(revised) automatic by Kevin Reid

the sun breathes and the wind  turns into static voices
as I listen to crickets tick a thousand whispers unspoken
I miss the mystery of catching a breath from the mountains
somewhere days cry on a violin and flowers burn
brazen screams squirt seeping stains through my silence
a chasm coloured with bruises clouds the coloured ripples after today’s life
ignorance wastes before the beautiful rain and fresh grass blades smile
as the sky’s eyes drip dreams filled high on wasted time
silence slowly beats into sound and shakes the flag of burning time
turn the page to a numbered sign and cut the wasting ground
reports of lunar friends alone in visions of the universe thinking astray
the taste of bloodless feelings choose routes of that stranger empathy
echoes lift tempos as sleep returns to the secrets drawn in the stars
the night’s side leaves no room to wallow with the devil’s fear
sleep with the lost of the found before I remember the road to travel back
look to your stronger pain and spell out the kill in tomorrow
forgive me as I speak words of  foiled bubbles
carry the world’s gun if you want to hide celluloid drugs in the eyes of people
stand round the corner and lift the head in heaven’s face
laugh the slipping body away from fear because together in dice we die
in a storm time slips into one and hide’s life behind closed eyes
the heart’s piano bleeds lonely drifting ghosts awake
to leave the weight of grief standing alone about the street of my bones
where the rain soaks my resistance far into the earth’s carnival echoes wander without a voice
selling land to the world we fail the narrow rumour of success
sonic jism waves bye bye and drags a mad laugh through my mind
in the daytime a thin town stays underground where the far gone fly and scream me
stay on the horizon of someone’s brain and spit libido free from torture
after all thoughts hold onto nothing older than marching time
I count death tidily smash and plant instinct till it shines blue
a dream held my hand and talked to me of freedom scrubbed in sonic soap
polished with white noise a dead surprise shines in the eyes of a shaken nomad
a strange death where perfect men in perfect uniforms perform their madness
the celebration of the sun teaches us of confused liberty and the science of compliance
in a freakshow tender trumpets blow bubbles at clowns that don’t have painted smiles
space arrives in a glass case displaying pregnant answers to the eye
a stuttering escape from lunacy sells reason short of sense
leaving a sweet face knowing what sing to the golden gape of light.


marat, etc. by Fran Lock

to admire only the razor’s solicitous dexterity, here in the half-light
cast by the loving of you. unswervable blessing, this love, this timid
word i rip along its scalloped edges. i’ll observe a rare and crouching
grace for you. old woman, rendered squat with prayer. and cover all
opinionated instruments, their glow agrees a milky grief that trails
its sleeves through snow. i’ve no use for numbers now. the clock is
diagnosing midnight, loudly in the hall. this clouds the issue so, when
here you come! full of fledgling suddenness. the gulls arrive en masse.
measure of feather against your ghost. pillow, you puzzle sleep. dream,
my utmost undesire. to admire your wrist, wrapped in its own retreat.
your hair, our tamest gold. and how your eye is winkled into radiance,
so wet and black and sly. i have leaned into the loving of you. i learnt
the names, committed your strict meat to memory. luxurious carnivore,
my least pronounceable animal. the grist and shuck and treyf of you.
your red specifics. squeamish, obedient teacup bone. the baffled curl,
the circuit short. i leaned into this learning, and the wrecked blade
ran aground. little ship. storm glut, your ribs are driftwood. first of
all my dead, marred and stretched, and here at your hungering limits,
kissed. morning makes its broken approach, dragging itself by
the fingernails. beatific pesticide, this light, this shrunk and fluttering
holiness. to admire the stricken, the ricochet, the warped hormonal
loom of you, and the mouth downcast, the pen in a lax hand, pretender
to the blank page. where nothing is written. you’ve written nothing.

four poems from Mattered By Tangents by Tim Allen


couldn’t even see white
instantaneous thesaurus of every conversation
couldn’t even see black
without us to watch it the universe would return no favours

grab switches then brag switching dials then
health spa witch trials
up ‘til late waiting for the fire to go out
up ‘til morning for the black market to open

suburban constellation in daylight robbery
screaming landscape clings to its canvas
progressive album cut into obsidian has its issues
Michaux’s cloud flies of algebraic stagecraft



trope protean quagmire spectral fat
curiosities without content come in swarms
engorged captions swim with spermatozoa
enraged innocents shrink from sham enragés

white lace encased in black ice feeds living slippers
nymph too prettily hard tries being a guinea pig
clichéd truths replaces some predictable lies
contradictory advice slicks lemon

informal Doric reforms shadow in earthquake zone
Apollinaire picks up the Virgin for a spin
ticket tout adventurer has the face of a trout
refuelling the bicycle with Lourdes water



rendezvous revenge
smashed gravestone guile derails helix
translator lands for sure on a far shore
organ gulps its cathedral’s forged signature gaffs

blood slaps ruined sunset walls
red rain pisses down from a black sky
creaking swing in rose bower throws in a breeze
so cool having lessons in the warm outdoors

art without a sound smell or image
art contextually fixed like data on picnics
broken record in the throes of a cancelled happy hour
bard stays behind for the lisping workshop



perfect fable fits effigy
reality: a collision of rival dictionaries
fairy pin adapter demands a meeting with its maker
can everybody tell me where anyone is?

