 |
| 'All Stepped/ Undone' is now available to purchse here |
Monday, 8 July 2013
Friday, 5 July 2013
Gillian Prew
The Sky Will Pour Open
Ten more summers of rain, they say. A defeat –
a downing.
Dust
eyelids dog roses –
the bees will come, their legs pollen-painted.
A roaring curtain where the sun should be - the birds,
quiet and stuck,
in its up-ruin.
Fly,
everything. Why not?
The sky will pour open some days.
Plath Likes My Poems
Around the Nothing, among the Grave –
fixed, like old bone, a yellow stain. A wound, a wire womb.
Winter breasts.
Plath likes my poems. Her blood hurts. Her death reeks –
she approves of my ruins.
Buy her latest book, Throats Full of Graves from Lapwing Publications
Peter Marra
Possible Scenarios
Plausible 1
the body came to
rest
abruptly at her
hips
she was one of the women
i saw skinny-dipping by
the waterfall
in the woods in the new york mountains
mid-july
as dark sheets of breathing flesh
enclosed us
membrane accusing
there were 3
naked female swimmers
& they craved
craved
the sunlight
wrapped it up &
delivered it
water droplets shiny in a
nest of pubic hair
what was always denied to us
fuck
the camera tripod collapsed as they approached
the camera tripod collapsed as they approached
fuck
the beauty of obscenities
imagine pussy taste
an electric fizzz
the mildew smell of the
plants mixed
with organic lust
raspy voiced they murmured
secrets about rituals
her haunted house thrilled
her sexually
synthesized a mask
of pure pleasure
bright rings of
lust
as she held her
pornographic films
up for admiration
Plausible 2
fun in
the parking lot
wash my hands & eyes of
them
they washed their hands of
me
& flooded my eyes with
blood-tears
plasma touch
grinning out of fear
almost touching one
another through the inside
as the dirty
mattress burned with their love
she couldn't help
but moan
she couldn’t help
but laugh
as the body
convulsed
she relaxed her grip &
it went limp
gray & white
she lay in the back seat
masturbating while smoking a
marlboro
w/ venial sin dangling from
her pale lips
a mouthful of candy
drunk on the odor of black
tobacco cunt-juice & semen
she told me about the
ballerina’s corpse in the trunk
start the car I’ll tell you
where to drive
idle the motor until I say
floor it
unrestrained
unregulated by law
gun it when the
vice squad appears
“open your mouth
wide”
Plausible 3
She shuddered.
nothing but six
inch heels
excited her so
strong legs
lick loins &
hum
eyes slipped down
around
her calves
finishing at a
certain temperature
"& she
likes it."
leading to anemic
metaphorical usage
economic slimy
cream next to her &
they met via the
human body
a mutual refusal to
consume
she shows him her
tits
& sticks out
her tongue
“I like ‘em pinched
& lightly bitten,
such are consumers”
mouth fussing with
excitement
she touched his
face before
leaving him with
a mouthful of
ceremonies
she let him touch
her labia
& fondle her
mucous
so she could leave
her scent
laughing out the
window
just bait for a
trap
his body was found
stuffed in a wooden barrel
behind the garage.
decayed.
unidentifiable.
involved snake
handling
female 5’ 10” long
black hair
36c - 21 – 36
(like liz taylor
in her prime)
approach with
extreme caution
(i can always
ask for forgiveness)
anonymity of sexual
partners
sexual fantasy
benefits
the plaintiffs were
burned
she commented with
a scream
the body came to
rest
abruptly at her
hips
her deeds were
reviewed critically by others,
then in front of
her parents,
who were still
filming her degradation
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
David McLean
of long dresses
What is the current that makes machinery, that makes it crackle, what is the current that presents a long line and a necessary waist. What is this current
What is the wind, what is it.
(Gertrude Stein)
the line that distinguishes is critical the line that is written
and there is never any death in us
until we are no longer embodied in all this sexless flesh
as the flesh is left, without its sex, to the scented exigencies of death
it flows us now all this unforgiven living
with all the sad entropy force is determined not to be -
it gives confusion next
gram Friday
and it is never gram fucking Friday
nowadays, it is a world lying over earth
like psychosis and a very penetrable barrier;
it is never gramme Friday, maybe,
just everyday passion
just homeless
reasonably enough
the Bandidos shot at an unmarked police car tonight,
reasonably enough,
and things in general happen or do not happen:
we do things because we are stupid
or we die because we deserve to,
just like everybody else does.
the other subject and its empty eyes
is all that is truly disgusting,
the superego gets off on farts and vomiting,
it feeds on dead children, we want our fathers
safely dead, all that is totally unacceptable
is progenitors who are living --
and if there really was this alleged fucking god
we would have to do great things
to hunt, locate and kill it
it is anxious
it is anxious in the thundering stomach, replete
its fullness like death or ovulation
and nightmares devalued by the tight spiral life
cutting scars in skin or memories from time;
we wear terrible nothing pulled up over us
its insatiably patient painless touch,
like snuggling up in blankets and blood
like dread Armageddon and defection,
like rabbits and love
children through windows
children through windows an ancient forgotten cocaine Friday
oblivious the monstrous is and there is time enough
for devils to be invented and not touch;
like all the anxious devouring the nostalgic gut,
like pebbles and empty riverbeds,
dead men to touch
cautious corpses walking
and here is no cautious corpse walking invulnerable his loveless,
for sleep is dreamless and diamonds,
a window pane and never yet;
horses are waiting patient for the anxious chivalric and courtly love
has dropped her easy lesions in muddy puddles
with every forgotten lesson;
the ghost of Hegel is sitting his luckless nothing
insulting anxious, somewhere his Marie is furious
and he is never done explaining his meaning -
we have dropped the medium idiot fish glimpse
where corpses used to go dancing
through all the absences -
and he pretended he never said marriage was an ethical state
and love just a fucking feeling, nobody ever said that yet
in remembered Jena who ever met Schiller or Schelling:
but i do not intend to accept him to my lap yet,
happy like a puppy is until he is dead enough
to learn every nothing and love,
till there is no dread memory left for corpses to recollect -
till Hegel and wife come like summer suns,
like memories or blood
David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since
1987. He lives there with his dog, Oscar, and his computers.
In addition to seven chapbooks, McLean is the author of four
full-length poetry collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling
Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009),
LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010) and NOBODY
WANTS TO GO TO HEAVEN BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO DIE (Oneiros
Books, June 2013). His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is
due in 2014 from Unlikely Books. During 2013 a seventh
chapbook SHOUTING AT GHOSTS is forthcoming from Grey Book
Press. More information about McLean can be found at his
blog http://mourningabortion.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)