~ “an attempt to map the shift of orientation, as well as perspicacity, that accompanies technological advances in war making” – Louise Akers.
~ “Hysteria of language, closed in a hotel” – Aurélia Declercq.
~ “The video attempts a redefinition of queerness through the lens of the “glitch” –” – Eremus.
~ 4 short pieces that “are part of a collection, “Paper Axe,” in which each piece interacts with the material page it is written on. For some, this includes fold marks to create origami shapes” – Brooke Larson.
~ “The work is restricted by the constraint of 280 characters” – Andrew Taylor.
~ Poetry that “wrestles with the eccentricities of gender (identity and expression) as it relates to obsession, death, kink, love, comfort, and our current political and social moment under capitalism. The eccentric appears like a margin…” -yarrow yes woods.
Many thanks to Louise Akers, Thedoros Chiotis, Aurelia Declercq, Bryan Edenfield, Eremus, Carolyn Guinzio, Brooke Larson, John Morgan, Joshua Smith, Corinne A. Schneider, Andrew Taylor, Βασιλεία Στυλιανίδου//Vassiliea Stylianidou, yarrow yes woods for their brilliant works!
Louise Akers’ poetic project is an attempt to map the shift of orientation, as well as perspicacity, that accompanies technological advances in war making. If we understand that drone warfare operates on a vertical axis of violence, we can examine its orientation through modes of desire. We look up, we become spotters; we look down, through a monitor–god’s eye view. If, as Sarah Ahmed suggests in her book Queer Phenomenology, a vertical orientation is implicitly heterosexual, what/where are the lines along we can direct horizontal (queer) systems of desire to segment and deflect heteropatriarchal violence? Hijacking the form of the creation myth, Akers draws lines from the antecedents to the operators to the futures of drone warfare as it has become integral to the contemporary US American socio-political/emotional/aesthetic/religious landscape. When territories are surveilled and murder sanctioned from remote distances at great heights, we begin to conceive of space “not as it is, but space as we make it” (Hito Steyerl, Wretched of the Screen, p. 26), thus designating an invisible and ubiquitous theatre of perpetual, US American war. The dialogue is sourced from Gregoire Chamayou’s A Theory of Drone (p.1-9)
Louise Akers is a poet and and educator living in Brooklyn, NY. She earned her MFA from Brown University in May of 2018, and the Rosemary and Keith Waldrop Prize for Innovative Poetry in 2017. Louise currently serves as the Books Editor at Anomalous Press.
Theodoros Chiotis is the editor and translator of the anthology Futures: Poetry of the Greek Crisis (Penned in the Margins, 2015). Other publications include Screen (in collaboration with photographer Nikolas Ventourakis; Paper Tigers Books, 2017) and limit.less: towards an assembly of the sick (Litmus, 2017). His work has appeared in Catechism, Litmus, Datableed, Forward Book of Poetry 2017, Adventures in Form, Austerity Measures, Shearsman, aglimpseof, Visual Verse, lyrikline, Otoliths, amongst others. He has translated contemporary British and American poets into Greek and Aristophanes into English. He is a member of the editorial board of the Greek literary magazine [φρμκ] and contributing editor for Hotel magazine. His project Mutualised Archives, an ongoing performative interdisciplinary work, received the Dot Award by the Institute for the Future of Book and Bournemouth University; he has also been awarded a High Commendation from the Forward Prizes for Poetry in 2017.
It will always say it
to say it will always say it
behind their speech
it will never stop to say it
to shout it
to faint it in a paragraph
point and next street the hotel hosts
and next street who’s the hotel’s host
a vulgar naked speaking organ
hotel hosts a vulgar naked speaking organ
vulgar naked speaking organ sleeps in a hosted hotel
and the hosted hotel closes at midnight
and the hosted hotel closes
its doors are closing
its doors are sealed
its doors are stopping
its doors are stopping a vulgar naked speaking organ
exhibitionist vulgar naked speaking organ
exhibitionist vulgar naked speaking organ is told
exhibitionist vulgar naked speaking organ is told then sealed
exhibitionist vulgar naked speaking organ shows his wrinkles
shows his nightmares
shows his language
what a language
language dictated by the flow
language dictated by the flow of passengers in the street of the closed hotel
what an hysteria
what an hysteria told
hysteria told then sealed
to speak louder
to speak louder than the generalized hysteria of the closed hotel comma
the hysteria of told hysteria
what a diagnosis
what a diagnosis told
vulgar naked speaking organ
skin of gabble you are
skin of gibberish you are
gibberish you are loved
gabble you are loved
prehaps you are loved
: you are told as you are loved
i’m staying here comma in the room created for 24 hours continuously comma i’m stuck here
comma tiredness comma thirstiness comma hunger are piling up perplexed smiley do the 4
walls never move a centimeter question mark i’ve contacted friends comma teachers comma
mathematicians thumb smiley nothing happens here point am i sending out an sos question
mark perplexed smiley bring the creators over here comma you behind the levers wink
smiley that’s why you are here comma you are here to create action exclamation mark you
should know i can sell my nipples for a low price if i have to wink smiley they are amazing
wink smiley they are delicious wink smiley unfortunately they don’t give milk anymore to the
thirsty mouths of creators laugh smiley but they are still there comma as a receptacle of
those bygone days crying laugh smiley how funny is that comma where is the narration
question mark a drop of milk for a punctuation comma it’s a promise
Aurelia Declercq (1993, Brussels) lives and works in Paris. She graduated for her master degree in psychology, option psychopathology, psychoanalysis and linguistics. Her research dealt with the function of neologism within the language of psychosis. Afterwards, she began studying at the Ecole Nationale des Beaux Arts in Paris at Claude Closky’s atelier. Her artistic work combines visual poetry, sounds, texts, installation and video, gravitating constantly around language and its paradoxes.
