Lundwall
sat on a throne on

floor one. I was
making my way
down there when
I awoke— no food.
I became rowdy.

Jessica Smith Dream

Jessica Smith was a corpse
on a bed on a screen in front
of me. She lay in darkness
w an obscure head. I touched

the screen— it grew red. I
touched her head on the screen
& she was alive again, &
blonde. I stepped back from

the screen, hearing her
breathing. I felt as if I had
performed an exorcism—
this was holy water. I shook

through the whole thing.

Lars Palm Dream

I was skulking in
a dorm room with
Lars Palm, who
was chucking
lobsters. A yellow

globule tried to
get our goat; a wall
started talking.
Lars was furious.
Some girls were

involved with us,
as junk piled up.
Lars threw a
lobster at the
yellow globule,

roaring. It was
a pivotal moment—
bare walls. Rubbish
heap. Fucked
globules. We left.

submission guidelines

2006-12-31T17:05:00.000-08:00

send 3-10 poems (fewer if they're very long &/or sequences) one flash fiction (no more than 500 words) or short story (you know, like a couple of thousand words) in the body of the email to larspalmeAThotmailDOTcom, then wait until i react, should take no more than a week or two. no previously published stuff will be considered. translations of living & consenting writers are welcome. for essays query first. & as usual it's all a matter of taste, if i like it i publish.