Never Mind the Beasts

one month intense TESOL course. Two more weeks. Then I can think again. Got a gig for 10 weeks at a small college in Feb-April teaching students from Senegal and India. Yeah. New book coming soon from Harry’s Arthur Shilling Press. Poetry from 2008. Part Dante in London. Lots of areas in London covered. YEAH!!!!

Karavan Amigos

I’m crouching with the march of the penguins in a oversized parka
a world not yet dead
I am not the erection of a eunuch
the buts and the knaves
I’m dialing in and i don’t wanna say it
humba womba
dry coughs from the radiator
are you feeling fitty?
how this then methinks
somebody’s drunk my milk
I am not yet the harmony of submerged large birds
I am not yet the preamble of a leering mustache
I am not yet the baby-boom of sociopathetic innocence
it’s raining in London yeah big surprise
I wanna walk the parks with a brown bag and twenty rums
harder is a part of speech
here’s a dime now show me how to dance
I have an Oyster and i know how to use it

Karavan Amigos

I’m crouching with the march of the penguins
in a oversized parka
a world not dead
but sometimes the erection
of a eunuch
as a wet tablecloth
as a community
you deserve better prigs
deep down beneath the maniacal weather
above the buts and the knaves
i’m dialing in and i don’t want to say it
dry coughs from the radiator
how this then rethinks me
there is this and there is that
vice will continue
harder is a part of speech
somebody’s drunk my milk

18th Dec 2010
(return to London)

given what we have seen
Ryanair equals sardines
my bag is in number 29
and I am in number 3
they are playing Mozart
the elf a stewardess
wrapped in tinsel
selling everything
“your captain invites you
to read the card in front of you”
i’m over my usual weight
i didn’t do much with Italy
why couldn’t i have been Joyce
in Trieste
I keep forgetting it is almost Christmas
you’ll drive yourself nuts trying
to get what you want
JINGLES
they fuck you up

WOOD GREEN. NORTH LONDON.

the footpath buckles
these are the markers

who steps on my steps
we’re tailor made

what’s in yr food chain?

murals of an albatross
broken shoulders

as a community

you deserve
better pigs

and also stilt

is it lazy to be placed
with the rats?

oh this life
this life

we are all
mostly all

the erection
of a Eunuch

19th December 2010
(London)

I can’t quite tell you where
I have been

what’s left to

I can’t quite tell

I left my finger
on the start button

and the washer wouldn’t
start

we have you in the asylum

in the anthems
of the serious

objects are closer than they appear

fry my loose ends
these words are a landscape for my friends

7th October 2010

I am a lucid lucy
a listless chill in the gloaming
with a thickening of birds

I am the slap of the line
the buzzing of mopheads
I am that short espresso
the shaking of tails
the yoke yellow walls
spread out the window

I am a cough a sniffle
an old man’s head
a young woman’s eyes

I am the hairy tale of the past
waving or tucking between
the legs sometimes
a lick of the snout or a low grumble
from the belly

I was baited into a new tango
I was a temporary gathering
I was beast of another butter

it is the end of the month and this is not far from Venice not far from the thick eyes of Joyce with his twelve lectures on Shakespeare the Self Taught Man has a nosebleed
and alienation imagines a man with the tongue of a caterpillar

we can’t rip it out we can’t be ourselves alone
this is not a landscape
this is not the beast of a heart
the dark flame of old Europe

these are not moving pictures

we have left nothing
poets painters musicians
nothing stays still
in the churches of Rome
or Naples
with the misheard angels
we are getting back the ghost

<a href="http://www.realitystreet.co.uk/kens-blog/the-captain-and-monk&quot;
>CAPTAIN BEEFHEART

1.5 hours till i leave for the airport. here we go. london . . . .

