CITIES by Mathias Schwartzbach Pedersen


…………..It’s 43°42’12″N 7°15’59″E [1]


…………………….It’s 38°53′14″N 121°00′53″W [2]


…………………………..It can be 45°25’48″N 122°22’25″W [3]


…………………………………………..But at the 30°52′38″N 84°25′55″W [4]


………………………………………………………………..It’s like 48°04’03.8″N 12°51’44.4″E [5]


……………………………………………………………………………………46°37′39″N 85°2′15″W [6]



[1]             (Nice)

[2]             (Cool)

[3]             (Boring)

[4]             (Climax)

[5]             (Fucking)

[6]             (Paradise)

tumulte rivièrièlle by Aad de Gids

non threatening lights sprinkled over the spaces within home as if

they float in evening mid air: candles, christmas led-lights two small

faux-conifers with small white lites lending the evening air somewhat

soft blotches hovering nestling in the heart, anxietyridden month 12


informativity of the text slowly vanishes behind as abstract as the

dismorphic totality of the penetrative yet unevasive lightlets the poem,

then, what emerges within the silence of seasnow on land as we also

could consider the words lights evening evaporative poetic resorbtion


a mauve contourering out of the inside of the clôche display of shells

along its curvatures we belong as well to the earth as the celestial arc

de cercle us, leaving somewhat as sentient persons along with d’green

of grass and trees,the animals the mountainous ranges riverial tumulte


tumulte rivièrièlle as we dive in or with the piroquet negotiate junglian

hyperurbane clefts, waterfalls, the majestic just, stretch here poetry if

emerged, paints impressionistically in whichever idiom the poem left

by the mangroves or under the shoppingcarts a loose nightmetallurgy


even in the house the cosmos in the cosmose the house demolecularised

we’re xeroxes of carbon with our history of predation and compassion

without our history also of the grasses we’re quite mystic transportation

hubs reveal our statisticy our stasis, invariant entropy of our numbers


we’re the sheer phantoms of the landscapes and tautologic parcs where

the nothing has a place in accidental zengardens and thrown away in

fleeting gesture, detritus the zen and the detritus exprime much same

features: all changes while nothing changes and we return and leave


inPatients outPatients turbulence by Aad de Gids

poetry is getting your face back when defacialised by natural

wonder,human disaster,natural disaster,human wonder,that tight

obsessed face of youth even inmidst of the ageing games,wording

a nation back even if somewhat scrambled denationalised,modern


then the colours until the auction,indian summer as in autumn

but with a palpable tension to reach [Equity (KO,PEP) – Investopedia

– Educating the world about……

Video embedded · BREAKING DOWN ‘Equity ‘ Generally speaking, the

definition of equity can be represented with the accounting equation:

Equity = Assets – Liabilities] and after the auction,appraisal


in the cruel gray chevelle we drove off to nantucket-kyoto to-go

restaurants for an informal inspection with sampled outPatients

of the Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital Westwing on a walking,

