Mike Foldes

Counting

Counting, counting, always counting.

12 steps down to the cool cellar

Almost without thinking, realizing

Only at the end ten, eleven, twelve.

How many steps from the kitchen sink

To the kitchen door, from the kitchen door

To the curb where the car sits parked,

Ready and waiting to go, go, go,

A tenth of a mile at a clip, mile

After mile, all 297,000, and then some.

A mathematical world populated

With geometric forms, odd shapes

As if generated at random, but

Logical as logical is said to be.

We moveable icons pass among

One another, relatively speaking

Without mishap; is it because

We are clusters of energy

Of alternate polarities designed

To steer clear of foreign objects?

Which is the true form, “forest

Or field”? To whom do we owe

This debt of gratitude, this

Formulation that carries us

From day to day, here to there,

Step by step, cautiously seeking

To discover what’s next, even

While it’s before our own eyes?
What fractal equation forces us together,

Woman and man, woman and woman,

Man and man? What fractal

Tears us apart, arm, leg, head,

In matters of war. And peace?

Does each generation ponder

On its pathway to the grave

Whether changing a zero to one

Or one to zero, two to three

Or ten to ten thousand, whether

The numbers add up to anything

More than an accumulation

Of laughter or sorrow? Do we

Manage our futures, or does

Despair manage us? What

Is the geometry of innocence?

How many or few the steps

We take to understanding?

The nebulous, the certain,

Cautious and caring, a triangle

Or parallelogram, particles

That exist, or only appear to exist

Because we cannot see or feel

Or detect them, but know their presence

By established theories of influence,

By shadows cast in moonlight

By the casual way we tie our shoes,

the way we count our blessings

cast our nets, spin our webs.


A piece of you

I want a piece of you.

Yes, I really do.

Just a small part,

A corner of your palette

Dust from the floor

Beneath the table

Where you polish

The incandescent metals

Of your ancient trade.

I want a piece of you

To hang on the wall,

Place on a glass shelf

In a curio cabinet

Where the curious

Will gather to look

And see what

We’ve been doing

All these years.

I want a piece of you

I can take to the bank,

That I can dive into

Like a frog into a murky pond,

That I can caress, kiss

And save as a token

Of our mutual respect,

Being that we came

Such a long way to get here

And the crossing

Was so quick.

Ask me for a poem, then,

In exchange for the look,

And a taste of magnesium

On steel on my tongue,

A flavor not unlike that

I imagine you have on yours

At the end of days.

Magically it will appear –

Calibrated lines

Rising and falling

On the skin of my back.



Mike Foldes is a sales engineer specializing in medical displays. A graduate of The Ohio State University in anthropology, he has edited and published magazines, poetry anthologies, chapbooks, alternate newspapers, technical publications, and was a newspaper editor and columnist. He is founder of the online magazine Ragazine.CC, author of Sleeping Dogs: A true story of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping …” and Sandy: Chronicles of a Superstorm, a volume of poetry and images in collaboration with artist Christie Devereaux. His articles, editorials, poems and stories have appeared in translation into Romanian, Hungarian, French and Spanish. e-mail: editor@ragazine.cc.

Maria Gergoula, Ian Whitfield



A Critique of Water

Georgoula Whitfield | A Critique of Water

A Tunnel and_or a Bridge

Georgoula Whitfield | A Tunnel and_or a Bridge

Dignity Contained in Tents

Georgoula Whitfield | Dignity Contained in Tents

Habit & Form

Georgoula Whitfield | Habit & Form

Sync

Georgoula Whitfield | Sync



Maria Georgoula’s practice explores notions around apathy and the banal through sculptural works that merge soft form with objects extracted from diverse contexts such as garden and DIY centres in the UK, early surrealist writings and decorative traditions. For a number of years Georgoula has also run the Nauru Project, an online collaborative project on the smallest island nation in the world. Selected solo and group exhibitions include Tinos Quarry Platform, Tinos, Greece; Embassy Gallery, Edinburgh; Daily Lazy Projects, Athens; Eleftheria Tseliou Gallery, Athens; The Showroom, London; Bloc Projects, Sheffield; Rogue Artists’ Studios Project Space, Manchester; Open Eye Gallery, Liverpool; Circuits & Currents, Athens; New Court Gallery, Derbyshire; The Institute of Greek Contemporary Art, Athens and ReMap KM, Athens. Georgoula lectures at Nottingham Trent University and lives and works in the Midlands, UK and Athens, Greece.