15 December 2010

under the salty moon
full on pizza
with salty dough
people commin
outta train station
with wheels
sunday returns
gone thicker
gone thinner
gone itchy
with winter
and doghairs
yr sentiments
are nice but not surprising
ideas are sand
in my bathing trunks
which i don’t own
i was due to return
to Turkey but here
I am planning for London
i am that
perky little pug
barking at shadows
i am here
and have no proxy
hungry angry
winter blues
for fools
p is for press
cocky breeze
spikes my nipples
because changes
into something else
a supreme bark
nuthin always left
but everything
going up
going down
which floor
which paino
non parka Italiano
I’ll tell you stories
of suspended animation
blues and cheap shampoo
awoke from dreams
take notes under headings

Turkish homophonics

gunay ik su jack . . . su jack larda . . . ye mes sek es del lay
jay hitch yamma yok
chok chu sick lay
cha shamba gun day
a vet var

6th December 2010
Via di Roiano, Trieste

I am a tense cannibal
think deeper
above the fury
hop flop into hope
30X30
illusionary surfaces
we have many minutes
we have you surrounded
keep swallowing your dog hair

12th December 2010
Trieste train station park

Novo Hotel Impero
(left shoulder)

stairs to tunnel
(right shoulder)

bench
(ass)

kebab ali baba
(eyes)

30th November 2010
Trieste Train Station Park

fake easternness
coming thru the camel
below the humps
scream or at least spit
instead just stood there
hands dried out
pigeons pigeons
I have a wrong pen in bad light
this bora waters my eyes
to rattle your cage
to lick another
dog’s bowl
perhaps you would prefer to make other arrangements
oh I say it rank
stop feeding the messengers
the elements deride
I awoke on the roadside

25th November 2010
Trieste Doggie Park

is that you in front
of me
coming back
for exactly the same?
I have a name
I have been given a name
more than once
tried to change
IT
I’m learning to talk
DIRTY

WALK TO THE SEA
WALK TO THE SEA

these beasts
are good
to think with
though i seem
tame
i speak for my name
in name only

CAUGHT MY SLOPPY
COPYIST

acid reflux
sun
on grass blades
lady in brown boots
and pram
with worn out
curls
a thick matted
dog
sniffs my shoe
there is a tree
born crooked
never got straight
made promises
never meant to keep
good morning
yoga

24th November 2010
Trieste, Doggie Park

I’m yr father’s mother
lick my nipples
I’m growing
up strangly
plus scroungely
we’re all here
giant little monsters
to feed
if i am lost it’s only
for a little while
all past efforts
buried
in our stomachs
sneezing out the seasonings
noli me tangelo
POMP ROAST
earnest driven
been down here
day after day
this template
is not my heart
piggy toenail
has split again
change my changling
darling
i’m a quick wet
with street-wide eyes
calling for you
everywhere
I’m not a fat house
cat
i’m not a poisoned
rat
butterchrist mouth
all told
i have no after-
taste
in head shape voiceskin
this is my kin
in their very own
private BORA
give me a beat
make mock
of neither beast
nor foul
praise the winter
plum
no trinkets
no poems
mistakes tread their own
grace
in this valley of fish
eyes
feast on nooks
my veined one

16th December 2010

a little love
feast
banging

on invisible
headboards

the tired grunts
of a golden
retriever

this goes
very slowly

there are so many
molecules

I shd be satisfied
at some point

i am kicked
in some stupid places

let me think
without

bliss

is a simple thing

i take up
loving

the golden ones smells
a bit better

from a name brand
galaxy

into the wild blue yonder

muffled voices on the
cranked winds

teethed to dying
meat

i am en-
joined

to morph
back into human form

we believed we
were

somehow back
on earth

pre-
historic
again

and this is what it
looks like

New issue of Past simple edited by Marcus Slease and Grzegorz Wróblewsk

poetry and neuroscience

THE VALUE OF EDUCATION MADE LITERAL

Trendy Club
(Elblag, Poland)

put a hole in your skull
says Roger
the lid
is open
but where are my eyes
my balcony opens
delicious flavours
what wonderful timing
don’t let them
keep you here
i am giving you
a ride home
I have not adapted
I envy my neighbours
their incredible skill

TEXT

TEXT

TEXT

mighty fine band . .. pics remind me of my days in Poland . . . .

