Kohl Shadows Black Medlars
fastidious rosewater pink mache misted
a cobra petal inferred of grapebloom.
Dark Souls go to Osiris distant psychic
white sea-friend verdigris-luminescent
the old adroit ears rising of golden dog
in dusk with beasts in kohl shadows leading
the secret lucky blessed knave
black medlars opening purple in brooding
old road.in troubled sunlight ancient white
sealing here the river stone the silver meadow
instructions
you have to press yourself to the warm electrodes
let your torso be enveloped in something like the sea or blood
and the voices will inhabit you
in an operation unlike any poetry you have ever heard
there is a small risk of drowning
they will sit behind screens impassive unblinking
perhaps indicating state of mind
by jabbing the dark glass
Sounds ; it, ale , ill, Deep, d-3p. j. the fea, folemn part
in a great degree
to darken Deéply, Deep, ad in a high degree, forrowfully / the Cold
felt on collect- ing even warm Air with a Fan, or in
a ptinted flieet to fzt a fla” upon., to frnijh / the
bringing fore the fire. / as its beauti. fire fl:lir~bl”;7.in,.!
Pain rests within me like toxic algal bloom in the wine-dark sea. It courses through my body fleshing out the contours of a poetic impulse akin to renaturation, it screams in color—it screams in Homer’s presumed absence of blue. On some nights, it resurfaces the mind-body problem and reshapes it into a pseudo-debate before my eyes, into something that in its strive to go beyond experience, beyond the place where reason and intellect reside, erases itself in chaotic movement. In the midst of a flare-up, the mind-body dualism mutates into an illusion—illness both becomes and expunges the hyphen. And henceforth, it would seem that the ontological problem of hurting and aching and throbbing gains a curious and rather tragic destiny as well: that of being able to exist and be established solely at the cost of illusions, at the cost of reason’s chimeras. That of being unable to possess clarity except by analyzing its own decomposition, by disintegrating and dissipating its own chimeras, and thus obliterating all fantasies. Vertical like a pendulum’s rod, I let myself be worked on by death.[1] Pain possesses and abandons my body at will. Before my eyes, philosophical creation becomes neuropathically synonymous with the confusion of the patient.
Continue reading “PATHOGENESIS by Christina Tudor-Sideri”
The following composition was inspired by the singular amulet included in this video/cover art and has survived since the seventeenth century. When Damien first came across an image of this amulet, he was transfixed by its story and beauty and knew that he had to find some way of making a ‘story’ about it. Damien hopes that it reflects his love for his Jewish and Daoist philosophy, Eastern and Western merged together. Rain, lakes, waterfalls, submerge into chaotic noise, along with the modern world of tornado sirens, childhood memories on the television, and typing essays before midnight during a rainstorm. The piece can go on as a loop, just as the amulet does so in of itself. We step into the forest to escape the modern word or record its beauty, so we don’t forget it when we’re back in our shell of a capitalistic hellhole. We put one foot back into the home and are submerged with technology, chores, activities, daily prayers, etc. Then there is both, the middle, the none. Somewhere among the noise, we hope that this piece, like a Talisman, gives you a glimmer of that mirror.
Continue reading “A Talisman for the Rivers of Eden By Zke”
Tarot in Pandemic – 28 March 2020
Sustain me today, Tarot, with
your Ace of Cups.
To raise me out of the murky depths,
she sent me a dove,
and a chalice.
She held me, as one does the wind,
futilely.
Continue reading “Tarot in Pandemic, a series of poems by Joseph Ellison Brockway”
Small, childish hands of a small, childish body. And its childish legs stood on the ledge of a grey, concrete obelisk. Big, adult clothing was hung around and hugged its body. Slithered its hands and small, childish fingers out of the long, snake-like sleeve with two needles. Threw one over the ledge and punctured the young meat of its finger with the other. In from one and out from the other end. Sew the fabric of reality into itself.
It inhaled the measured, sonic existence of the concrete forest. After its hand came out when it reached into its pocket, the weird, long, white, plastic strand of earphones was hanging from its fingers and small, cute nails.
Continue reading “OUTSIDE WORLD – A Multimedia Art Project by Noise Weaver”
Museum of Impending Death
1
Trying to focus on what feels meaningful to me in this moment.
Trying not to let my own thoughts reside inside nothing but impending death.
Trying not to let my own thoughts reside inside this giant nihilistic
ever expanding sky filled with rising numbers of dead stars.
Brimming with stark contrasts, alternating currents
between freaked out, productive, freaked out,
creative, wondering if I’m going to die from this.
If I’m going to melt down inside this ongoing vortex.
Thousands of broken wings get sucked into numbers,
spiral down, crack into the ground, vanish.
Thunder in the sky sounds like gurgling blood,
getting closer until I shake and cover my ears.
Trying to place my own impending death inside another poem
filled with words instead of numbers. Cerulean blue instead of red.
Continue reading “Three Poems by Juliet Cook”
For we cannot define everything & must begin somewhere. The atoms whirl about, a picture forms. A hole that is no longer bottomless, contemplation of which, carrying the first sky, falling(mouthless)upon the first watcher…
Continue reading “VAMPYR by Louis Armand – an excerpt from a novel-in-progress”
Nipple in My Granny’s Ear
I tried to make a sandwich
On my sleeping granny’s head
She woke up
toothless still
and nibbled the bread instead
th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-
There there there there there there there here on in the wall Onan’s masturbating guiltily again she’s all blacked out out out and up in the clouds cold closing moon’s in the sky I say to her why couldn’t she stay a little longer there’s something in the walls
rrrrrrunning rune ropes thick around the body tight and heavy a storm coming crack open the sky and wait for the apocalypse yes it is coming haven’t you heard and I already made my graving restplace
here now here now here now here now hear me i’m there paralytic and fucked in the basement as the light cracks through schizophrenic mother always told me id end up funny down this path yes and no knowing id believed her at some point going going going gone
Continue reading “PHOTOGRAPH OF A WOMAN IN PAIN by Caela Price”
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 