Ian Whitfield lives and works in Derbyshire and studied Fine Art at Goldsmiths, English and European Literature and Art History at the University of Essex and Painting at the Royal College of Art. His work involves painting, drawing and writing. He has exhibited at the Drawing Room, Large Glass, Josh Lilley Gallery and the Blyth Gallery in London, Rogue Studios in Manchester, New Court Gallery in Derby, the Wirksworth Festival and in God and Sausages in Athens. His residencies include Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris and the RCA Mann Painting Travel Scholarship. His research topics have been Narrative Perception in Painting and The Uses of the Invisible. Other recent writing includes literary reviews for Art Review Magazine, a prose piece for a James Wright catalogue called The Garden Behind, a long poem Our Minds are Normal for the exhibition Gorilla Split by Maria Georgoula and a pamphlet of poems called The Architect (2017). He has been a visiting Lecturer at Derby University, Leeds College of Art and Design and Manchester Metropolitan University and is currently completing a collection of stories called Fake Blues.

Sara Matson

savoy corpse reviver | blanc de noirs | sundowner


Sara Matson has her MA in Literature from Northeastern Illinois University. She shares her Chicago apartment with her amazing husband and their three young boys, who all happen to be cats. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in Burning House Press, Occulum, Dream Pop Press, Snapdragon Journal, Waxing and Waning, her mother’s refrigerator, and elsewhere. Sara Matson self-published her first chapbook, corporeal sin in 2014, and her second chapbook, electric grandma is forthcoming in 2018. She tweets as @skeletorwrites.

Lou Sarabadzic

To the happy few

Languages, like immigrants,
must be carefully chosen.
Then and only then
is it decent bilingualism.

Otherwise we call it
they-came-here-for-our-economy
how-are-their-children-going-to-cope
why-can’t-they-learn-our-language.

Moi aussi je parle un petit peu de français.

Escaping war or conflict
is no proper way to linguistic skills.
Nor is coming from former colonies.
‘So… you speak African?’

Bilingualism is this dream wedding
performed in a fine white dress.
It’s the immaculate story
a passionate you tells smiling guests.

Je l’ai appris à l’école.

In the UK they exulted.
Princess Charlotte is already bilingual.
Aw that’s so cute but what about
the cuteness of Punjabi? I asked myself.

My young neighbour is trilingual
and I didn’t see
rushing to the area
any national news agency.

Je m’épelle John, je vis à Londres.

Sometimes, unlike him, they call me ‘expat.’
If I say ‘immigrant’, they laugh: ‘I don’t see
you
as an immigrant!’

It’s basic European maths.
You’re not twice as diverse,
congratulations,
but twice as dominant.

Alouette, gentille alouette, alouette je te plumerai.

Language is power.
As former Empires we form an alliance.
Alliance means wedding ring
and I said no. But they carried on anyway.

Translation matters

They say learning French is so hard. How can a chair be female? How come there be no neutral?
They never seem to notice how hard it is for us too. Learning English, meeting them there. It’s not about grammar. Imagine having to deny existence to all the spirits of your home. Imagine unlearning life. Suddenly, a chair isn’t she anymore. She’s it. The violence of it.
Everything dies as we speak, and we watch it all turn into soulless surfaces. We bury them with our words, we hold them close, inert and loved, in silent shrouds.

Don’t say we turn them into stones.

Stones are alive, like goddesses.

Poems on two languages for the use of those in the middle

Global warming
Four is the hottest of numbers.
Sixteen the hardest to seize.


How to say ‘break a leg’ in French
‘Oh, shit!’


The right order
To lounge = to sit in a chaise longue.


Inside Out
If in French, I say: ‘bring me a casserole’, I’m not only rude, but I’m about to cook something.
If in English I say: ‘bring me a casserole’, I’m not only rude, I expect you to have already cooked for me.


