Pravda, poems by Rus Khomutoff

Undertow

Annhialating the real
venus impossible fathom lines of
a mystery front
in a forever empty vein
satan tango anthropic wildfire
correct wing answer addiction
instamatic endlessness
transformative astonishments
dominion fragments that proclaim a rupture
spitfire ragged edge
children of the decadent pause
on a scatterbrain pedestal nevertheless
a dreamflesh narrative hyperloop

 

“The walls screamed poetry disease & sex an inner
whine like a mad machine” Jim Morrison from Wilderness

The day of the materialized fantasy
entangled by the world
mysticurious mindwebs
of utopia transcendence
armour testament
chasm omnibus flare
supreme splendour serenade
live over everything
my serum addiction
the 1st electric wildness
systematic horizons of
cardinal amusements

 

Explanations begin with a river
between the material world and
the world of feelings
love made of sky
disobeying pagodas lingering on the presipice
rites and mysteries
of the artful pause
corralling a lifetime of upholds
blessings strongest wind in
ebony stillness

 

Future reverse king

The day at war with the night
the spirit of awe
a new music is a new mind
keynote capabilities
hallow mirth synopsis
into the herarth
felicifil stanzas, sexes,
seductions, extremes
paramount dispatches
thoughtfeel moonstar
dancing the wheel
inanimation of shimmering screens

 
Dedicated to Scott Weiland 

Arrest this lament
this false flag of endeavor
parachute of the midnight aplomb
splendor soils christened by an exorama
defouled by a parasite cancel
who are you in the liturgy of night?
nameless index
of heathen imperial purple
no margin, no reprieve
augur of ceremonial reimagining
of unnoticed thoughts
searing in erasure
murmur of accidental day
a chastised saucerful of secrets
eviscerator heaven on call

 

 

Shameless sun

 

Faith is awe in the presence of

divine incognito

the holy life plunges into unbinding

refusing the context

my emphasis crushed by necessity

frozen nation of wanderlust retro rescue

born again foresight manifest

shifting the symmetry of time

shadows & remnants

analog soul

barren  spot outside of beacon

whisper wind dripping in midnight oil

the divine curriculum of a frozen echo

 

 

 

 

                 Vertigo and ghost

               manifesting itself in the

                infernal parody

               of a bloody cliché

               a colourway cognitive hiss

                 and whatever else

                poured out of the silver rhyton

                a nocturnal selection

                 of a spawn wave

 

 

 

 

 

A collaboration between Rus Khomutoff and Felino A. Soriano

 

I swallow the ghost of your whispers
the vast unceasing universe was already
the aesthetic event
ideographs and fairytales
stirring nuance with stark truth
an invitation to deep stillness and perpetual pause
ciphers and tropes
will I someday know the ceaseless flux?

Question of movement, diligence
the voice captures wind, captures silence
amid the blue of day’s ornamental music
truth in solace, in what guides then watches our steps
Hope in nuance, though the gradation hides within
the gray of the moment’s compromised devotion

 

 

Silentium

 

Underneath the arches of these generalities
the past, present and future
of the eternal menagerie
enchantments
like a bouquet of fire through the lyric
guilty pleasures that enter while you exit
cyan deserve claim
bestow kiss merge rot
speculate dragonfly
linked deletions and much more

 

 

Zenith temptation

Annex the corporeal night
strangelove auxiliary
holy antrum laminating the postmedial push
in an endless series of rituals
that ward off rather than
circumvent
dive into the monster versal
hollow earth, abyss & apex, virgin keen
the sprawl of new immaterialities, interruptions
ruin, allegory, melancholy
anonymous calling
nonsensuous reality rendering everything
as an instrument toward the end of a spectacle
deep breath asylum whim surge
this zenith temptation

 

Consequence
to Stanislas Rodanski

Point of contingency
ghost anon tanith
sterling pyramid ritz
electric circus pursuing the unidentified
illustrious explorer
moss polished plume atlas _131
infinite perimeter domain
channel zero new world disorder
arena sky pristine edge
gene of punctured adrenaline
code & chalice
poetic medicine of calm and chaos
news from the far side of nowhere
peripheral drift momentum hotwire
in pursuit of your own seeing
tapping its own ecstatic vein
faceted redundant ironside lectura
peak time of parasites and proximities
reversal awakeness into
sublime surrender
this witnessing of
the magical emergence of potentiality
deep spasm of insight and brilliance
price stone
the enigma that takes us by the hand
and draws into its meanders
bonafide extinction pantun
the amnia of affectation

