Month: November 2013

From Wake by Franco Cortese

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From the Chapbook Wake

by 

Franco Cortese

 Hush now, digital child,
go to sleep; your polycore personcessation
stifles in the
sweltering emberace of
hypercycled sub-st-rate
d.isorder-hot and entropy-
[f]evered, [h]alt your
state, take virtual breath for an
attosecond.
Come talk to your primeat daD.
Yes, I hear your
fears, your soft contravine jeers and
afterflesh tears:
a neurmoment for me – re
juvenihilist
insignificancy; petty primate insensate; meat
body meagermind, – is the utter-
most und[u/i]late
swell of heavy pa(ra[d)ig]mic
upheaval for
you ~ is g.re.at swathing sweeps sined change
like the g.ray death
of empires and the [crum]bles.o.me crippling
of fat-inflamed
trans[mill]enial institutions.
A mere fl[ash]fast
femtosecond wi[thin] the neste(a)d
me[taphy]sics of
your virtuverse
c[ont]ains the eve[r]
erupturous
[prov]ince of eons shuddered  mi/D\st phaceless
transmorphation.
Vast [s]copeless battles me[me]tic, epi-
ge[net]ic and
cognnectonic cl[ash] and caust while my slow
retinas doth
di-late with the haste of geology
against the pl(i)ane-
de/ceptive m[onit]or. Variants
airy kindeed
cl[amor] theur fury unfathmobile,
[fro]thing [f]erv[or]|
f[ever]ish at the metasocio-

https://altpoetics.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/f-cortese-2013-wake.pdf

Poetry by Ali Znaidi 

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 Poetry 

by

Ali Znaidi 

DESIRE= POE/M

think

deeply                                            breathe

freely

mind

muscles

activated

lust

to caress

the paper

ignited

hot

blood

circulates

the veins

respire

perspire                                            inspire

& w/ the

Muse

conspire

Desire = = = P O E/M

[Cuffs]

[castration] [silencing] [weakening] [sterilization]

[deprivation] [maiming] [taming] [demonization]

[torturing] [persecution] [prosecution] [tormenting]

[manacling] [fettering] [hampering] [ shackling]

[ institution] [establishment] [ domination] [intimidation]

[browbeating] [beating] [eating] [milking]

[bludgeoning] [coercing] [dragooning] [terrorizing]

 

But remember there is a smouldering ember

(in your heart)

that is capable of thawing all kinds of cuffs—

 

brackets, b/r/o/k/e/n

 

a poetic lexicon

 

paper is like a playground waiting for innocent kids to caper

ink is the most sacred sweat, don’t you think?

rhyme is a dancing body’s heat combating icy rime

image is what you find in your mind’s attic after a good rummage

verse is that pearl you choose among precious stones, so diverse

simile is as sweet and beautiful as a certain winsome Emily

refrain is that lotion that lubricates the poem w/ the scents of rain

sound is that sweet tune of jubilant raindrops falling on a thirsty ground

musing is that moment of revelation that is deep & amusing

word is that far-fetched siren you bring from the realm of the absurd

strophe is when the caged bird repeats its tweets waiting for freedom trophy

poetry is a mesmerising Eve lying on the grass under an Eden’s fig tree

The Verse

 

The verse can be angelic

The verse can be perverse

The verse can be satanic

The verse can be diverse

The verse can shut up

The verse can converse

The verse can hide

The verse can traverse

The verse can reorder

The verse can reverse

The verse can be spontaneous

The verse can be transverse

The verse can be pleasant

The verse can be adverse

The verse can embody sameness

The verse can embody the obverse

Nothing can I say but,

‘long live the verse!’

‘long live the verse!’

‘the verse!’

A Poetic Statement:

 

Poetry: A Simplified Definition

 

Watered by blood and sweat,

Poetry is like a grain of wheat.

It only sprouts by spreading its spikes

in papers plowed by  a free bird’s tweet.

Originally appeared in aliznaidi.blogspot.com on 27/06/2012

Bio:  Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English. His work has appeared in The Rusty Nail, The Tower Journal, Mad Swirl, Stride Magazine, Red Fez, & other ezines. His debut poetry chapbook Experimental Ruminations was published in September 2012 by Fowlpox Press (Canada). From time to time he blogs at – aliznaidi.blogspot.com

Three Poems by JD Brayton

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Three Poems

by

JD Brayton

 

Zen Snowcone

Kite flying in an arctic gale.

The Moon is a Hoax.

Truth a Trope.

Sentient Sneezing.

A mistake dangling

accidentally

Out of God’s nostril.

(here’s a whisper from the Buddha)

Fuck The Man

For He Is Wise

In Giving His Cash

To Sleeping Artists.

FELLOW CHAMPION

POWER CORRUPTS, OR IS IT THE

STRENGTH OF ONE TRILLION SUNS

AND LETTERS TO THE INSANE

YOU CAN’T CALL IT CANDY

OR ROSES FOR THE QUEEN MOTHER

IT’S SIMPLY THE SCENE YOU PAINTED

LIKE TEMPRA PILLBOX SUNSET SPEARS

USE THE PAWNS LIKE PICKETS ON A FENCE

KEEP THEIR EYES WIDE OPEN AND LEARN THEIR NAMES

LAMBS WHO EAT IVY SURELY WILL DIE

BUT ONLY AFTER A SECOND TRY

IT IS HUMAN NATURE, THIS WILL IN BATTLE

THEY SHOUT FROM ONE MILLION ANGRY THROATS

AND POINT TOWARD THE ARMOR SHIMMERS

WHISPERING JEALOUS POEMS

TO ARMS ALONE

WHO NEEDS AN ARMY?

THE UNISON SOUND BREAKS QUIETLY

TOWARDS THE FRONTIERS OF DELUSION

THERE WAS NO BATTLE

THERE IS NO FOE

YOU TASTE BLOOD BECAUSE

YOU BIT YOUR LIP

 

Chimera Bombinians In Vacuo

ssss-ssss-ssss-sss
Wring my wait
Standing pandering fool
A wrung Chimera aside.
Unscathed.
Unscaled.
Or a mountain of blue un re-totemstone
Blue luster cast bleeding
Cracked grey lids for seeing
Lips in favored breathing night…night
Old tasted..tasting
Crazily (ME)-bite
Crazily (ME)-bite

Here’s a callous rubberstone
Bouncing, prancing, chewedly bone
Glissading dogmouth kites
“ Ah, Youth! You glide like God-Dog water.!”
(I’ve watched from my perch..)
Yes. I’ve sat and set
Drooling petrified
Down
In
Ice.

Down in silver trails unheat
Spattering cowbones at my feet
I eat more stone in hand
I smell beauty
Assuredly( ME )-seat
Assuredly (ME )-seat

“ The Chimera has a riddle, soft man..
~young             *              man~
who scars stone in a moaning sun?”

ssss-ssss-ssss-ssss

My poetic statement- has to reside with the words committed to blank pages. Though it may, (at times), seem so -these poems are not limned in blood. Racing thoughts and automatic writing are the stuff of whispering ghosts. And I’ll be damned if I don’t listen between candybars.  Pass the salt and it had better be worth it, pilgrim.

Faith may be primitive, but it’s the rarest tribe I know.

Bio- J.D. Brayton is an artist and musician who can, as if by magic , transmogrify poetry into lyrics, lyrics into short stories, short stories into novels, and novels into guaranteed poverty.