Today is the night of the stallion. We speak long deep into pools of academic archipelagos and short long beyond the dry lanterns knocked over by idiots saviours and swans. We embrace our veins together and snap jaws in a locust of merry screams to crisp at the blood moon of a failing heart. We are here lunar and frightened to discuss the big time ramifications of the schizophrenologist made whole by a nightmare. In the damp den of the ego the archetype of the clown laughs at secrets. This binary triolet as function of the sanctuary realigns into the nocturne canon and camps in the dusk of cellars. The id as comic trilobite ancient and buried in language calmly devours the bonethief tree. What is the empire without the emperor? Mind his knowledge of tunnels. He moves arms scratches knees. He chews the food of the helpless that live in the city of scamper where he too scampers and crushes and thinks all thoughts one two three all of them. He cracked the citizens in the neighborhood of knuckles. He scented the citizens of the holy mouth. But I am a pigman lost in grace and my kisses are showers of stained moss. The fog clears from the jungle and we are still.
In hope in study in dreams dissected the nonetheless apples rejoice in the flavors of a brain hemorrhage. Ideally we knock down the walls between you and subject insofar as we must help diligent the seminar of bad bad biology sofarin here we go. A holistic approach may or not include such things as enumerated in manifestations past of intellectual hubris or the meaningful relationship between horse and vial of cyanide but suggests something on par with the dislocation of citizens both embroiled in a narcissistic project of rejuvenation and a wonder projection that smiles underneath the bed sheets of self-actualization. This particular brand of psychosis has bubbled up in managerial doctrine both continental and analytic but once the neighbors throw their couch out by the garbage bins there’s no stopping the animals from enjoying the privileges of white hegemony. Release the co-dependents and occupy the space between sporadic readjustment and complacent zealotry so says the doctrine. Release the negative delusion of failure from the lexicon of everyday suffering for it need not be understood in such a dualistic fashion says the camel says the lama. Or may we be in denial after all these years and decades tying and untying the conceptual shoelaces of finitude. Here we empower the dysfunctional family allowing it to function within disembowelment beside the ebony discs of fungal psychic growths. Here we continue the project of denial that follows empowerment and pretend with eager ears and mouths that a moth can place kitchen equipment in the appropriate container if we just have a good attitude about it and stop being so hard on the little guy. Here we edify the personality disorders that cause high functioning automobiles to psychotic break at the first stop sign of mindfulness. To mind the full nest of synergistic halo goals is to massage with beatific wonderment the top-down ideology of help me mommy I’m going to die. To continue our self-actualization and our other-actualization we must embark on a trip towards the inner coil of consciousness and only a mindful practice of knuckle cracking and lip smacking will cure what ails ya. Believe it or not some of us have day jobs so when you chew on that pencil for forty three minutes straight I hope that’s not your sole source of fiber for my soul is a big slab of red meat but this menu doesn’t serve such enlightened malignancies. In order to further develop your personhood so that it may resemble an assemblage of blood moons and concord grapes we must locate the esteem whether it be of the self or of the other and place it on the highest shelf so that the cats can’t get at it. Remember some of them jump high and they dislike water. Our next objective is to fall into the trap of full awareness and consciousness so that we may respect the dignity of others and the rules and regulations of a standard trip down memory lane however post-traumatic it may be and no matter the triggers that may or may not set off a series of chain reactions that can only be described as undesirable. The standard desk reference may consider it abnormal to chew on the teeth of an abdomen but we should make accommodations for all the songs of existence in the panoply of prismatic polarization. Just kidding. Truly abnormal and shocking in its banality is the neurological anxiety associated with various water-based sports such as water polo and synchronized swimming. Our attitudes as they are poorly designed by a flimflam of worthless acidic monologues and the quirks and foibles of the old man and the ole ball n chain may someday come into contrast with our ugly predilection for distributing gas masks to the hellions of scamper city a place that is no good for you and I sweet gentlemen of the jury. We arrived here through learned behavior and isn’t a leaf a leaf a leaf. My biofeedback bias only confirms what the crotch itch predicted: namely that we are all constrained by a deficit of knowledge historians like to call the heuristic genetics of hypothetical maturation and the mnemonic meta-analysis of the panic disorder parallel to the phantom limb. As mentioned before the nervous system composed of binary luminescent objects is imprinted into the memory of phonotypical moods disordered yet again based on the climate of scientific hostility and the hostage negotiations going on across the street. In a debriefing conducted in the early 1990s by yours truly and a team of young up and coming go getters we came to the conclusion that materialization as it is a compact vestige of the material reality outlined in deterministic theory can affect the rate of aversion and the judgement a child feels on holiday when primogenitors fail to meet certain basic gender requirements. Take me to the chocolate factory right now please I am a very hungry and anxious boy. Not everyone agrees with this hypothesis so let me parse it out: say a middle-aged heathen approaching the equinox of usefulness in a utilitarian societal framework boards a train traveling at approximately seventy two miles per hour on a Sunday with little wind or political resistance. Now say we reorganize the parameters of this gestalt in order to optimize the flight or fight response in such a middle-aged specimen. Will he combine his