A scene at the restaurant
Rare meat?! Yes, indeed. I’ve never seen one in England so far. They say it’s health and safety regulations, something to do with temperature. As always they blame it on the weather

An essay about cultural differences

In France, airport books
are sold in train stations.
          [Romans de gare]
You’d think it’s just about location.
That’s because it is. I just said it.
Also because in French a house of cards
becomes a castle.
          [And we say the British are the monarchist ones]
Anyway, it’s all about places: instead of pouring one last drop in a vase,
in English you put the last straw on a camel’s back.
&    nbsp;     [Notice how evocative the desert]
Now, if you think you only need to master one language
to know where you are,
of course you’re wrong.
          [That’s the privilege of the poet. I get to decide until language shuts me up.]
Take art, for instance.
In French, I was told that Marcel Duchamp faisait des ready-made.
You can imagine my confusion when I was told in England that he made objets trouvés.
          [Couldn’t we just stick to one of these?]
Modern artists, they like to make things complicated.
Linguists didn’t want to be left behind.
They came up with a theory:
if you can master two languages,
then you’re allowed to speak your own.

It’s important to bear in mind, however,
that although it gives you that air of proud arrogance
and free cocktails at exhibition openings,
bilingualism can sometimes lead to quite a few disappointments.
For instance in France, décolletage is hard work in a factory.
It describes the mass-production of metal parts enabling any revolution.
In England, it means: any human décolleté.
          [For an exploration of the link between women’s bodies, neckline, and revolution, see
          Marianne – but otherwise, you’ll agree that this is somewhat misleading]

Fear not about equality.
Deception in men is also quite tangible.
See, groin in France a pig makes.
          

[that’s its nose]

In England groin makes the man.
[redacted]
The Northern you go, the more below the belt.
The Southern you go, the more into the farm.      [Yes it is all about places]

WOMEN, n. [who mène]

Almost like men
but with
one more syllable.
Wo-men.

If not half the men, then,
men almost doubled?
Fe-mme and Ho-mme
evoke another family.
– Mme
that’s what we are.

Mme means Mrs.
I knew all men were women
but they don’t
realise it (yet).


Lou Sarabadzic is French and live in the UK. She has published two books in French: a novel, La Vie Verticale, in 2016, and a poetry collection, Ensemble, in 2017. She also writes in English and have had poems published in Gutter and Morphrog. She has received in January 2018 the Dot Award for Digital Literature for the #NerdsProject: https://nerdsproject.com/. She is a member of Room 204, Writing West Midlands’ writer development program. She also has two French/English bilingual blogs focusing on narrative non-fiction: https://predictedprose.com/ on OCD and mental health, and https://telpere.com/ on a father-daughter relationship.

Ζωή Σκλέπα . Zoe Sklepa

ΤΟ CLUB ΤΩΝ ΚΥΜΜΑΤΩΝ . CLUB OF THE WAVES



2 | Zoe Sklepa | CLUB OF THE WAVES

Silence suits me You are like me I can come close to you without my feet A balmy Polynesia comes through me A yellow lit shore The hair is tangled and the eyes glow Electrified atmosphere He just appears Faded steps are devoted to and then lost in the narrow streets Turning back to the bottom, like an old debt Getting dark, dull song You will leave tomorrow I will sleep at your feet, like a multipling star Into living water I unloaded my old self The world is simple I kept your pulse for a moment Among the things that surround us Musical rhythm A verification of dizziness I feel a cool breeze bent over my desk, over maps.

Η ησυχία μου ταιριάζει Είσαι κι εσύ σαν και μένα Μπορώ να έρθω κοντά σου χωρίς τα πόδια μου Σαν βάλσαμο με διαπερνά μια Πολυνησία Μια κίτρινη φωτεινή ακτή Τα μαλλιά είναι αχτένιστα και τα μάτια γυαλίζουν Ηλεκτρισμένη ατμόσφαιρα Αυτός μόλις που φαίνεται Βήματα σβησμένα που αφιερώνονται και ύστερα χάνονται σε στενούς δρόμους Γυρνώντας πάλι στο βυθό, σαν παλιό χρέος Σκοτεινιάζει, θολό τραγούδι Αύριο θα φύγεις Θα κοιμηθώ στα πόδια σου σαν αστέρι που αναπαράγεται Σε ζωντανό νερό ξεφορτώθηκα τον παλιό εαυτό μου Ο κόσμος είναι απλός Κράτησα το σφυγμό σου μια στιγμή Ανάμεσα στα πράγματα που μας τριγύριζαν Ρυθμός μουσικής Επαλήθευση παραζάλης Νιώθω δροσιά σκυφτή πάνω στο γραφείο μου, πάνω σε χάρτες.



