Month: October 2013
GRILLED CHEESE HAMARTIA
Contorted cataracts begging for wisteria;
pinioned to the sweet futility
of immense color pumping vines
beyond this compartment routing inertia
adapting gazes of saline surrounding
water soaking quinoa and lentils.
Shape the person un-dimpled by
the first snowballing hour, xenization
in the mid-flooded everything.
Shape the person splinting in time
fistfuls of hair, nails, cum
punching you into empty traffic.
This body is a blob
squirming out of a bottle
driven to live quotes verbatim—
standards are your mother’s hustle.
I’m tossed up in that
pinch with a piercing thrust
catapulting feverish stutters in the
stripped moon, clawing my feet
stuffed in cups unclipped at
the ankles. I found it
in the curtaining slow motion
where my face had been
grooved into steps by the
stacks of half transparent books
scattered on the floor. Excuses being
that we’ll keep blaming perception.
An itch I’ve mangled throughout
my history with this evening—
the brush of tiny hairs, legs.
my history with quiet rooms.
The chapbook from which this is taken is titled GRILLED CHEESE HAMARTIA. It is a failing marriage of parallels between road trips, shrill nostalgia, dead end jobs, and poetry. Broken narratives placed in stanzas.
Kris Hall is a writer and curator [Da’daedal/Free Poetry] from Seattle, WA. His chapbook of bastard ghazals, Notes for Xenos Vesparum, is forthcoming in the Fall of 2014 [Shotgun Wedding]. He has nine siblings, three middle names, two cats, and one girlfriend. You can find more information at:kmwgh.wordpress.com
Cloth dyers make
gestures of collapse.
Water moves towards the miracle,
where those dwell who
cannot comprehend its scope.
None shall find a home in colours,
but may take a rest in the sameness
of the faces and the tissue.
In each moment, there is a single lonely man
and his memories stretch the horizon into a ring.
Antique statues may live in garments,
but cloth dyers prefer to think of the blue
of drowned men.
When the seas are all erased,
the lonely man drops his skin.
A blossom drinks up all the fury.
(translated from Hungarian by Zoltán Móra)
My name is Orsolya Fenyvesi, I’m a Hungarian poet, whose first book of poetry was published in 2013 under the title “The Animals in the Mirrors”. I was born in 1986, I live in Budapest, and currently I’m trying to engage myself in a poetic approach which connects nonsense, sensitivity and conceptual poetry.
The pillars of my first book of poetry are two different constructions of memory, the personal (i.e. the metamorphosis of common objects and everyday events achieved by juxtaposing them against poetic expressions of light and time) and the collective (i.e. historical and contemporary symbols and phenomena manifested through the metamorphosis of the speaker).I tend to create something new from the source of the already much used, remodificating past and future in the present, compressing history, hundreds of years into one single human experience.
goe jus in verdana
go, sulky baobab; benbecula comes.
if daleks entreat, or cover this lampland,
and if they should walk in twos down the flume,
then jaffa will squeeze extra jus in verdana,
and none shall be ever in shade again.
wotan’s doppelganger languishes in gaol
with cajun cake, a drab pound of kitsch.
‘and if elfin, if doubly quick, the north idle sea?
what if, in holy waikiki?’
‘deaf john, I only attend the end here in keld.’
the djinn munches salad.
I ask and he hands me a codfish of bluebells.
‘silk dhow, how goes it?’
he smiles and lurches
angora and galen.
I woo you in look, double juice,
and keith, oh keith, jokes and hands me his hope.
a sad one is adept and fickle.
play, you oligarchs!
delia, loki, don’t run away
but vamoose, babushka, vamoose.
the clippers fade and return wallish walls,
trying to sail from crayon to heliotrope –
lipid hyena, oily as death.
long-lost-gone-wronged, sodden regardless
now reaping reward
goe jus in verdana.
I write novels, but sometimes I cut-cut-cut the words until I end up with poems; distillations of story compacted into reflective shapes.
Prolific writer and artist Catherine Edmunds has more than 450 published works to her name. Solo works for Circaidy Gregory Press include the poetry collection ‘wormwood, earth and honey’; the magical realism novel ‘Small Poisons’ – a contemporary tale for Midsummer Night’s dreamers; and ‘Serpentine’, which explores what happens when art doesn’t only reflect life but is life itself. Her latest novel is ‘Bacchus Wynd’, an intense tale of personal re-invention set in North-East England. http://www.freewebs.com/catherineedmunds/
Automation, Man (Bold Machines)
singularity, sometimes free
much more impossible.)
Machines are on
Industrial natural rhythms
ego of skin
Evolution Art Violence
dreaming, crackling of eternity
(I think so, more amazing machines)
The rearrangement of art
and liberation violence
and unlearning of boundaries
We are contradictory while
we are contradictory while
we are contradictory
Arbitrary rules of art and
learning of life
Contradictory while we explode
Retool exploitation for
the sake of possibilities
Here now…… We start with consciousness
When I was much younger I aspired to change the world. Now years later, my work stems from a desire to change myself by exploring my own internal terrain. In the end the strangest, most profound journey is not the one outward, but the one inward through my own psychic landscapes.