dendrites into a useful whole as predicted by the Mycenaean model or will he tumble down the wormhole of groupthink and simply chalk up the adages while wasting luggage space? Now say a woman of similar height but convex temperament wills a toxic messianic complex on the various hierarchies represented on the chug chug choo choo. In the aforementioned hierarchy of needs is she concerned mainly with her health as it relates to hereditary markers connoting cervical cancer and thyroid problems or is she going to skip town and steal the man’s aquarium so to speak? Earlier models suggested the former if and only if her hormones become out of whack physiologically speaking with her kinesthetic notion of personhood and dragonladyhood but the latter if and sometimes not only if his scandalous lack of object permanence exists as an operant residue of his rationally compulsive reflexes and familial norms. That said a third option presents itself on such cases as when a stick of dynamite 4 centimeters in diameter inexplicably shows up at the doorstep of one of the more presentable members of our elite circles like say the mayor for example. The notion of a representative sample becomes problematic and is more importantly problematized by the sticky resonance of parallax taboos. Giddy with the destruction of the mayor’s front door and hounded by the disappearance of the prized thoroughbred shortly after a tragic train derailment our theoretical binary humanistic model falters and shifts towards a paradigm of unconscious validity squirming and positive inference obfuscating. Dear me can we wait this long to go to Iceland? But to end digression the tolerance of a trait-to-toddler hybrid theory becomes weak and wistful in the dark cold shadow of optical self-awareness. Thus we come full circle to a trigonometric globalization of fragile patriarchal personhood all the while the recognition of the prisoner’s gambit saturates every decision made after noon whether or not the subject lazy as he or she may be ate breakfast. We come back then to the outlined debriefing and its humid consequences. I have divested myself of at least a dozen of our biologically bedwetting codependent narcissisms yet a schism persists despite respite from prismatic responders and semiotic pedagogy. Every day we yearn for a grapefruit that will satisfy our flesh lust but the goddamn rotten meats are still throbbing underneath my pillow. There is no adjustment to such climates and no animistic self-annihilation for the golden halo of a mindful buttercup. I can taste the wet succulent seeds. I have untied my lineage and now understand the parallel trajectory of the whip and the nozzle. Come with me little ions of the future for we will dream big and get all our ducks in a row gaw darnit. Shut the book of psychosis on the fingers of mindfulness and tell the neighbors that the couch stinks and it doesn’t belong on the city sidewalk. My ideal ideology is one of animal magnetism and floral folly. When privilege comes knocking on the door pick up the phone with your snip snap incisors and call the glass doctor he’ll fix your panes. Eliminate the negative unnecessary. Fondle the pretty pretenders. Visualize greatness. It looks like something else something over there something over something some so. In hope the full mind dreams of a good no-biology where knock knock who’s there no one no one who no one.
I can see your data is showing a correlation between severity of depression and rainfall during the summer months in sparsely populated regions near the equator. The energy offset by positive thinking creates an astral potentiality and thus if we can jump-start the avatar of infinite human potential we can downgrade the monotony of a harmonic convergence to that of partially hydrogenated pleasure waves. The principle is simple: if taken holistically the didactic lucidity of ephemeral dream logic can and might not create a paradoxically relevant and untouchable genesis of meandering trust. Secondly while animalistic in nature the holographic projection of self enables the melancholic to heal the wounds of psychotechnologies as the poltergeist of normative behavior always and sometimes wanders through the metaphysical network of transitional and kabbalistic traditions. This out-of-body-experience can and will not act as a medium for the spirits harboring resentful grudges against the web-slinging sparrows that stuck them in this nuthouse in the first place. This mob logic thus necessitates a mantra of graphological insignificance and ectoplasmic Christian foreplay. A Jesuit a Rabbi and a Turtle walk into a bar and the bartender a nice fellow who grew up along the Liffey asks them what they would like to drink. A telltale sign of hedge betting and adherence to gnostic goblinism is the left eye tick that when decoded spells out the name of God and the ingredients to his award winning invisible hand creams. Knowing this the bartender in all his infinite wisdom did not listen to the three cosmic bodies but instead sought attunement with the Gaia force in Buddha’s perpetual isolation chamber. Once inside he discovered an ancient invocation that went something like this: Once hidden the karma of iconoclasts now comes to the clearing in full circle of the levitation medium: A circus of thought withheld from common ancestry cannot destroy but very well may try the numerological uncertainty of self-realization. The tender human now with knowledge of the syncretic truth about cats and dogs returned to his work domicile and began taking orders from every harry dick that tom-tommed through the door. But with his chi properly aligned and with Mercury retrograding into the gutter this chap concocted the elixir of life and spelled out his plans for world domination: As a spiritualist and an avid footballer I believe and it has come to my attention that certain individuals heretofore referred to as holy and transcendent are not but a dripping phantom of unidentified vedic fraud as revealed to me through telepathy surgery and trumpets: What warlock is this that comes into my houses and moves my furniture about willy nilly and then has the gall to ask for the tree of life and the fountain of immortality? What false prophet and seance slave saunters under those brilliant golden arches and proclaims the true faith the good deals the righteous path the 99 cent value? What idiot spirit claimed retrocognition when all knowledge is