Ζoe Sklepa is a visual artist. http://zoesklepa.blogspot.com/

Tom Snarsky

Principle of Sufficient Reason

The arc of the surgeon’s arm
as she lifts the skin from your
left buttcheek and reinstalls
the strip over yr burned area,
good as new like a commodity
only it went from on you to on
you rather than from without
to consumed. If you assume
the ark has enough room for all
forms of life then perhaps you
think there’ll be a lot of empty
rooms, seeing as the undersea
fauna have no need to come
on a boat and even less need
to be led there by humans.
So you can sit in the vacant
chamber reserved for two blue
whales and nurse your newly-
dressed wound in front of the
green background you thought
would look so good against
their huge, majestic bodies.
You can stay there and scroll
through pictures of them
on yr phone for hours, failing
to notice that you haven’t felt
the itching in the affected area
since your back slid down the
green boards and your first set
of search results came through.



Tom Snarsky teaches mathematics at Malden High School in Malden, Massachusetts, USA.

Adam Strauss

Two Times Four, Or: Eight States Of One Sentence

Suspiciously like snow Falling failing dead bodies lit blue From under inside kith insidious coil Promises no more tall malaria Frames lintel I inter my self Along its casuistry circuit cold glow Gorges calla leaves me lily leavens or Plash the lash the ash the Tree honors eviction itinerant Oath oats edge pond mallow fences Some pearl we tongue on parole Did it won died it thrice Spied lit sped light Deadened only out loud Speakers spackle clear Cuts and cutlass bouts Like cold fronts quiet Or I am on diet of blood Wort torque ordered From ere before here Ever verified its turn Thus I unto I stare down burn But love unclipped quicker There fur sheds that we can’t Keep budget-torn limbs warm in gut intra Mural ardent mirror limbic distills Noxious looms this louvers his warped wind- Eye along starlit lengthy burr Drops clarity unto clear beer Vienna Tropes Eau Claire subtropical snow breathed On like ontologies gyroscopic fall laughing Gas assigns mother her lode hirsute boredom Called him by his crappy foot loves pyre Rips rot rudders gut tug o’ tag officiates slow Justice some slick soma morose static we Cancel keep cooler than collar that one Times one timothy too did peer dialed pear ill Root Taurus simmers Me down eider town On which I conch On which I wrack Like bladder lick sea- Soaked rags fish flash Then freeze, fossils could Not tell more adroitly To you, ruin under Ruined yew, tree for Rooting out Poison, silver Seam I drink neat, Nettle for chaser Chased why blued where Scared me some fresher fresh air Freshened weir yes water yes weird Staked to and through dialed bone Bandied tone for plus here pick Out and outer banks serried Ranks ankh wild she pickles Stems mastic sunny lactation On call only one wonder Full fathoms live stream Reels lyric quanta fords Parched marrow arched tectonic Ate slow return breath Wreaths briar reef culls glow Throws shade, shares Allotment of Shadow we recall, Calligraphic fecal Matter tame repeals Then throws Up pearl, irritant makes Possible rappel and Please, please, give Me some knots, bumps Laced through with Quartz; look! Each foot of Descent glows, slows Sense to utmost savor Left felt fled flitch borders blue Asphyxiation nitpicky oxygen mouth stuffed Full o’ fulsome cotton yes wretch When you venue seeds ceded Watch awe sums tousles Error in its air entre regency regnancy With blood for lips pissy appellate prone To sluice slice licentious fact checks Veracity at door revolves internment diaphanous Lobe bellows Ebola below zero regrets Ice exactly translates sun targets Language for shadows lashes we Call eyes ipecac for nerves fur foment dregs Plush ampule lush ply sheer pale leashes pallid Took bones, clacked Them together like some Hailing, proscenium Stages weather and why Dozes through, plucks bright Berry dozens Zen feeds Back unto some lariat, milk Teeth channel, vector corvids ride Like ponies crop my nape, hiss nepenthe Pants bright star, wood eroded, asp as Thou art, kernel Daemonic ken plants in cochlea Cannot tell sentence, stop Nor go farther than now.