 

 

Saturday asylum

My heart is elsewhere
camouflaged by the poetic phantom power
church of clarity disavowal of the lucid clusters
melancholy body sacrilege
tattoo highway insomnia punk equinox
nascent ribald passion post of
the absent everyday
turbo pastiche metafiction
an outface hammer/infinite perimeter of
the saturday asylum

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Bent, by Kevin Byrne

bent, twisted
as a ravaged corpse
…………………………………..the wolves teeth, the pack
Dripping with blood
…………………………………..and nourishment.
ten below and falling
…………………………………..the sun lashes the horizon
as it rises
…………………ten below and falling the sun no impact
…………………on the winter blizzard approaching…
…………………and yet
man sets his traps
……………………………….the first cutting flakes in his face
back to cabin and fire
…………………………………….raw meat hanging from the rafters
alone,
but not lonely,
must make it back, yes he thinks
must make it back, time, enough time, blizzard time.
The walk through the snow,
It grows deeper, something glows,
The setting sun set off a shining object
………………..the snow is gathering
………………..force ten the wind,
………………..the blizzard in his back,
the glistening object
pales as the sun
does not rampage the horizon,
deep red, blood red the sky,
…………………………………the object at his feet bigger
………………………………………..a silo number
………………………………………………..065
………………………….appears under his clearing hand
………………………………………………stands
up,
…………..“illusion!
…………….nowhere to get away from…      the wolves”
……………………………..he shouts rowdily through the enveloping
……………………………………………horizontal snow and ice
…………………………………………………in twenty below.

………………“sleep now” he always talks out loud to himself “never wake up”
……………………………………………………..just as well”
……………………………he shouts hurriedly
….clearing the drifting snow half way up his cabin door.
……………………………………He will be cabin bound
……………………………………………………………………………..till spring,
…………………………….over the fire he rumbles through his attic mind
…………………………………………..finds, a map
…………………………………………..in spring it will lead him
…………………………………………..further into the mountains
…………………………………………..he thinks as he leans back
…………………………………………. in his chair of wood and fur
and sleeps
the long sleep of winter, snoring fire blazing frozen raw meet wearing down his teeth.

The Word Factory: a miscellany by Mark Young, reviewed by Clara B. Jones

The Word Factory: a miscellany
Mark Young
2018
gradient books (Finland)
Available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/gradientbooks

Reviewed by Clara B. Jones taking a journey on the path of experimental book reviewing…

“There exists no science of word creation” Velimir Khlebnikov

Author: Mark Young is an internationally recognized writer and publisher of the poetry journal, Otoliths, who has produced dozens of books and has been featured in jacket2 and by the Poetry Foundation. He lives in Australia.

What is The Word Factory about? From the author: “A strange mix, a miscellany as the subtitle says. Some pieces written during & about the George W. Bush presidency; the Allegrezza translations; prose works that investigate the landscape where the writing takes place; poems that don’t fit elsewhere. All put together to try & hold up a night sky, to give it faint stars & distant constellations.”

Formal structure:

Arrangement: various textual forms in four parts—

  1. “Bush Tucker”: “Because he had experienced neither, President Bush confused the word/poetry and poverty./He said:/Many in our country do not know the pain of poetry, but we can listen/to those who do.” (p 16)
  2. “some translations by Umberto Allegrezza”: “Alexander/came and Tyre fell; &/later on the Greeks,/rats gnawing away/at what was left.” (p 33)
  3. “Odds and Sods”: “tomorrow/i begin my/studies to/become a/transplant surgeon/the day/after that/i take my/finals exam/it’s a series/of multiple/choice/questions—/much easier/for the/tutors to/mark—” (p 53)
  4. “The Word Factory”: “At 1.27 p.m. a directive comes down from Management. The remainder of/the afternoon will be spent putting together a new word, two words/actually, both without n, to build up stocks for the projected rush on them./I finish off my shift using my dots to complete the exclamation marks that/our Marketing people believe will be a much in demand accessory to/accompany Global Catastrophe.” (p 67)