hairdryer hands itself in to a particle troll
always very shy when starting a new job
what happened then did something happen?
controlled disinterest tenses up the article factory

literature finds many uses for fool’s gold
turn the heavy metal down to a polite hiss
yes the reserve remote works like a tapeworm
the little corporal hung himself in the watchtower toilet

to the Glen found by Aad de Gids

‘Aural Holograms’ often the title still adds to the strength of the music
taken in as also the ‘holograms’ seem to be the isles in the monotonous music
of hissing, swelling sound, as if a singular body of sound creeps up in the
outside night, with this solid suddenness accompaniment to the Glenn found
if it is phantasy which forms essential part of the ‘curated poem’ well there
is plenty around; perhaps it is the topic now causing caustic trouble what with
the world surrounding us is perhaps paradigmatic for journalism as anathema
for poetry the howl of a beat and gratuiteness of flarf as obsolete as striking
‘complexisized’ time made unironic the most arresting events as inescapable
waves of a timeless ocean of supercontinent (now in electronic interconnected
parts) (neopostpangaea) of land and sea: environments hovering through our
subconsciousness as also very urbane and desertified surfacial hyperevents
guerilla is the new black the unsolvability of complex conflicts nevertheless
forms a path to which we are seasoned now but nowhere blasé unless one sits
on presidential throne the toddlers laTrumpe and KimJongUn their communal
Kindergarten Russia, China probably Europe and the US too: a new uneven

What Is Prim-i-tive [/’primǝdiv/]? by Clara B. Jones



Prim-i-tive [/’primǝdiv/]?


Roger Reeves PLASTIC ART C.M. Burroughs Lele Saveri !Kung
Baudrillard Zora Neal Hurston ANTI-AESTHETIC Wari Kahlil Joseph
LGBTQI Reginald Dwayne Betts Harryette Mullen Frederick O. Waage* Masai
Francine J. Harris Kongo Wangechi Mutu Terrance Hayes POETRY
Neanderthal GENDER Sara Cwynar Cuña Morgan Parker
Hegel Picasso Gottfried Benn Klee Yanomami
Rosalind Krauss Bribri BAUHAUS Mira Dancy POSTMODERN
Phillip Williams Karen Kilimnik Fore CLASS Jamal May
Sol LeWitt Gauguin RACE Yagua Darja Bajacic
Craig Owens Lévi-Strauss Selk’nam Nikki Giovanni Harry Burke


*Waage FO (1967) Prehistoric Art. W.C. Brown Co. Pub., Dubuque, Iowa.


Clara B. Jones practices poetry in Silver Spring, MD (USA). As a woman of color, she writes about identity, culture, & society and conducts research on experimental poetry, as well as, radical publishing. She is author of three chapbooks and one volume, and her poetry, reviews, essays, and interviews have appeared or are forthcoming in various venues.

4 poems inspired by Ric Carfagna by Rus Khomutoff


Vintage ghosts of
joy and sadness
a saccharine statement
the highest expression of the autopoetic force
the incarnation and withdrawal of a God
declaration of hither swarms
accretion of the torrential becoming
instances emancipated from
all anxieties and frustrations
in the anagogic phase
made dizzy by the hybris
a regular pulsating
metre of recurrence



This is not a method

O blacklist of preeminence
louder than life itself
countdown sequence
of aired mysterious booms
natural coction
the shadow of a shadow of an
obtainable new order
to bathe in the splendor
of lathe and labyrinth
as momentum grows
that bold and legitimate certainty
of endlessly repeating variations
and recollections that
erect their desire to exist
like a new sensation
articulating lifelong repeal



In this mode and vague notion
of a stay in your placeism
event horizon
a derangement of senses
dragging the echo
from the culvert
from the book of common prayer
eschewing the copula
almost like the pace of a dream
ordered fragments of a
disordered devotion
a space we can enter
the bareness of time’s passing




 An ebony reticence
a luminous maiden
in pure elemental blindness
an effacing plasticized sky
a steel wise lament
written  without meaning

-Ric Carfagna


To open the question
to wrest things from their condition
the nothingness of selfsame me
from mortification to titillation
in the realm of means
one can exalt the ruses of desire
this unknowing…
ravishing the cinema of lost stillness
this soul of breathtaking mendacity
a cacophony of tangibles
mere wisp of an untethered soul


My name is Rus Khomutoff and I am a neo surrealist language poet based in Brooklyn,NY. My poetry has appeared in Erbacce, Poethead, Occulum, X-Peri and Former People Journal. Last year I published my debut ebook Immaculate Days. I am on twitter @rusdaboss

Glasses by Russell Gordon

can’t stand wearing glasses.

locked eyes with you

so securely fastened, rustproof

but it’s the glass that meets your gaze

as does light, wind or dust—I pass through.

a glass roof and ceiling, sealing from the elements

all-seeing eye

of a storm

a distance afar apart away a way around long ago

ignore the past a doorway.

adore the present you threw me into when you

cut me in two after you crawled through the whole and you

made me a spectacle

made me some spectacles

fashionably fashioned from some old bones you

found at a zoo.

I crawl through, shuddering, drawing the shutters

soundproof windows to the soul



stand tall and bare faced

a flood of ichor in the veins



so cold and mortal… no more



a trapeze in a glass house’s ceiling

gasping for empty tear-sacs in vain

the trap is the apple the core behind my eye my socket


seeing eye,


in my pocket

reach to throw it all away

can’t reach

can’t even reach the seventh day

the seventh son

my seventh one named Babylon,

my one-night stand with Heaven

my love, my

circular circus.

can’t stand it, wearing glasses.