Bouquet For The Unveiling

With my pachyderm and paunch perm I turn and burn. I under. Estimate. My esteem rates no concern. My shadow thinks. Sphincter (t)wink(le)s. Sonata for wire. Albumen for flyer. With mutation and elation I burrow. Brook ligament. Book secret agents onto expired talk-shows. When hunger strikes, puke it out. Kenosis got it but Kryptonite dropped it. Super flew. I spelled you and you spelled hell. We passed each other up, upended oceans like freeze frames motion. Body blessed. Bawdy confessed its love for jack. Lantern at lectern. Tantrum piped into room no anthem squeaks through.

If you catch it: marriage. Aggressively marine, restively aqua. Corp de ballet, knives for tights. Look at them flash. Look at him fuck! Fuck him and his decrepit senses. Fuck me and my ableist slur. Fuck us fist us pull us by our pits and set them lit. It ain’t romantic, nor frantic. All this grotesquerie occurs with precision. Undergoes purling revision. Otherwise known as toned down to death. Bud wiser in its theory of breath. Molson, Olson, nictitating current. I rough love. Love rubs me unto heehaw. Hawk breaks my wrist and crying I am most poet mostly awful sight you don’t need but needlessly seeds garden your carriage comes crashing, aching all over this math after nightmares in attics.


Syntax

I pulled he taffy laughy made day broke
Its promise

Broke clay piney drip
Sheens shattered whorls

No sibilance can mend man can indeed
Say I have

Broken law men made
Of piss and silk and glass.


Some Shade

All that water
Shocked, awed her
Unto some cleft
Where colors bereft
Their vitiating hots
Know future rainbow shods
Tint’s tippy toes
Like silk flows
Its couture around her arms
Stock-still and alarms
That woman who loves
Chestnuts, their honey glazes doves
Shot out tinsel trees
Wave as we wave adieux sea’s breeze.


No More Hard Sky

I parked at that dot, danced polka
To punk rock crossed with calypso
While clouds learned they can sew
Blankets to keep sun comfy: volta
Where thermals court, scold schwa
For interrupting sonic juice, and no
Birds pledged fealty heavy glow
Melts gem stems my brain—goes duh.

After said amnesia, car wouldn’t start.
I recited postmodern canons, but
Reed nor Ashbery abutted this rut.
Snow fell its future preterit, like heart
Limns Linzer slops out crust, or bud
Sets lymph styptic—collapses blood.



Adam Strauss lives in Hattiesburg, Mississippi.  Most recently, he has poems out in Yes Poetry, Fence, and The Arsonist Magazine.

Dimitris Foutris

Political Hawkgirl, October 15th


As soon as you offer your PC
offer your badge before demanding.
No remorse with development services.
And not clear.
Didn’t elaborate jealous causes on December 2nd of ’51.

If there is no discipline on his neck… One of yours is going down to number 1.
Bones bones bones, economical stomach, getting the most of it is another story.

We don’t do cash my brother. It is a nasty little thing delivered right here in the bombing of my life, in the midst of the season that’ll be good only at the last minute…

(Slippery problem with logistical boundaries)

it would be awesome in bed universities
when she followed a couple of other fields. they are a whole mess.
I travel and will probably meet little meadows
in my dreams.

Thank you for your understanding of subversive kindle.

Ondo releases men to come to Superwoman Nafsika that are really tainted horizontals
that call the name of Hewson, in particular (this is tremendously helpful in: no machine called Rosie Olsen).

If the baby is due to the baby, it is important that Pekingese existing universally and are available for disassembling mesothelioma intricacy ideas, into government ideas as you have oblivious (become absorbed) of the political Hawkgirl.

A couple of the military division, decided that the men should be significantly out of that phase.
In this humongous exodus of that situation.
He is about to tell you what everyone is… If the employees revealed it while I was there,
then anybody hopes that all the members are misleading you.
00 videos of her mother presents a similar way.

They have travelled here in the sum of the traffic and it’s madness.

