Growing From It She Claws Alright | by Zachary Margaret

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There’s always one glowing window of the house. Only one. To have more would totally fail the house’s style. A standing, scattering noise face, with a single shape of auroral reference. She feels sensual, debauched in a good way, with just one window lit. Lately, the uppermost right, third and top story, from streetview, has been her favorite; two criss-crossing strips of dark wood zoning the four panes of emanant unsubstance, shining way above the ground. This corner spot hides its light from the rest of the home’s cast, and so also reveals how many of the slats and doors and balcony dead-botany are left in shadow, darkly wheeling down and to the side. The bulb inside, specialized and ordered from friends of deep-tunnel, lets on a kind white mist to something massing and revivingly detailed there, hidden in the rest of the building. There have been other windows attempted, for similar livering affects. For awhile, the house tried the small bathing window, halfway up the side-wall perpendicular to the street, the side-breast of her structure, but that just left a looming convalescent enigma in front, sans much mystery. The passerby took only to looking at the house when down the street, catching a lateral, albeit pleasing, site of the little footed window, evanescent and lonely. But the house is more confident from a straight-on angle; anyways, her flank is a little thick for comfort. Of course, the house chose settling in an abode of ocular void, a lot of total darkness, sunlight being possibly the most boring aesthetic, in her opinion. Plus, all her soily bulges make shadows under the sun that she really wishes she could thin out. The sun hasn’t come this side of the copse in years, assuringly. The top rightmost window feels perfect for now, with the moon’s multiplex and effects. Just enough letting on, a darting of the spires lifting with a tickle of bottomed-out light. And the black-and-white lantanas in this window’s flower box look delicious so a-lit. Continue reading “Growing From It She Claws Alright | by Zachary Margaret”

unperturbed vision of now | by Teddy Duncan Jr.

Prologue/

How can writing be linear? It evades the bounds of time, creates its own change within itself, harms itself, heals itself, transcends itself. Writing is influenced by nothing more than the mind, no external or variable factors besides the ones that inhabit the mind. Writing is exhibiting the word-illustrations of the mind, which contains implacable meaning, cannot help itself or do anything besides meaning. The mind and the brain may be two vastly dissimilar things in regards to writing and meaning.

My organs aren’t real, and I know that, we’ve never met, they seem standoffish and busy.

Todos palabras, truly hollow.

All good writing is really just poetry, and poetry is painting mind pictures using words, thus creating an image, and time and order has no place within images, since images remain the same images regardless of their position in time.

Writing uses a juxtaposition of associations that relate to one another to indicate or replicate time, but postulate for a single shining moment that all could be seen and realized, no longer a limited perception, rather an omniscient perception of all at once. An extinguishment of the practice of writing simulating oral storytelling and instead developing a truthful juxtaposition of word-images that inherently entail ideas. A word-portrait. /
Continue reading “unperturbed vision of now | by Teddy Duncan Jr.”

Two Poems | by Helmüt Garrett

*The work seen below is part of a manuscript of a conceptual work based on the writing of Thomas De Quincey (Confessions of and English Opium Eater, 1821), and seeks to draw out a new way of looking at this famous piece on addiction writing.

 

 

The late Duke of Norfolk used to say, “Next Friday, by the blessing of heaven, I purpose to be drunk;”

              no
ideas
too much, as that
    it is
           to
            the interlude,
as to confess, is
by supposition of laughter committed to debauch
me
   like manner I
   used to be called
by the one
       seldom heard spoken. For the music
       of all
around all around a little, as
       I
did afterwards,
       for the one
who
heard.
  In
them. In the Opera, I could
communicate with
   that—
this
             is Continue reading “Two Poems | by Helmüt Garrett”

Three Poems | by Rose Knapp

Synthetic Reincarnate

Words will be the most sadistic instruments 明教
Producing purely imagistic quantum Manichean
Mythos Valentinian Hallucinating La Vita Nuova
Emanating Emancipated worlds within perpetuity
Lighting Itself immolating past Lyric via negativa

Logic to dichotomous staccato Over
Souls flow Like Lava Phaedrus diōs
Marian Apparitions Muerte scythed Continue reading “Three Poems | by Rose Knapp”

Three Poems | by Dean Rhetoric

Fisher Price Symphony

A yawning chorus of stitches subdues
the migraine between our hips.

Ride me, endangered, a song of Trojan
horses. My face is your snare,

a free falling concept, dripping over the
G- string of a broken violin.

Menstrual flowers grow from the light
of your iris. When we sweat, Continue reading “Three Poems | by Dean Rhetoric”