knowledge of a yogic future? I do not have answers to these questions but here is your cocktail. And with that the Turtle said goodbye the Rabbi said good evening and the Jesuit sat down to enjoy his mule and spoils. What can we learn from this esoteric parable? All glum is the surface of the tetragram all frightened are the subjects of yin tang hierarchy. Gobble-based globalization has reduced the Taoist to a snake oil peddler and a sensitive trance channeler without a remote control or service knob. Can’t we all just go to the park together and play frisbee? Can’t we believe in the solar logos that gives meaning to all suffering and sentient suckers? Can’t we purchase goods free of guilt and without overflowing or drowning the real with goodwill? The third eye blinks out of sync as we have learned but this theosophy of right-brain hierarchy cannot but succumb to the vicissitudes of a gentle ear and a calamitous bigotry. The last psychic birth is the emergent scoliosis of pantheism. Pagans from all seats of death converge on the holy temple to bask in its nirvana hole and prostrate in its cosmic itch. Alas the paradigm shift is only for the useless and meanwhile the rest of us wittle piggies go all the way home. They can om all they want but we still got bills to pay mouths to pay spouses to fuck billboards to ogle trashcans to design mailboxes to study. My inner self has always warned me of the calm warm guru with promises of fish tanks and iced meats. Such things aren’t real. And in hopes of appealing to a broader audience the fallen man dwells not on the deja vu dowser who discovers water and discovers it again but the crystals of pendulum energy that immense good cheer and christmas tendrils around the necks and spines of kirlian aura. Down dog down this is not a good time for fetch. Once initiated into the cult of tarot jesus the papas and mamas begin to see the ultimate plan. But who will be our spirit guide us commoners of commerce? Who will knight us and read our fortune? The zodiac offers but superficial assistance and so we must turn to the last remaining wise woman born from the earth and covered in worms. That’s fine. But I feel sick and paranormal so is there an ointment for that? Is there a group chant or a night class? My network is limited my net worth is benign and the council has spoken. Against unity the teachers diverge and disappear into the milky ether whence they came. My witch sells diapers at a department store next to santa. She drives a used ford escort. She is not what she seems. Thus we come to the only possible conclusion: sing the song of psychoanalysis mouth the prayer of the moth. Sing the solar palm postage sing the skin from the bone. Sing the flying object identified cataloged dissected and refined. Lip the tonsils of autonomy regret the foraging of knives. I am the king of discs the queen of farts. I am the jester of calamity the knave of cutlery the healer of boxes. I am the queen of disrepair the surgeon of light. I am the be all things one and forever all things come to those who wait or something like that whatever and ever after. Please forgive my diction. Please forgive my dereliction. Please pass me the salt throw it over my shoulder dress my wounds cure the feet of hogs the eyes of warblers the tongues of the sloths. Say goodbye to my family for me. I will be back someday.
But that is neither here nor there nor where nor fear. What offline system are we speaking of exactly? We shake our fists at missed opportunities here we are lost again in a deeper divide there doven down with the dumdum pigeons of our better light. Meanwhile a cavernous inconvenience looms in the iconic crosshairs of freedom soldiered away in an indecisive manila envelope. And why not? My soft mouth feels for the appropriate questions and let me be honest with you the scissors and rope holding together this feeble construct of a fleshmachine is how do you say not so magnificent. The nation is in brambles but that is only an idiom. We can only observe the staff of wild night realign its prepubescent values with the bandwidth generation and the witch doctor from across the street wink wink. I have a long pipe of organ donors just glitching to save the lives of empty vessels and vat brains hemorrhaged on porridge and poor hygiene such that they dream the demon monotony. A genie of computational coffers rubs off a pinched didactic scream into the upper revolutions of a badly made bed and poorly arranged composition of dusk but such little goats don’t kid around with contract negotiations. As such and for to with the disruption continues. I am a leader I think but I do not lead from the front lest all become lost as I forage through the frontier I lead from behind nipping at the heels of innovation like a rapid calamity of rocky rivers nipping and tucking with surgical yelps from my dog maw at the creme-de-la dogma of gosh-darned analytics be damned. Fumigate the call center gentlemen for your color is bleeding into the esophagus of justice. In space of all things we record and reorder the needle in order to understand the brotherhood of practices invented by gollum plebiscite and committee breathalyzer avoidance obviously. Needless to say the needles are here to stay and for lack of a better word they are hyperautomated and without virus. I have a stick shoved high into my pituitary gland gumming up the synaptics of my medulla and stoning my oblong alligator brain. Pick away at the ice vessel of monogamy you gorgeous gash so we can go spoil this infant plan if you know what I mean I think you know what I mean. Every grain is a lip of consciousness we thus piggycircle back to the middle oink oink my knee is still bleeding from that bicycle accident from the early oughts and we needn’t worry about the Mayan Calendar anymore okay. The meteor is soaked in marina falala lala lala lala. Don’t you own her wounds? Don’t you concern over persons often? Are you not deserved of underfunded comedy? Is this not the sharp point of sales wherein the ground caves in due to ceremony and cuttoe business acid men? What what what what degressive circle backs foresight into restatement to indigist the idolatrous and the futile please please please please stop. Repeat the cut. Resteam before the cut. Serve cold if hallowed. Break the mold and serve chilled before lozenge. Serve up or on ice. Swerve gone until pulverized. This knobby weather is going to drive me nuts.