Cardinal Sundowns

tell me of the shadows
hither in St. Nicholas
late in the evening
in the gibber and gabber
with domino Roger
late in the evening
baba baba
in the bean poles
in the beetroots
late in the evening
with the squawk and squeek
of plastic
knees on palms
twins of my bosoms
tittering and skithering
jimmied into shiny skin
zim tim
microclusters
in yonder elms
dark hawks
hear us

Danzig-Gdansk

an umbrella in my hand
a mirror in my eyes
covered in
smog this city
changes hands
play kiss me
watch all the indie
kids in t-shirts
for months I could
not save
my blue lips
my language lacked
a future
a smite will keep
for a while
me and my lightning
flashes
me and a toy cow
you can ride
half drunk
with a mouldy old ghost
in the house
of 100 beers

Language consists of five basic sounds produced by the vocal cords. They are the vowels a, e, i, o, u. The other sounds are consonants produced by air pressure: s, f, g, and so forth. Do you believe some combination of such basic sounds could ever explain who you are, or the ultimate purpose of the universe, or even what a tree or stone is in its depth?

21st November 2010

Pancakes provide solidity. Syrup is my get-up. Rain drips from the light swinging from a wire in the centre of the street. The bora is returning. My bum is cold please close
the window.

Hello world hello
i’ve tried to re-up
my realities
are short lived
i’ve not lived
a story

Mew is playing on my broken headphones. Have you met someone have you touched
the bottom? My stomach is regaining its flora and fauna. This is November 21. It’s time to switch the station. Often I am permitted to return to a made place that is mine enfolded in all thought wherefore fall all hosts. A disturbance of words within words whose secret we see often. I can’t believe your hands are so cold. I can’t believe you’re still playing this game.

Hello home
hello
you are being
oh so very
esoteric

swimming to the sound of clouds my partner does headstands in the front room with
a golden retriever. she is listening to something on her headphones. last night I dreamt of a snake. I had to enter the basement of a building to find my lost clothes. The basement was flooded. My clothes were on the other side of the river. A snake coiled into a U
covered both sides of the river. This is my ego. I dove in without clothes and the snake squeezed me. I sank. I awoke.

hello
tiny bird brain

25th November 2010
Trieste Doggie Park

a gooey ganglia
lived in creepy inns
no guts for creeds
I threw away
the plastic
that housed my szynka
haven’t brushed my teeth
but I’m on my feet
a dumb shine
for the haughty
is that you in front
of me
coming back
for exactly the same?
I have a name
I have been given a name
more than once
tried to change
IT
I’m learning to talk
DIRTY

WALK TO THE SEA
WALK TO THE SEA

these beasts
are good
to think with
though i seem
tame
i speak for my name
in name only

CAUGHT MY SLOPPY
COPYIST

acid reflux
sun
on grass blades
lady in brown boots
and pram
with worn out
curls
a thick matted
dog
sniffs my shoe
there is a tree
born crooked
never got straight
made promises
never meant to keep
good morning
yoga

30th November 2010
Trieste Train Station Park

fake easternness
coming thru the camel
below the humps
scream or at least spit
instead just stood there
in an expensive necktie
and shoes
hands dried out
pigeons pigeons
wrong pen in bad light
bora waters my eyes
to rattle your cage
to lick another
dog’s bowl
perhaps you would prefer to make other arrangements
oh I say it rank
stop feeding the messengers
the elements decide
lower level beauty
I awoke on the roadside

Whatever Buzzes the Brain
Sopot, Poland (August 17th 2009)
for Magda Bethge

this is the fish
this is the beer
this is the wooden table
these are the rollerblades
I snapped you
one-legged near
the lopsided house
this is the beach
feet dig deep
into sand
we used to meet
in a communist hotel
we bowled
we spirited
my hand is on your shoulder
my hand is in the frame
the wine on your birthday
the snow out the window
bus stops
and a warm fuzz
in the tummy
don’t think of age
the temporary tick tock
the blood or whatever
buzzes the brain
or heart
or hormones
I misread my trains
soon the light will go
where are you oh
travel mates

Danzig-Gdansk

good morning gates
wet wet stones
mouldy old ghost
a toy cow
you can ride
the weight of
a post office
after the show
play kiss me
wandering through gates
and side streets
long way to city
limits
sluggin a sack
covered in doghair
we reach
the house of 100 beers

September 2009. Elblag, Poland.