He saw the accident of my phone raising up an issue based on your idea.
If they didn’t, that would be a subliminal stimuli that must develop in sufficient ways.

The medicine of her mother is a matter that you got me up that night.
At the same time only having them around was just the beginning to know
that there was a cup at the Estima engineers that the developers can download it
and say anything to anybody of those enemies of mine and get rid of my camera.

(We Must…)

If they did send you another mock up of an animal from the Political Guns Network
then she wanted to send another e-mail to the couple to tell them not to look
towards the end if they do not want to be productive.



Dimitris Foutris is a visual artist working with various media ranging from Installations, Painting, Drawing, Sculpture, Video, Poetry and Sound works.
Born in Athens 1972. He studied Fine Arts at the Aristotelean University Of Thessaloniki. He studied Painting in Postgraduate level (Master In Fine Arts) at The University Of East London (UEL) where he also obtained his Professional Doctorate in Fine Arts, entitled “Drawing and the Digital Era – Digital Drawing And The Physicality Of The Reproduction” in 2003, with the support of the State Scholarships Foundation (IKY).
He has presented 5 solo shows and has participated in more than 30 group exhibitions in Greece and abroad. He has received grants, awards and commissions in public and private spaces from Foundations and Institutions such as the Intercontinental Hotel and the Athens Biennale. He was nominated for the DESTE Prize in 2005. His works are part of private collections in Greece.
He is one of the founding members of the editotial team of the online art magazine http://www.artomma.net, an and one of the of the founding members and artistic directors of http://www.artwaveradio.net 1st Athens Biennial’s online art radio (a project realized with the support of the 1st Athens biennial). Since 2010 He is a member of the artist group Under Construction.
He lives and works in Athens, Greece. Since 2000 he is represented by Ileana Tounta Gallery.
http://www.dimitrisfoutris.info
http://www.underconstructiongroup.com
http://www.art-tounta.gr

Iordanis Papadopoulos

TELL ME

Iordanis Papadopoulos was born in 1976 and he lives in Athens, Greece. “Bras de Fer” (Gutenberg ed., 2015) is his second book of poetry. His most recent poems can be read in the anthologies “Kleine Tiere zum Schlachten. Neue Gedichte aus Griechenland” (Parasiten Presse, DE, 2017), “Futures: Poetry of the Greek Crisis” (Penned in the Margins ed., UK, 2015) and on https://burninghousepress.com/?s=iordanis+papadopoulos and http://bahiabahia.de/agathangelidou-papadopoulos-kationi/. He is also a member of the live art group “KangarooCourt”.

Maria Andreou

(a service)
Me the host

Sometimes I think there is someone living in my eye,
so they see what I see,

and I think for what they see.

That is the only near logical explanation I have
for a singular image split into
two realities.

That I host,
and you visit.



(a sound poem)
measure/pleasure

erasure for pleasure

pleasure in erasure

erasure in pleasure
pleasure for erasure
measure the erasure
erasure in measure

erasure for pleasure
pleasure in erasure
erasure in pleasure
pleasure for erasure
measure the erasure

erasure in measure



Maria Andreou is a visual artist whose primary medium is language. Her research and work centres around the idea of how the art object can become the ground where praxis and poiesis intersect. When language does not manifest physically she still writes. http://www.mariaandreou.com http://www.twitter.com/demenagerie

Clive Gresswell

Steve’s journey

at all this dysfunction — function
he trod (from) dislocation the strand
lolling on his tongue
a tantalizing
paragraph
(shorn)

he walked on
not (once) in harmony
projectiles on the periphery
a stolen moment
(from where the shards of grass)

moments melting in the weeds
(his eye glued to the door)
from where his footsteps came
his shadow (a patchwork)
caste into future domains

a spittle of language surrounded him
                                                 trapped him in the gauze
new housing developments splintered
into this vast & hostile swamp of nouns
the guard noticed in doggerel
the swift-release of adrenaline alsations
to silence seething pavements



Clive Gresswell is a 59-year-old London-based poet who comes out of the Writers Forum Workshop (New Series) based in Shoreditch and who did his innovative poetry MA at the University of Bedfordshire. He has been published in BlazeVOX, LondonGrip and Tears in The Fence and is due for publication on Dispatches and Adjacent Pineapple. Meanwhile he is trying to do more London readings and was recently a guest reader at the international Tears in The Fence Poetry Festival. His first collection, Jargon Busters, from which these poems come, was recently published by the innovative Knives, Forks and Spoons Press.

