:: Poetry

New England Irrelevancies published 02/05/2015

Peterson Author Pic

Floating around on credit, on a cloud of laters.
That dollar store on feral-land calm. Dollop stones curl backward in their shells. Mud husks burp carbon. Floating round waiting sighs in possible cloud scale. Some bind, some burn.
A search is a temporary housing. Who knows what apart meant. I hear power cornering

A fever paved over
guards possibles on a float up to the afters

Together us off this lease.
I forget to where,
just together us out of this.

By Andrew K. Peterson.

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The Poem Brut #3 – Corner of the World published 20/04/2015

erasure image 1 jakubowski

Fragments of pages 67 and 71, Uncorrected Advance Proof. Translated from the Spanish. She was asleep when the accident happened so she grabbed the camera and memorialized them out of guilt.

Provenance: Havana-Montagnola, San Francisco-Philadelphia

By Matt Jakubowski.

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A Cross-Dressing Ghost Orchid in Bloom & other poems published 19/04/2015

Justin Karcher

Playing Goldeneye on N64 and watching friends evolve into enemies

Before deciding it’s finally time to leave the rustiest corner of the galaxy

And figure out its identity. I hope it windmilled its self-loathing energy
Into something slightly positive, into exploring the loveliest places in the universe,

Because sometimes when I stare at it, I see an old man wearing crusted pajamas
Sleepwalking through the halls of an assisted living facility and wondering

Where he put things, wondering if all star-crossed lovers are sleepwalking
Through a wasteland looking for his light. It feels nice to be wanted like that.

By Justin Karcher.

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The Poem Brut #2 – Heartbeat, Footclick and Machine Gun Vocalises published 09/04/2015


I heard a recording of more or less ordinary (as i was told) shootout. It was about 10-11 minutes – it had this weird ambience – you hear the gunshots, someones heavy breathin’, lots of sounds of footsteps – here and there, back and forth, someones countin’ somethin’, more gunshots – and then – nothing. Sonic void. Not a digital silence, but a recorded one. That silence was happening there. And then – it was over. And I had this overwhelming feeling of panic – almost disorienting – at first I thought “is this it? or not? what happened next?” – but then i realized the completeness of that document – and i thought – “what if try to recreate it in a written word?”…

By Volodymyr Bilyk

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Frances Farmer & other poems published 05/04/2015

picture 34

All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; Clouds overcome it
Ignorant men dominate women for they are shackled by the ferocity of animals,
White butterflies turn lavender
Moaned he, “New measures, other feet anon! My dance is finished”?

He noticed a large white butterfly drop outspread on a stone,
So I’ve brought you a mirror, look at yourself and remember me-
I died a plant and rose as an animal

By Afshan Shafi.

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a-versions(us) published 27/03/2015


Solicited sex from a single parent.

By Peyton Burgess.

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Modal Auxiliaries published


mainlined those traditions yet
now synthesize half the staves
the barrel

trying the new Brora 40 primeur
at work to exhume † latebrous
from Blount for our dream pubs

your basic nightly annealing
the throat for tomorrow’s vibrations

By Colin Lee Marshall.

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Odes to Parkville published 25/03/2015

corey wakeling photo

The crawling man has a bifurcated nose
which is enough apology, pavement’s blood
by night dances even when it is still,
not whose height omniscient is the spectral.

By Corey Wakeling.

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All the Motion Controls & other poems published 15/02/2015

Photo 11-12-2014 8 18 31 pm (640x640)

Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novel ‘Acid Shottas’ (The Ledatape Organisation, 2014).. He’s was a member of the band Mattress Grave, and is currently a member in Snake Milker. He firmly believes that the future of the word, the novel, will be in synthetic telepathy.

By Shane Jesse Christmass.

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Mundi & other poems published 14/02/2015


you’ll be
in a diaper
by rubber gloves

and stare
at a blank
television screen
all day long
because it’s so nice

By Tóroddur Poulsen.

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