Knowledge as the king dictates is fundamentally patriarchal and capitalist in nurture. Preternaturally awake in the Byzantine sense I incline towards gravel yards and totem makers. Let me tell you the true factual story of the fake city of Benevolence my good friends and lions: circumcised by a lineage of factory workers and neuroskeptic transmitters promulgated through decree by the matriarchs of soil and sky the little buggers of violence stamped out any hope of muddy salvation or suffrage in order to erect a dysfunctional city of dread on the edge of despair. Dead now gone the daughters of chemical dependency and mothers of the chimerical papacy our foresisters shredded the outdated documents of democracy and landed on an alternative to plymouth rock: We shall be warriors of the icicle bedlam we monsters of pre-industry. Most know this story to be false but some disregard truthhood in favor or something a little spicier and thusly I give you the redacted model of our disenfranchisement such as it is not: The male spider colony interacts with its web through a series of semi-controlled seminal statements aimed with triangularity at the woven mouths of shibboleth sailors and a kindly specimen of woman meant to hide the bodies and feed the babies. This subpar genus speaks when spoken to and are not spoken to so the games they play are inconsequential. But in nocturnal rebellion the freeze bleeds forth from socialist womb and Luddite vulva. I value my dischord as much as the next guy but hey dude don’t be such a fickle dick. This porch sags under the weight of a thousand liberated and lacerating lizard appendages lest we remind ourselves that the government is controlled by a conspiracy of deep deep down cold-skinned cretins. Our bodies are minds controlled by a fascistic limbic system of propaganda dust-ups and media controlled consumptive objects the only real route towards antibiological efficacy is through the tunnel of orgiastic hollar and down the road of hedonistic edge play. Here we are again in the exurbs of justice in the cul-de-sac of rewired purgatory. The city as phallic imperialism spreads its wings through the torn pages of esoteric goblinism and claws its ways from the canyon of elven magic to the citadel of balrog pain and lymph node isolationism. The mad mob of women like to tell us many manly men that we are all immigrants of the soul transgressing along a finite path towards a neuroillogical network based more on the tangled ideology of the cephalopod than the hierarchical divinity of the redwood but even trees sing songs so they say so they say. Back to the antimatter afoot the mouth the ugly automobile of progress has been driven as promised over the fresh snowflakes that wither our bulging testicles. I am a spiralling assemblage of marbled maybes constantly resorted by a didactic society hellbent on turning me into a muzzle for those whose jewels shine too brightly to be stifled. All jokes aside I have resigned from mankind neither truly man nor kind. Our teachers show us our toes and pretend they take us to the bank but the banks cut off our toes and feed them to the enemy. This is what sis told me and her propaganda is real even if it isn’t on the television 24 hours a day so and so days a scum. I listen to sister. I hear her wounds. What was I saying? Oh yes the sinister urge to procreate is only a coincidence and I say this because I am atypically handed. Benevolence is a state of hoarse beauty and sparsely populated vibrant boulevards. The magnanimous miscreants that cut away at our inborn liberties and ingrown failures may appear from a mythic distance to be muses or sirens screaming us towards a bitch oblivion. But in silence we hear something different shut up stop talking for a second I’m almost finished. Hey you guys ever think that maybe your echo chamber is suffocating you? Infinity comes later. This is a cold city of liberated eyeballs watching watching watching my every confused movement. My body is a genderless body of please miss don’t take away my heavy breath and right to stare my body is a city the laws are cuts this is suicide. Don’t worry little girl calamity is coming I can never walk down the street alone at night calamity is coming. The bus is a coven of patriots ready to pounce. My spine is the broken highway system thus I hunch over to protect my children but hey wait I have no children I’m a swinging bachelor and this is my wristwatch. The convention center is full of stomach acid and the subway is gout on the rampage and god believes in your obedience your left rib your tiny brain. Legislature supports thousands of years of tradition and I can’t make my painted rocks without those slush funds trickling down to my little lamb of a continent. Dear madam and madman we all know that marketing is the tool of the devil but an information campaign on the dangers of feminine hygenetics might dispel some of this herpetic growth should I be talking to someone else? Into the kitchen says the pale skinned emperor so I get into the kitchen with my cookbook of atheism and burn down the cathedral and the bank. Hyped up on caffeine the regulator carefully disassembled we join tentacles to build the city of Heaven in a hole on a hill in Hell. I am astronaut industrialist look at me go zoom zoom. Digression ended thesis realigned: the phallus of mind comes laden with infection and the body contorts to survive in a confused state of Hegelian paradox. I’m okay with this sometimes I’ll say some stupid shit hey girl am I right? Found