Three poems
in index book disgusting, happens
thing to acrylic dogs for parting
humming off windows & on an echo
juice to find sunk riddance
we should do exactly what or at least
then better the odds, align with it
the pret dyspraxic, or itd’ve mute them
left wet pages under
edited, as in an I’ve, or as the &
goes on it follows
By Stephen Emmerson
Newly Fraught and Alien
These verbal presences, call them what we must, have a hard time going into detail about themselves; things tend to come out in summary form, as if everything has already been concluded and can be recounted but not changed. I do not draw or crib from outer life, but sometimes I get the feeling I might be trespassing on some inner one of my own. I’ve never really thought about introducing a wider assortment of human doings into my writing; I wouldn’t want to have to invent or observe. I would rather not describe what’s out there. People, I imagine, can already see it for themselves.
David Winters interviews Gary Lutz.
To Be Or Not Bartleby
I would prefer no to.
Night Swimming
Each summer’s night Beatrice and Marie Von Sudenfed arrived for a skinny dip (though Beatrice would keep her pants on) under the lustrous silky moon. They skipped amongst the pond flowers on the bank that led into the water. The air swooned with perfumed flowers and the light warm scent of the young women’s skin. Suddenly a puff of pheromone escaped the lively, watery earth like pollen from a flower sac and rose and swirled and blossomed into the form of a proboscis-quiffed teddy-boy-flower.
By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.