Features: form (various textual forms); content/theme/subject (various); meter/rhyme (various, including, improvisational, free verse); style (playful, eclectic, innovative; stabilizing & destabilizing at the same time); technique (“defamiliarization”; “Art as device for making strange”: Viktor Shklovsky)

Poetic sub-genres: conventional (p 17); vispo (p 45); erasure (p 47); prose (p 50); mixed (p 51); list (p 63); flash fiction (p 82)

Theories behind text: Modernism, PoMo

Conclusion: Read this book if you want to know the mystery of a shooting star or of a treasure hunt through enchanted forests of entities both autonomous and whole embedded in real and imagined worlds. This noteworthy book is a happening. Go along for the ride. It is a unique and worthy experience.

..

Clara B. Jones is a Knowledge Worker practicing in Silver Spring, MD, USA.

God Bless America, by Lucia Daramus

When I raped Jessica
in fact I loved her like Jesus loved his church
I caressed her tits , her raw tits
my strong tongue opened her mouth
and then I bit strongly her inner
she screamed, oh poor Jessica, because of my love.
After, I remembered my mother
”eat all of your food and be still’ she told me
‘ because Jesus loves you’ and she gave me a splash
with her hands full of rings that I had all
the week traces of bruises.
You have to love, to love with all of your inner,
she said me, like Jesus loves the church
and she turned my ear or she plucked my sideburns
to know how Jesus punishes us from love.
Like Jesus I loved myself Jessica
with my all inner
as Jesus the church
I put my palm on her mouth and I whispered in her ear
don’t yell, I want to feel Jesus’ love
then I penetrated her by force like in my past
when my mum penetrated my mind with force
the Jesus’ love, beating me
snatching my sideburns
that I used to hide myself in our laundry basket
from there I heard  – God Bless America!
I quivered because of the fear, my teeth shivered in my mouth
every Sunday if I did not stay still in the church.
My mum was baptist, therefore with Americans
occasionally she met with Cosmanel
the man pastor, although it would have been better
to have been goats pastor on the field
because he loved the grassland and the forest, and
the mountains in Cluj
there he built his chalet, he, Cosmanel,
with God Bless America
with lots of money from his parishioners’ pockets ,
little lambs with their washed minds
with God Bless America
Although they live in Romania.
From him I learned how to love with all my inner.
I loved Jessica so, so much
and from my love I strangled the girl
her eyes blew from her head,
her bluish tongue was swinging in the wind
she had whistled spasms
but I continued to love Jessica so much
that I remembered at the same second the face
of my mum which snatched my sideburns,
singing Jesus Loves You.
After Jessica I loved Rovena
I drove my lorry on the Bucharest route
It was summer, and the sun was burning
it was so, so hot, and the sky so, so blue
Rovena loved the people on the streets
I suppose she was a prostitute
her skirt was so short, and her lips so , so red
like the tomatoes from my mother’s garden
tomatoes which my mum herself pushed in my mouth
‘gobble all because Jesus loves you” and she splashed
a punch behind my neck. ‘the beating rod is from heaven’ she said
‘yes, the beating is from heaven’ said Cosmanel, the pastor,
and everybody in my mum’s church said ‘the beating is from heaven’
‘the beating is from heaven’ .
But Rovena wasn’t baptist. She loved people without Jesus in her heart
I made love with the girl in my truck’ cabin
she moved, I moved myself too until I had orgasm
thinking how much Jesus loved me through my mum
who splashed me with her hands every day
so Jesus loved Rovena through me
that I strangled very gently, very, very gently,
saying all time ‘ Jesus loves you’.
After this girl I loved another one
because Jesus taught us to love each other
how He loved the church, like a bride and a groom.
Matilda was loved in another way. I wanted to share her raw body
with others and I portioned with my axe very gently
very, very gently her body that smelled of wild flowers
I was very kind with Matilda.
First I loved her figure, then I said :
‘My dear Matilda, from your body, fresh body,
as a hot bread, will eat others too.
For the first time I sectioned her neck
at that second she begged me to not kill her.
But I refused to think about this, because
all of what I needed was to love the world
and to share her raw body with the planet.
Then I sectioned her thighs. Oh, my dear, dear reader,
what thighs! So , so  white like wheat grains dead in flour.
I kissed her, I put carefully her legs and her hands into happy birthday paper
very, very carefully I put these and I asked her ‘ do you feel the love of Jesus?”
When I drove my lorry to Cluj I met Ioana.
Ioana had smoked glasses and diabetes because of her jam which she shared
with people because of her love. She loved Jesus. Ioana read the Bible.
At that moment I was scared because I said in my mind
”she is like my mother, she loved Jesus’
and I was afraid she will beat me, she will snatch my hair
but quickly my mind replied me : ‘no, is not your mum, because
your mother was loved by you like Jessica, Rovena, Matilda
and now Ioana’….Ioana, Ioana, Ioana
when I broke her fingers I felt my mother’s screaming
‘Jesus loves you’ but I replied ‘he loves all of you through me’
and I howled to Ioana or to mum, I don’t know
if was Ioana or my mother, ‘ God Bless America’
after a while in pulled Ioana and we went to hotel
I wanted to be romantic and I said :
‘do you want to have milk in your breasts?’
I made love with her, she didn’t want this,
and by the mistake the lamp was in fire….we were so , so scared
then I decided to follow Jesus, his way of light and joy, and truth
and I started very gently , from my bottom of my heart
to tear her teeth from her mouth with my axe from my car
and I cried deeply I cried, because I understand how great it was
my love for my world, for people and how much Jesus loved
the world through me – God Bless America!