in the suburbs a burning pile of apologies and a cookie-cutter neighborhood of accusations she looks to the countryside and finds only windmills of fangs slashing spit at a better world. She looks to the the turmoil zone of vagrancy and collects idols of poverty to polish and set on an illuminated vitrine. We are museum entries curated by the careful hands of first and foremost mother and public servant. She recoils into anarchy her lips trembling a morse of phantom babel. I turn with her wherever she turns a silent partner is cutting up myself. It’s not a metaphor says the emperor but his disposition is a singularity of ad hoc hegemonics and the nationalist phrenology of lazy antiquity. It is a metaphor says Susan or someone so I cut myself up to be more like you I cut myself up to join you and you cut too I see. We are all scum cunts forgive my self righteous ranting and I will forgive yours. The wild mare loosens her soothing mane of snakes and allows we frail riders to clumsy navigate through the crop circles of disenlightenment. Patterns resemble the tattooed insignias of indigenous folk psychology thus embodying a prenatal urge to follow the synaptic convergence of insectal hybridity through the muscular contours of an agricultural and post-industrial wasteland. Colony collapse fumes in the runes to the west and deglaciation grumbles in the aura of the boring south. Our skin is melting and our blood is wrinkling the winter into a pollen dusted spring fever absent of pupils pulpits and pistils but engorged dangerously and delicately with pistols plumage and plumbing. Posters advertise our private pipes. Sister sits across the street away from the serious man and his choral attachment of birds. I join her and stay silent for a half century as she tells me her story. The end.
Bryan Edenfield was born in Arizona but has lived in Seattle since 2007. He
was the founder and director of the small press and literary arts
organization, Babel/Salvage. He hosted and curated the Glossophonic Showcase and the Ogopogo Performance Series. His writing has most recently been published in Mantra Review, Underwood Press, Meekling Review, TL;DR, and Plinth. He was a recipient of the Jack Straw Writers Fellowship for 2018 and is currently the host and producer of the Hollow Earth Radio program, Glossophonics.
The video attempts a redefinition of queerness through the lens of the “glitch” – here understood as a theoretical tool for analysing random and sudden interruptions or changes in systems of thought and action – while simultaneously a queer reading of the “Glitch Studies Mafinesto”. Queerness is being understood as a fatal error of the otherwise impermeable patriarchal algorithm; an error that can be both threatening and enchanting, both destructive and liberating.
Eremus is a queer multimedia artist, a dj and
an architect. His work explores the potential dangers and/or possibilities of
informational technologies, surveillance strategies and cyber-territories, as well as
the relation between queer identity and digitally augmented realities. His videos
and installations have been exhibited in DIY exhibitions and events, as well as
in the Athens Digital Arts Festival (2016, 2017), the W:OW Festival (WOW.08),
the KFFK (Short Film Festival Cologne) and the Athens Museum of Queer Arts,
among others. He currently lives in Athens and studies at the Athens School of
Online Portfolio: https://eremurus-cloranthus.tumblr.com/
Carolyn Guinzio‘s most recent collections are How Much Of What Falls Will Be Left When It Gets To The Ground? (Tolsun, 2018) and Ozark Crows (Spuyten-Duyvil, 2018). “At Opening” is a part of a project that received a 2019 Artists 360 Work-In-Progress Award. She lives in Fayetteville, AR and her website is carolynguinzio.tumblr.com
is a writer, collagist, and sometimes wilderness guide. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia University, and is finishing a PhD in English at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. A book of her essays, “Pleasing Tree,” is available from Arc Pair Press, and an artist book of her poem-plays, “Origami Drama,” is forthcoming through
“Take the Witches’ Path out” is a kind of memento mori infused poem, that shares coincidental geometries and spatialisation – and its own dark obsessions (chromatically subverted) – with the third painting in Damian Hirst’s triptych “The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth” (2008), from his No Love Lost: Blue Paintings collection (2009). Hirst’s painting depicts a human skull and the skeleton of what appears to be a shark’s open jaws. Faint angular lines trace desire paths that draw the viewers’ gaze, suggesting pathways through which the swimmer may pass, to escape or to capture – all the while knowing that any such liberty is only fleeting.
“Take the Witches’ Path out” in itself is based on a three card tarot reading, in situ, to ascertain the fortunes of two prisoners who escaped from San Marino’s jail in August 2018. Its eccentric layout starts in the middle: the Centro Storico, San Marino’s old mountain-top city centre and location of its jail. The prison is a small collection of cells in a wing of the Capuchin Monastery, just outside the city walls. We witnessed the roadblocks, dawn paraglider and helicopter reconnaissance missions and the barking of police dogs through the night in their efforts to stop the prisoners crossing into Italy. Through scant news reports online we found out that these were the only two prisoners currently held in the jail.
