Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Consequence by Rus Khomutoff

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

Photo by Victor Cobo

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

Undertow by Rus Khomutoff


Annihilating 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

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Eli T. Mond, "Pseudo-Surreality No. 1" (2018)

Eli T. Mond, "Pseudo-Surreality No. 1" (2018)

Pseudo-Surreality No. 1

HERE, there is no REVOLUTION.
HERE, the only TRUTH is RITUAL
HERE, the voice is RED ATHAME.
HERE, the only DEATH is DYING.

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

The lies hidden in the shallows by hiromi suzuki

hiromi suzuki is a poet, artist living in Tokyo, Japan.  A member of "gui" (run by members of "VOU" group of poets, founded by the late Katsue Kitasono). Author of Ms. cried, 77 poems by hiromi suzuki (kisaragi publishing, 2013 ISBN978-4-901850-42-1) and art book of visual poetry, logbook (Hesterglock Press, 2018 ISBN 978-1-9999153-1-5). Her works are published internationally in Otoliths, BlazeVOX, Empty Mirror, Experiment-O, M58, DATABLEED, Black Market Re-View, Burning House Press, h&, BRAVE NEW WORD magazine, DODGING THE RAIN, Jazz Cigarette, TAPE HISS zine, The Arsonist Magazine, MOONCHILD MAGAZINE, Parentheses Journal, Angry Old Man Magazine, Coldfront Magazine, 3:AM Magazine, Obra/Artifact, Utsanga.it magazine, Visual Verse, The Projectionist's Playground zine, NationalPoetryMonth.ca 2015 / 2017, and Poem Brut at Rich Mix London 2017, amongst other places.
Twitter : @HRMsuzuki

Saturday, October 13, 2018

Afternoon thunderstorm

Devouring the reddened sky-
Loose tangle (knotted throats)
Of feathered wind - tongue
Stuck to the screendoor.
The gnawing apart of driftwood-
Of bone (of erection)
Of salted mica shards - battered -
Lips coated in morning.
The (tumbling of) fall - listless
Saguaros, restless, pale in
The autumn light - smoldering.

Saturday, October 6, 2018

Moth Tongue

Flick - of battered salt wing.
Mouth curved open in the waning -
                                     in the waning -
This dust, gathering on palm,
Frond of bone plated moon.
Scattering of smoke - wisp -
As street lamp gorges,
       Snipping moths, tongues
Splayed like sunset.

Saturday, September 1, 2018

Augusta by Rus Khomutoff


"To search for a meaning is to bring to light a resemblance"
Michel Foucault

Like vast votive bonfires
sinister something of a somewhat
under the cloak of universals
topos running through the bloodstream
this is nothing more than a trail
sporadic shoutout
unvarnished picture of a new age
rather than displaying itself
in its murderous splendor
in the kingdom of latter days
blistering innocence forever
speedy life lodged in rules of good

Saturday, August 18, 2018

Extremities by D.C. Wojciech

Sky is Raining Coyotes by Ricky Armendariz


Through the open window coyotes

enter my skull. They pick at the mind
with their singing teeth. In an empty
room I've been smoking the same joint
since 2002. Turning sharp corners
and breathing like an animal. The plane
inside appears only after splitting
the tongue. I'm speaking to you and
the orbs & spectres circling your crown.
Pacing and weaving incense in the air.
To revere what vision cannot still.
Rings of oleander unfold my throat inside
the color of daylight. Their shadows are naked &
smuggled in from temporary deserts. Those
to follow will be lonely & full of joy. Seeds
of reckoning found in lean undulating hours.
In renounced rhythms. In the eyes. Swaying
from its center. The gleam of another world
ripens the original fix.

Saturday, August 4, 2018

'Go Tell The Bees' by Eli T. Mond

'GO TELL THE BEES' 1/3 (2018) by Eli T. Mond
'I AM DEAD ' 2/3 (2018) by Eli T. Mond
'AND FULL OF LIFE' 3/3 (2018) by Eli T. Mond

Go Tell the Bees

At the moment of my final breath,
Before a single human tear is shed,
Rush to the fields, face the wind,
And tell the bees that I am dead.
Leave a loaf of bread and a glass
Of wine on the Earth beside their hive,
And hear the buzzing mourners sing
Hymns in honor of my newfound stillness.
Hum with them as they rise and fall
With me, an empathic gesture mirroring
My descent into the bowels of oblivion.

Thursday, June 21, 2018


Summer by Frank Lobdell


Daylight strings in fissures of fear & joy

streetwalk settling
pushers pimps
cabbies thrifties
& other gone galaxies
subluxed from the source
in this concrete jungle
tumbleweed imagio
the warm blade of air
turning faces
meat in the windows
going fast and faster
so you find my ancient
in the aftermath
of dawn's chariots
one look at your domed eyes
and she disappears
—from what bus stop
bench or green plastic
fern was the oasis staggering
to greet you? I am hungry
for ink & eucalyptus. I turn
the other cheek & shadows dance.
I become adjacent & contaminated
with ecstasy.
If you must follow me,
follow g-d
all the way past 5th avenue
in rags of south & west
I will show you strange rhythms
of tears I will tell you the
mountain's eyes I will open
relic mirrors. There are voices
within every voice.
I'll let the sun
be another star. I'll
salute the black crows
twist last night's smoke
beg of the piano rain

- d.c. wojciech

Saturday, June 9, 2018

Loose gravel

The crack of road- as wind is let through,
        Hushed pebbles, sweating in
Patina heat. Mumbling of tire rut,
Of dead horse track. Under foot-
It snaps like dried husk.
My feet- trail sore - like whipped sands,
Mouthful of sky. Road made of clay-
Where grackles spit, sputter over loose feather- over cowhide
Over my sweat lifting like a mist-
As rock is smashed deeper into the earth.
-joseph delgado

Monday, May 28, 2018

'Sea of White Above Me' by Eli T. Mond

Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis - LIGHTNING - 1909

Sea of White Above Me

There is a storm above my bed.
Cumulonimbus towers bursting
From my head like temples
To spirits of a pagan persuasion;
Full of bubbling silhouettes,
Nebulous in their frames,
But certain of the power in their names.
They strike from on Abysmal High
And lightning carves a thousand scars
Into my viscid skin.
Scars that twist and turn to eyes
And peer with the lust of hunting raptors—
Demons of the Earth, now taken to the sky.

Sunday, May 20, 2018

To Hope by John Keats

When by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country's honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed---
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head! 

- John Keats, 1815.


How the voice bends
were we not born
to love & die
easily as a desert
opens palms,
the contour of sorrow
faded into peaks
of cheek bone & empty
bus stops of the mind

ribbed moonlight etching
alley ways across these hours

(a candle crawling the wall
or vestige of benediction,
a trembling synapse
tying together
midnight winds)