Cardinal Sundowns

thank you for coming
I wanted to say something
about the shadows
of St. Nicholas
that Roger spotted
while swallowing beats
from the beat machine
late in the evening
all the older women
in the grocery store
staring at phone credit
I have no idea why
I am happening
at the dinner party
I ate Polish Indian curry
my knees were reacquainted
with my palms
new waves came
with vulcan bird nuts
at the bread festival
I took a video
I found myself looking
for shiny skin
I am noxious
I am Specjal
let’s play tosser
with the oops in yon skirt

15-11-2010

Trieste Train Station

signs:

MAXIMILLIAN RESIDENCE
JOLLY CAVOUR
ROMA
ALLA POSTA

Elisabetta statue
supplicants and muses
she has a perfect
rump
plus two plucked breasts
bearded man beside her
in old age
but still sporting
a six pac
this is halfway
to December
and the light
fuck it
who cares about the light

———————————————–

these are collapsible sticks
booooooooooooooooooooooooo
———————————————–

where in the world
to watch
it go
it’s not so bad
to feel my vision
slippin
out of focus
it’s hard enough to live
slinging rocks
at the riptides
i offer you survival
shut up
if you’re not nervous anymore
gonna take it down
to the wire
it ain’t hard to hold
it’s not so bad
———————————————–

flash memory:

we were love
boning
in yr parked car
near a delicatessen
not far
from the Irish pub
without an inside
toilet

————————————————-
i’ve lost my zapikanka

24-11-10

Trieste, Doggie Park

I’m yr father’s mother
lick my nipples
I’m growing
up strangly
plus scroungely
we’re all here
giant little monsters
to feed
if i am lost it’s only
for a little while
all past efforts
buried
in our stomachs
sneezing out the seasonings
noli me tangelo
POMP ROAST
earnest driven
been down here
day after day
this template
is not my heart
piggy toenail
has split again
change my changling
darling
i’m a quick wet
with street-wide eyes
calling for you
everywhere
I’m not a fat house
cat
i’m not a poisoned
rat
butterchrist mouth
all told
i have no after-
taste
in head shape voiceskin
this is my kin
in their very own
private BORA
give me a beat
make mock
of neither beast
nor foul
praise the winter
plum
no trinkets
no poems
mistakes tread their own
grace
in this valley of fish
eyes
feast on nooks
my veined one

as a rule my other
half-life
ex everything
in the era of hairspray
the situation
lies
on both sides
ashing
into paper cups
contemplating
the windows
America
my Dairy Queen

WHAT IS TO BE DONE?

how good it feels
to stuff
the cabbage
I’ve tattooed
a squint
of humour
below yr nipple

watch this space
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
my fingers
touch celestial
juice
———————————————————–
Concrete Pier (Trieste, Italy)

across from the Piazza Unita
sitting
on a metal mushroom
sculpture
teenagers in shaggy
clothing
sit on a concrete
pier
looking out over
light and ripples
bora gone quiet
a circle of blue lights from steady traffic
i write with neon
green pen
ipod shuffle spinning in my ear
this is dog heaven
my mouth is dry
I’ve no Italian
no major meltdowns
have metamorphosis
habit bad
11/11/2010
I’ve forgotten the date
for thanks-
giving
mornings serve nerves
this is the history
of punking poems into existence
ready to blow
you
into the empty spill
if you go ahead
and ask

——————————————————
cut moon, silvered
sick uhl
moon
you’re all
I’ve got
————————————————————–
Dog Park (Trieste, Italy)

lattice work all
around
I keep a lighter
in my pocket
my bowels full
on coffee and water
ipod still spinning
I’m ignoring yr doggy heaven
——————————————————————
I’ve skipped a page
the leaves are mulching
I can see my breath
heaven to Betsy
the voices you know
wouldn’t say yes
wouldn’t say no
whatcha wanna do with
this wheel of history
I’m a night sniffer
a light sleeper
the voices
you know
———————————————————————-
commune di Trieste
come on
Trieste
I’m still shooting
my wads
all my kind
they come
and go
come and go
———————————————————————–

workers and students unite!

video clip

14 October 2010

all the mornings of the world
I’m saved
socks are holy
bee stings are not

my tongue has drunk
the lust of yr race

———————————————–
supreme lucidity: when the lights
die down

a camel ravishes
a goat

and in the encyclopedia of
yr brown eyes

I find

a no-moss mind
—————————————————
this is my Italian translation:

Easter is married
to Hades

but

I do love
down
your cheeks
——————————————————

I sit in the Piazza Unita
open to the sea
near
the fountains of four continents
an Italian rock
band
grinds out tunes
to the wind
——————————————————