The questions and tarot readings are set in Aubrey and the verse text is set in Sans Forgetica, a new Creative Commons font developed by RMIT in Australia, which has proved to aid memory when reading, through the now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t spaces placed in the characters. The font was chosen for “Take the Witches’ Path out” to follow the movements of the seemingly invisible prisoners and our own recurrent sightings of the same guards along Passo delle Streghe, the forested, cliff-top “Witches’ Path” between two of the three towers of central San Marino. Darker, more esoteric and mythopoeic practices are also referred to from The Dictionary of the Khazars (1989) by Milorad Pavić. All colours are extracted from photographs taken between the towers and the colours of the card readings are “quoted” from the ‘La Corte dei Tarocchi’ by Anna Maria D’Onofrio.
References D’Onofrio, Anna Maria, ‘La Corte dei Tarocchi’ [Tarot cards] (Milano: Il Meneghello, 1999) Hirst, Damien, No Love Lost: Blue Paintings (London: Other Criteria, 2009) Hirst, Damien, ‘The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth’ [Oil on canvas] At: http://www.damienhirst.com/the-meek-shall-inherit-the-ear (Damienhirst.com, 2008) Pavić, Milorad, The Dictionary of the Khazars (New York: Vintage International, 1989) Sans Forgetica is available under Creative Commons CCBYNC licence from https://sansforgetica.rmit
John Morgan’s poems offer a visual engagement with real, imagined or received experience of landscape, place, identity and myth. His writing often responds in situ to the works of other writers and artists, as well as to the land itself and how it receives and ‘writes’ the identity of the person moving through it. His poems have appeared in a glimpse of, The Learned Pig and Reliquiae, but are mostly published on his own website, Visual
La Tarantella is a southern Italian ecstatic folk dance, traditionally performed by lower class women, midwives, eccentrics and others at the margins. Groups of couples now perform it at weddings.
I started seeing scratches under women’s eyes
Some of the women
tired from too much seeing
scratches & their absence of inner thigh
Spider curled in a white rose
Animal souls cut flowers a raindrop
a buzzing Why don’t you
just break my neck already?
Tiger lily How many calories?
gilding the lily Brushing my hair is
a mutilation Well, of course you engender
sexual obsession in others,
your many loversThat’s why you
could never cohabitate, you’d run out
of little outfits –
Mosquitos finally come a callin’ this summer
Baby bok choy bolting
up the center Fuck those white sheets police helicopter
star of the sea
You can get into a rhythm
Eyes on everything
Season of lightness
Taking your dreams away
After Spider Dance, II
a weaver like me?
Maybe you could heal me Feed me nuts & berries
so my bones grow
I can tie
my bones together I know how
to mate fully without bearing children
copious and empty
Smile at me at la clinica
I’m drunk enough now
to tell you about Rochelle
my across-the-street 2nd grade neighbor
whose mother was always away
Rochelle taught me how to masturbate
in the basement by straddling inflatable pool toys
Her mother’s face in the gold hand mirror
in the dark peach bedroom
This is the thing
about not ever needing anyone
all your secrets are your own
bead up like dew
Corinne A. Schneider is a working poet from the Great Lakes / Rust Belt of the US. She writes poems, essays and other ephemera from the House of Sex, Death & Taxes. Her work has recently appeared in Bone Bouquet, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Coldfront Mag, and So to Speak. She lives in Washington, DC with her cats and partner and writes about international solar energy markets for a living.
Vassiliea Stylianidou studied Literature and Linguistics at the University of Ioannina (GR) and Visual Arts (B.F.A., M.F.A.) at the University of the Arts Berlin (UdK Berlin). She works as a video and installation artist, using in her works related artistic media such as text, sound/music and performance. Her artistic process involves a constant renegotiation of public and private history, as well as public and private spaces. Her work deal with the limits inherent in systems of order and discipline such as architecture, body, power, family, gender and language. Especially in relation to language, she is interested in experimental ways of using it which challenge and subvert its everyday use in an attempt to suggest new paradigms for knowledge and experience. Her work has been exhibited at nGbK, Berlin; SMU Berlin, Haus der Kulturen der Welt, Berlin; Haus am Kleistpark, Berlin; quartier21/MuseumsQuartier, Vienna; Fotohof, Salzburg; VCA Margaret Lawrence Gallery, Melbourne; C.R.A.C, Sète (F); KUNSTHALLE ATHENA, Athens; Onassis Cultural Center, Athens; Macedonian Museum of Contemporary Art, Thessaloniki; The National Museum for Contemporary Art, Athens; State Museum of Contemporary Art, Thessaloniki; Art in General, NYC. She has also participated in the Prague Biennale and in the parallel programme of the Athens and Thessaloniki Biennials. She is member of the feminist queer project Aphrodite. In 2011 she founded the collaborative project STUDIOvisits Berlin.
