Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books automatic message (Free Lines Press), combustible panoramic twists (Trainwreck Press), Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, M58, Don’t Submit!, Ygdrasil, RASPUTIN, Ink Pantry, Nauseated Drive, and Synchronized Chaos. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.co
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Thin Straight Lines ––It’s about the world I’ve written to feed me back to me,
openmouthed and struck dumb and birdlike 2 suggesting a wiser stupid loop of man burst 3 from a mirror only to stand looking into shards of it having forgotten there is nothing like this to recall having been destroyed for want of ultimate expression: Three days after I finish this story, I am to sit alone in a room and write it. 2 Birdlike– It’s about the religion of Good Ideas above us on the morning sky with their silver underbellies in the low sun winking polished and everyone down here thinking shine on! – but they are foulbrown on top and God up close they are offal gulls off a gut wagon and they will ride our shoulder screeching electric nonsense on wet air, shocking women bald on the ground, owning us. It’s about walking through it come evening. None of us can fly. 3 Man Burst– It’s about skittish monkeys pushing out of cellar doors, cellars with no houses on top anymore to wander walleyed in the savage apogee 4 of evolution with language faltering lame through the penitentiary present, looking for a key. The key yet looks like a baby bird. Yet it is not. 4 Savage Apogee– It’s about the bad news decided fast about you: the aboriginal kid 5 in the junk drawer feeling all exits from here are hot and some are hasty. You’re a cone of ashes in the midnight rain. You fancy new snowblower in June, you. 5 Aboriginal Kid– The rest was a lie told a dream whore– told a whore in a morphine dream at late moonrise– It’s about a boy martyr on a horse, a martyr for his infamy only humming the rest the rest was a lie that held him in a fluttering grip of brutal affection he’ll never see the rest again. Goodbye to the rest. The rest was a lie. Point of PromiseMASTER OF MEANING LET THE LION BE A PERSUASION BOTH ECHO & ABYSS/SHAKE YOUR INFINESSENCE MELANCHOLY BODY TATTOO HIGHWAY INSOMNIA PUNK GALLERY CRUSH HYPERRITUAL SKY OF CLOUDLESS SULFUR RECRUITING SECRETS/SAPPHIRE STEEL NEON INTRIGUE SOMETIMES WE ARE ALL ETERNAL IN THE CONSTELLATION OF MIDNIGHT MOSAIC FACTION/BLOOD LABYRINTH BLOOD ALL THE DARK REBIRTHS ARE MINE/DESIRELESS MINDCIRCUS ON FULL DISPLAY THE FLESH OF WORDS NEW MOTION SUSTAIN RELEASE PERIMETER RARE FOREVER Rus Khomutoff is an experimental poet in Brooklyn, NY. He has been published by San Francisco review of books, Proprose magazine, Silver Pinion and Hypnopomp. In June he published a chapbook called Radia from Void Front Press. He can be reached at @rusdaboss on twitter.
Read their work from the inaugural issue of Blue as an Orange here. Chronic Town #6Symphony and devilry.
We continue fighting in heels. I wrap my head. Around the idea of your head. Last summer’s slow. Children form a circle. Holding hands. A narrow bandwidth can be. Lovely and fragile. Or a perceived deficit. A fear of being left. Without. Chaotic CallingsEars ablaze with irritation.
The dust never seems to rest. A constant calling, Breathing out nonsense. Tones screeching over one another. Noises echo, Like deafening rattles. Pitches high, Or words improper. Sounds shadow over death itself. Caged howls, Warn of coming troubles. Senses throb, Overexposed. Silence sought, Obscured by cackling. Voices like fowl, Fed from laughter. Mimicking each other, Unnecessarily. The roars fill the air with fumes. Tales wrinkled with interruption. Thoughts unable to flourish. Buried in trauma, From the wind. Barking through teeth, In hopes to settle. Unyielding, Are the pleas. flicking lit matches at the dark skysummer storms like old man poems
come so easily these days, each line written is through tears. sleep doesn’t happen too often, i could blame the kids but that isn’t fair, it’s my thoughts, it’s these poems and not poems. drunkenness lost its appeal, the drinks are rarely poured and the bar tab has long been paid. memories fade like book pages, the ink no longer holds. i don’t recognize my hands i don’t recognize my face i don’t recognize these streets memories fade like book pages, the ink no longer holds. Orlando Garcia is an artist from California, educated in Graphic Design and Studio Arts at Southwestern College and CSU Long Beach. He uses various mediums, each for their unique processes, to consider ideas from new angles and create new takes. The experience of repeating process, altering process, and learning new process is central to his practice. Current interest are printmaking, artists books, and collage.
horror to history to heregraphic delete
embers of homer and all others horror to history to here who drank beneath the stars who birthed words who loved but what if earth is really a symbol a circle a 0 |
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