I’m not frightened
I’m not frightened
of your lovebones
sweet hun luv etc.

bling bling
my margins
have shifted

don’t get ______

this is the occult
caves of your music
————————————————
I slept late &
late again
with an army
of insecurities

——————————————————–

yr notorious allure cannot be threatened
by the queen of the onion shrubs
all dogs dance
such intimacies
such imtimacies
my friends
of the trade winds

——————————————————–

in the bliss
of a new dawn
we are yoked

and a number
we are doing a new
number

tapping out lines
reflecting

900 exhibits
of the mind

in heaven
there is television

——————————————————–

I’m forever blowing
bubbles bubbles
senora senora
I’m hung up on
yr love
and love I’m there
in a thin white
towel
what if getting old means
no one ever finds you
I’m always in the tunnel
not older
not younger
I’m tired of this
poem but want
to give you
everything
senorita senorita
——————————————————–

friends made a nice wee chapbook of selected work called Primitive Pianos :-) flying from venice. staying 2 min from the old town in Prague. 6 nights of poetry. Prague here i come!!!

Cleaves issue 3

The 2010 Prague Microfestival features readings, music and film screenings, with performances by Irish-American poet Marcus Slease, Berlin poets Donna Stonecipher & Alistair Noon, and Prague writers Hana Androniková, Holly Tavel, Thor Garcia, Ken Nash, Laura Conway, Louis Armand, Joshua Mensch, Stephan Delbos, Sara Quiroga Navarro… Films by Stephanie Barber, Bill Mousoulis, Abigail Child, Henry Hills… and more!

PROGRAMME (work-in-progress)
Saturday, 16 October, 19:00
Marcus Slease, Laura Conway, Alistair Noon, Sylva Fischerova
Shakespeare & Sons
U Lužického semináře 10

Sunday, 17 October, 19:00
Hana Androniková, Joshua Mensch
Café Sladkovsky
Sevastopolská 17

Monday, 18 October, 19:00
Marcus Slease, Sara Quiroga Navarro
Globe Bookstore
Pštrossova 6

Tuesday, 19 October, 19:00
Donna Stonecipher, Stephan Delbos
Shakespeare & Sons
U Lužického semináře 10

Wednesday, 20 October, 19:00
Holly Tavel, Louis Armand, Ken Nash, Travis Jeppesen
Films by Stephanie Barber, Abigail Child, Bill Mousoulis & Henry Hills
Utopia Club
Bělehradská 45

Thursday, 21 October, 19:00
Marcus Slease, Thor Garcia
Anglo-American University Library
Letenská 1

All events are free and open to the public. Everyone welcome!

Supported by the Centre for Irish Studies at Charles University and the Irish Ministry of Forgeign Affairs, and VLAK Magazine (www.vlakmagazine.com).

*[For details and highlights of last year’s Microfestival, go to http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=58293651305&ref=ts%5D

heading to Prague to read some of my new work. check it:

Prague Microfest

a newspaper soaked in blood
or oil
or glued
to a balloon
or fished
in vinegar

she got fired up
we got fed
he got listless chills
from the magnum opus

there is proof in the half note in the not quite
magic of another spoof

living in Trieste Italia . . . James Joyce statue and bridge . . . white castle. . . . Rilke . . . prosciutto . . . strong short coffee . . real pizza . . . cheese that knocks off your _____, kickin it in another land!!!

DREAMS INSIDE A CUCUMBER

i nay say i took
and so we all must

on this pre-dawn
marriage bed

in a trembling
Turkish noon

my new chapbook Nerve Fibre: London has printed . . . yippie . . . hurrah . . .a bit of Dante . . . a bit of purgatory . . . poems written around tube stops while i lived in London . . . with some great old pictures of London transportation . . . handmade and so on . . . ahhhh so grateful . . . thank you Harry . . .soon available at:

Arthur Shilling Press

1. Eski Yeni

Their bodies were made from a slice of toast, the kind you put under roast piegeons (Sartre, Nausea)

I’m writing to you
in this weather
among buckets
of bumble bees

I’m with slow tongue
these leopard skins
are not my people

children squatters
& shoe shinners
sinners oh my sinners
the little twirps
sing
A NAY A NAY

I’m with slow tongue
a granny upstairs
coughs up
stones
before breakfast
before I head out
to ACTIVE ENGLISH!