She lives and works in Berlin and Athens. http://www.stylianidou.com
H Βασιλεία Στυλιανίδου γεννήθηκε στη Θεσσαλονίκη, Είναι εικαστικός με βάση το Βερολίνο και την Αθήνα. Σπούδασε λογοτεχνία και Γλωσσολογία στην Φιλοσοφική Σχολή των Ιωαννίνων και εικαστικές τέχνες (ΒFΑ, ΜFΑ) στο University of the Arts Berlin (UdK Berlin). Εργάζεται ως εικαστικός βίντεο και εγκαταστάσεων, χρησιμοποιώντας στα έργα της συναφή καλλιτεχνικά μέσα, όπως κείμενο, ήχο / μουσική και περφόρμανς.
Τα έργα της διαχειρίζονται τα όρια που ενυπάρχουν στα συστήματα τάξης και πειθαρχίας όπως η αρχιτεκτονική, το σώμα, η εξουσία, η οικογένεια, το φύλο και η γλώσσα.
Ειδικά σε σχέση με τη γλώσσα, ερευνά (ποιητικές) μεθόδους οι οποίες αποσταθεροποιούν την καθημερινή χρήση της, προτείνοντας νέα παραδείγματα γνώσης και εμπειρίας.
Έχει παρουσιάσει τη δουλειά της σε πολλές εκθέσεις στην Ελλάδα και το εξωτερικό εκ των οποίων οι σημαντικότερες είναι στο Moυσείο Σύγχρονης Τέχνης Κρήτης στο Ρέθυμνο, Schwules Museum (SMU) στο Βερολίνο (2018), Διπλάρειο Σχολή σε διογράνωση της Στέγης Γραμμάτων και Τεχνών στην Αθήνα (2017), ΑΣΚΤ, Σχολή Καλών Τεχνών της Αθήνας (2016), Πολιτιστικό Κέντρο Σ. Νιάρχος στην Αθήνα (2015), nGbK-Νeue Gesellschaft für Bildende Kunst στο Βερολίνο (2014), Haus am Kleistpark στο Βερολίνο (2013), Haus der Kulturen der Welt στο Βερολίνο (2012), quartier21/MuseumsQuartier στη Βιέννη (2012), VCA Margaret Lawrence Gallery στην Μελβούρνη (2011), KUNSTHALLE ATHENA στην Αθήνα (2011), C.R.A.C στο Σέτ της Γιαλλίας (2010), Μακεδονικό Μουσείο Σύγχρονης Τέχνης στην Θεσσαλονίκη (2009), Εθνικό Μουσείο Σύγχρονης Τέχνης στην Αθήνα (2008), A. Moncio House Museum, Palanga στην Λιθουανία (2007) και πολλές άλλες.
Έλαβε μέρος στην 1η Μπιενάλε Σύγχρονης Τέχνης στην Πράγα (2003) και στα παράλληλα προγράμματα της Μπιενάλε της Αθήνας (2007) και Θεσσαλονίκης (2010).
Είναι μέλος της επιμελητικής ομάδας του queer feminist project Aphrodite. Το 2011 ίδρυσε το ανεξάρτητο συνεργατικό πρότζεκτ STUDIOvisits Berlin με το οποίο έχει πραγματοποιήσει πολλά εγχειρήματα στην Αθήνα και το Βερολίνο. http://www.stylianidou.com
Explain to Andrew the process it’s not as grey as expected it could almost be summer aside from the temperature (a clear 30 degrees cooler than August) very light blue 283 C 536 C pale blue black 3 C in rear shadow facing the field remnants of rain on the worn tarmacked lane
Paint the world in grey
XGC chocolate egg 143 C winter solstice 7543 XGC sometimes things don’t
match busy streets 2756 C & foraging mistletoe 7748 XGC bright
Standard Time & colourless Greenwich Mean Time Autoroutes and
motorways respective service areas
Delivery not traditional physical
printed at 88 sites throughout the world and sold in more than 160 countries and territories
post-rain lane quiet comfort sound sporadic chatter free roam
foliage gatherer Black 6 C 7751 C 7479 CP 416 CP 7768 XGC masthead
centred two-day edition
Let Poems be themselves
use of noise the use of words the point of pencil the point of knifes
the use of colour the use of paper the point of wood the point of axe
the use of
silence the use of electricity the point of fuel the point of poems the
use of lists the use of sound
cormorant skims Loire train crosses
furthest bridge wind chill low blue paint livraisons RF place de la
Bilange la mie Caline ouvert du lundi au dimanche de 05h a 20h cold of
Square Guinness Pub cobweb neon flow gilets jaunes roundabout fires stop
aux tax RDV keep cold at bay
Andrew Taylor has published two collections with Shearsman and pamphlets with Red Ceilings, Leafe, and Oystercatcher, amongst others. He has collaborated with visual artists such as Sophie Herxheimer and Edward Chell. A poetic collaboration with Charlie Baylis, at first it felt like flying is due from Indigo Dreams in January 2019. He edits M58, a blogzine of other poetries. www.andrewtaylorpoetry.com