Dorothy Lehane

Poems from Bettbehandlung [Bedrest]


when they talk of capacity what they are really discussing is how alive you are to the possibility of being dead | & not obsession | not being besieged by cyclical thoughts | make sure the audience beholds you | not your gown | reality is an alloy of perception & time hardening | what an annus mirabilis | to talk of capacity is to commit to obscurantism | such is la terroriste | one electrode is placed on each temple | or two electrodes on one temple | “capacity” as a unilateral or bilateral predicament | capacity as I’m in listening mode | capacity as in “nunhood” | capacity as imposter | very little haecciety | beware capacity | in all it’s troubled mythos


and so we live | and are always taking leave | always dilating | fivefold movements decomposing | overlook the manacles | pathological note-making | freedom versus coercion | we must apply a perturbing method | to break the spasm by means of the spasm | we must break their pride | be free of the doldrums | the doldrums lead to being chained | to a tree | or to marriage | that endocrine stressor | such difficulty with utterance | humours out of whack | only in certain lights is it bile related | in other lights there is the question of what to do with fantasies | & the bacterial stream | three humoral signs | see how they come | with insulin shock therapy | & with coma


since you are determined to make her a medicalised body | keep the limbic system in a state of shock | & though officially it does not seem to happen | it happens | very very body centred | I’m not fitting into the body war | teeth apart | we want our teeth gone | we want our beauty hectic | & who mourns those spaces | those sanctioned spaces | describe the people who created you | using two words | unemotional & blasé | my little sook-dancette | decumbiture | the glut force common in old old french | sunwise withershins so vulnerable like withershins | beware of the water | beware of other cities | horse-godmother help me | help with my hereness & nowness



Dorothy Lehane is the author of three poetry publications: Umwelt (Leafe Press, 2016), Ephemeris (Nine Arches Press, 2014) and Places of Articulation (dancing girl press, 2014). She teaches Creative Writing at the University of Kent.

Dan Leiser

A collective sort of one and another


Oh Brother

With a cane I have found myself able,
To give myself a home in the east.
However unwanted I was from both
My father and his.
It still hurts, the mark of a broken man apparent,
Confusing rocks and a salt of a certain kind.

Sliding slick on the road to
The bottoms of the hill
That feels something cold,
Frozen, even with
Tall trees,
Trees taller than I’ve ever seen

Scraping the sky in the forest.

When I walk by them I hear rumbling
Bats emerge in the daytime,

In the night time I fear leaving my
Small house I built upon a grave –
Thy own.

Now I lay me down to rest,
As the wicked find little time to do,
I feared once the grave I built will engulf me soon,
Now, I encourage it,
Maybe then the trees will become home.
Something I lost so long ago,

But hope falls on the wicked as night
Meets dusk
Meets dust.


Day and Night

()=Nothing or X*
() =\= x wen surrounded,adjacent,or next two symbols, punctuations Or (two) Spaces.*

Foor two under(night)stand,
nliten(,)& imbrace
theeh [Naight, don(‘) t] foerghet dhayh is(. ) but
1 ste(h)p
hear and/or
thair
D-hown ae
Whol.

Deitie of
Dhayh mhahe
Find – :me), hee, he; her oar

Butdress whe
Find!(you)!
On top,
Of him (me), he, hee oar (her )
Deitie o(a)f
Naight.

Oad(e) tew dhayh
Wile naight fites
Fewr such l’i’ttel
Chance o:a:f brehth
Shal w:ee:e cea
2ew theh rezureksian
O(a:f theh
?Son!

Hoo hat nought
Eggsist,
Wear4or
( without:
A fite
On top=of a whall
A deitie soh
Paishant sits.

Oade tewe thah
Faight.

Oh dhayh&naight.

*subject to change(sic):( ibid.)