black-tie basis and we got there ate no shrimps: these were gone


with the sensor,on the chart we searched for random Media Art

70s-2000 and there were splendid representations of molina and

ono and beuys and since it was either semihistoric as still a bit

of the “now” it was more hysterical and neopostdadaist: happy happy

windtarnished flowers overwinterlings by Aad de Gids

as time is going by one wonders if this is not the ultime

topic of poetry or art or philosophy while in daily life of

course it also is an important indicator to what we get the

intensest notice when we love someone and s/he dies. gone


time goes by and all transient and fleeting affairs hold

such poignancy when the poem searches for images and frail

examples of windtarnished flowers,the corrosion on a boulder

the,quite artsy corrosion of paint on artifacts: all in flux


picture taken off-centered showing whomever wearing Important

Shawls or flashing baubles in speedboats or yachts or in The

Concorde: outer veneer is evasive and layerdly brittle,in due

time we see the cracquelée and botoxed folds unfolded lines


a poem is also the approach of the cryptic insectoid backlit

metascript on the screen,ultrascreenism and the autonomy from

the almost unchosen words which are attracted by other words

and thus,become-world in ecologies of words: poetic possibility


also have I,due to the regularity of work and out of this an,

ingrown chronic fatigue. but do not think feeble of this it is

just ‘condition humaine’ not negative but affirmative: “what

it is”,what makes us proceed through these adversities toxic,


intricacies somehow we manage to travel along the thin contours

between disaster and follow-up nevertheless also there,there we

have not obvious demarcationlines anymore: “all is true at the

same time”,baudrillard. windtarnished flowers,overwinterlings


scalettes of poetry by Aad de Gids

if we would insert scalelettes of poetry in each day would

it lessen the burden we feel not only since nov.13nd,the Paris,

since 1981 HIV/AIDS,since tschernobyl,09/11,Fukushima,Katrina,

Andrew,all the whole prepostcatastrophic hyperscenariopermanence

if we would live these days as isles susceptable to both havoc

as unexpected,lets say meteorologic neuroadaptogenic riverrain


so we have inlets now and voluntary space,create airy chambers

which will hold plants,all this within the shellac droplets of

a gluey WWIII as it snatches subcutaneously with the wars,human

interventionisms in ecology desastrous for any alpine futurama

emptying of the seas especially to serve asian cuisines to this,

we barrier with spacy poems as much broadening,widening,trippy


these are the cosmosises we feel at home in,the osmosises we

slide along with,eventually fragmented, contoured by the iruses

of tomorrow. we’re already in the archipelagos of poetry and

stilthouses,of accidentalities of terrain vistas longing winter

initialising the bridges of southern countries in stasis a bit

outside of time. this passus was the start the day before yest


wednesday this passus after a very special poetic insertion of

my dear friend Carrie so i went on a sled to the zenzonospheres,

then yesterday i had a mood for inlets,islets,poetic susurration

inmidst of revolt,ravage,hope and despair the poetry as a kind

of “neutrum” an empty body to placate your projections,wigs,in

maldivian,junglean,uneditorialised content throw it in the poem


Life is Flamenco by Strider Marcus Jones

why can’t i walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

or play my spanish guitar

like Paco,

putting rhythms and feelings

without old ceilings

you’ve never heard

before in a word.


life is flamenco,

to come and go

high and low

fast and slow-


she loves him,

he loves her

and their shades within

caress and spur

in a ride and dance

of tempestuous romance.


outback, in Andalusian ease,

i embrace you, like melted breeze

amongst ripe olive trees-

dark and different,

all manly scent

and mind unkempt.


like i do,

Picasso knew

everything about you

when he drew

your elongated arms and legs

around me, in this perpetual bed

of emotion

and motion

for these soft geometric angles

in my finger strokes

and exhaled smokes

of rhythmic bangles

to circle colour your Celtic skin

with primitive phthalo blue

pigment in wiccan tattoo

before entering

vibrating wings

through thrumming strings

of wild lucid moments

in eternal components.


i can walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

and play my Spanish guitar

like Paco.

I’m Getting Old Now by Strider Marcus Jones

i’m getting old now-

you know,

like that tree in the yard

with those thick cracks

in its skinbark

that tell you

the surface of its lived-in secrets.

my eyes,

have sunk too inward

in sleepless sockets

to playback images

of ghosts-

so make do with words

and hear the sounds

of my years  in yourself.



riding a rusty three-wheel bike

to shelled-out houses bombed in the blitz,

then zinging home zapped in mud

to wolf down chicken soup

over lumpy mashed potato for tea-

with bare feet sticking on cold kitchen lino

i shivered watching the candle burn down

racing to finish a book i found in a bin-

before Mam showed me her empty purse

and robbed the gas meter-

the twenty shillings

stained the red formica table

like pieces of the man’s brains

splattered all over the back seat

of his rambolic limousine

as i watched history brush out her silent secrets.