Six poems by Mark Young

is not to have thought

According to the
patter over & in
between the tracks
from unsigned
bands that the late-
summer elephant is
playing, a burst of
radio energy from
deep space is
likely to cause the
scaling back of opium
production on campus.

The peer reviewed
literature proposes
the use of ritual
cleansing & the
wearing of under-
wire bra bikini
bathing suits with
low cut bottoms
to prepare for any
subsequent mayhem.

 

 


Götterdämmerung

I wake up late.

Dylan Thomas is in the bed beside me.

He smells of liquor.

I am about to throw him out when he starts speaking.

His words don’t get to me, but, oh, that Welsh accent.

I remember I liked him, long years ago.

Must have been when I was a windy boy & a bit.

I’ve moved on since, following neither that path

nor the road less traveled by.

Other avenues, other trees.

Sometimes, though, when the winds die down

& dreams are thin on the ground

you can hear the old voices.

Even though they no longer speak to you

you pause & listen to them.

 

A / little something / for Ray Craig

The temperament
of birds. Cardboard
containers of take-
out noodles. Light,
elongated? No, not
that, the things it
touches. Ensuing.

 

elevenses

…………………..Only the mind-
…………….games he en-

……….gages in have
…………………interiors of

………………………….sufficient ex-
…………………..quisiteness to

…………….bring forth the
…………………..proliferation

…………..of proliferations
……………………………his greatness

…………………….demands.  

 

Be specific, at first.

If the idea of the
band without Bonzo
wasn’t bad enough,

now you’ve got
the rest of them
spending most of

their time sulking
on the fact that they
were never able to

get a second life as
a discarded mattress
in a recycling plant.

,,

,,
We are your trusted source for Bibles

Based upon the
flawed premises
that the plug
can be clipped
into the overflow
to keep your bath
tidy, & that every-
one on the show
has developed a

Famous Body, the
use of Keratin Complex
Smoothing Therapy
causes globalization
& geopolitics to
intertwine & become
an intellectual edifice
that’s a convenient
size to work with.

..

Mark Young’s most recent books are Ley Lines & bricolage, both from gradient books of Finland, The Chorus of the Sphinxes, from Moria Books in Chicago, & some more strange meteorites, from Meritage & i.e. Press, California / New York.

The Nalin Clog Carpenter, by Karen Downs-Barton

Hewn from sandalwood logs, balsam-scented,
your stately hammam slippers form letter
Kha’s; tack sighs beneath the sole of fettered
feet. Curved prows cleave deliquescent sudded

spume of captive dreams sloughed on salted wash-
tides as you navigate marbled oceans.
Carved aromatic woods, warm to the touch,
fashion decks like outstretched palms incised with

tendril poems in calligraphic script
imprints temporary tattoos between us.
My rewards are thoughts of pliant skin pressed
in hidden caresses, sweat bathed, silvered

with estuaries under silk pestemal
worn as you perform bathing rituals.