Miss En Scene At 4124

The door is shut
The windows cracked sideways and
Horizontal.
The windows covered in half by yellow tinged (formerly)
White curtains,
The dog on his back on the floor on his mat
Pit bull,
Rottweiler next to him she grunts in the
Daylight sneaking in through the cracks and
Shimmers
On the glass on the table
Two dollar bills rolled up next to
Sugar(?)
Mommy can I have some sugar on my cereal?
Where’d you get cereal?
Next door.
Did you get milk?
The mother lays on her back,adjacent dog
Pitbull,
Noses in the sky
Legs open,
Get your kid outta here
Unph umph
Take some sugar and go next door
Thanks mommmmmmy
Umph umph
The tattoos crawling down his back,side merge with her body in brief intervals until
Umphhhh.
Where’s the bathroom in this place?
Leave the money on the table
Where’s the bathroom in this place?
Put the money down
The kid runs back in
I need more sugar
Where’s the bathroom damnit?
Put the money down
Mommmmy
Put the money down
Mom!!
Fuck it,
The kid falls down
The door screams open,
Fuck this.

The tattoo is covered by a black
Shirt
Badge and number,
Where’s my money!
Mom!

Radio crackled open,
We have a domestic disturbance
4124…
Cue: cut-
I’m on it.

Lets go,
Where?
Gotta take you in,
What?
No,

              Mom?

See The Horse Go

Is the necessity of living
Through the ah-abject-ah-abstract moments in
Our minds a picture in the fragmented thoughts(?).
That all encompasses
Through and through to the
Next day until next and last become intertwined
To the end of the Ohringinal picture show
– see!the Horse running –
Still frames in motion the
Twirling and running and running
And running through and through
Day to day
Andday
Untiluntil
We till the earth and troughs –
Become enclosures for it anddaythe
Fragmentedstills
Becomeone.

Show me the survivor ofbecomingone
Ill show you
Real life decided by deceived
Deceased parties of slumber
And familyfriends all gather today
For a lietobehold herewegoagain
Lift up your hearts and also your
Heads because there they go floating above
Fragmentedstill
Alive through the ethereal
Alive through the plague and karma and placated
Lives
Alive alive alive,
To be alive again.
Let us pray.


Witness A Break

If subconscious be you
Upon the words these here right
To rite to write what we have
In the whims of our words, thoughts
What world we live work lively love
In but
At what point do the words wash
Away
To the end of what we know and
At what
Point do we speak here,
Hear ere do ne’er well the
Words that mean nothing?
Biting the phrases we speak and now
Unto you I give
Nothing.
Thinkadilly upon a dais
lee to thwart the kingdom,
Four corners we sit
Upon the throne of
Of thinking of
Of the way in of
The way out of
Here.

”Tis nobler to run
Than stay and fight
If only you protect your
Back as
The foreign legions wont
To do.

Inconspicuously colloquially
We speak that…
Fuck it, we all need a
new start.

How far does one go
To find the depths of his soul?
The sing song rhythm that mesmerized
The mind,
Seems a touch too far
The end to slow
The life to long.

How far will you go to find the predispositions
Pre-post-supposing the
Dignity in it all?
When the depths only go as far as you learned
And yet so much further that you could have
reached if you
Tried one day
true.

So how far,
How far do we dig to find we
Lost what we never started
And when do we realize the end in all
All in all in fall in the lulls the troughs the
Valleys the end the love
The end the end all:
Be.



Dan Leiser is a poet and writer who is slowly amassing a back stock of poems and stories to sell to street vendors. He is currently working on a poetry series on life and a novel of death, disorder, and the circumstances of family. He recently published a Finnegans Wake inspired series of poetry in The Agenbite of Inwit. He lives in Pennsylvania.

Clive Gresswell

 
Film by Greta Zabulyte
 


Clive Gresswell is a 59-year-old London-based poet who comes out of the Writers Forum Workshop (New Series) based in Shoreditch and who did his innovative poetry MA at the University of Bedfordshire. He has been published in BlazeVOX, LondonGrip and Tears in The Fence and is due for publication on Dispatches and Adjacent Pineapple. Meanwhile he is trying to do more London readings and was recently a guest reader at the international Tears in The Fence Poetry Festival. His first collection, Jargon Busters, from which these poems come, was recently published by the innovative Knives, Forks and Spoons Press.