I’m with slow tongue
sweating off
Turkish tummy!

it’s balmy
with terrific Turkish
POP!

I’m with slow tongue
and persist in rising
there is dust in my nose
and dust in my toes
and dust in my keyboard

I’m with slow tongue
lookey here
I’m a traveler
I’ve got to keep
from going under
bunkered
near Ataturk’s
tomb
yep him
the icon of icons

I’m with slow tongue
juiced out
on teaching
the past simple!

Pascal says
why am I here & not
there

2. DREAMS INSIDE A CUCUMBER

MESSAGE FROM DREAMWORLD:
the slaugherhouse is on the move

A man was cleaning a mess by the river, blue buckets and sponges, he rubbed oilves
between his palms.

It was sticky. There was a soft light against a red sky. Near the river a lace curtain opened and a woman above spat stones.

Then there was Aaron running up and down the hall in Milton Keynes, two years old, slightly bald, slightly blond, head, smiling, running from one wall to the next.

On the bedroom door, on the glass, the smoked glass, there was a sticker, a sticker
of the Turkish all-seeing EYE.

*************************
we took you to the river and drowned you
we left open the curtains to bring back the dead
we’ve clouded yr eyes & scrapped yr tongue
we’ve come in waves but leave in particles
we stripped down yr body but want more
tick goes the tock
*******************************
a dot in the night is the bey that sells you
freshly squeezed
orange juice
bones in the embassy
of light
bones, bones
as a mind lowers
it’s ticker tape
where is there precisely
not
to have
your chin not yet gimpy
there are silent helicopters in this missing
landscape
there is a stuffed tiger
on your bed
how life passes over
beautiful and boring
what faces you
in this house
there is nothing to make out
nothing
so much glass
give me time
America
blood is a place
soon leaked out

*************************
we took you to the river and drowned you
we left open the curtains to bring back the dead
we’ve clouded yr eyes & scrapped yr tongue
we’ve come in waves but leave in particles
we stripped down yr body but want more
tick goes the tock
*******************************

3. I JUST CAN’T GET ENOUGH

making—–making it———machinations (Paul Celan)

. . . carry their existence into language, racked by reality and in search of it (Paul Celan)

what evades you
or what are you evading
the poet continues
DOPEY
washing hangs on the line
radical furniture designs
I find YOU digusting
who is used
who uses
what is used
I’m setting out a mind egonomics
from here
yes you can
yes you can
read a new line
twitters, twitters
I have you secrets crammed
into
my tiny box
there is no way outta
here
lungs in bat’s juice
my face in yr pansies
spritz up spritz up
i just can’t get enough

Three weeks of not writing. No. perhaps four. And wondering if I can still write. That’s worst time. between projects. Just working long hours at a language school. now moving into friend’s house for a while until my paperwork is sorted out with the state university in Ankara. might not have internet for a week or so. re-assess. re-see. pen and paper.

after not writing for so long it gets harder to write because of fear of being banal. but here. this is banal. not deep. My hands are sweating on the keyboard. 35 degrees. palms sticking to the powerbook. smudges. packed six plastic bags, two backpacks, and one suitcase. gonna order a taxi soon. in about 5 min. attachment is also an issue. or anticipation. or waiting. but there is nothing to wait for cause everything is already happening. always. in this eternal present.

off we go into the wild blue yonder.

that was one of the first songs i heard when i immigrated to America. Las Vegas. And Iron Eagle and Top Gun and the cold war. And K-mart hamburgers and 7-eleven slurpies and now-and-laters and trying to do the helicopter on a piece of cardboard and an American girl named Candy who loved Duran Duran and wanted to take me to an abandoned house in the vegas desert to show me something called French kissing but I told her I loved Jesus and I can’t do that kind of thing. yeah . . .. . life happens!

Hamam

oh Cemal
there are no
candles
on a navel stone
a man grew me
frightened
in the manner
of chips
I was fried
and I became
the method
of sandpaper
and I didn’t expect
this
from my face
sloppy seconds
from buckets
of water
an idiom
of red spots
aspirations
of presence
in this way
I was wiped
clean

KARAMAN (Anatolia)

the city is under construction. the newly planted trees provide no shade. students pack every morning into the dolmus with peasants and workers. In the centre new buildings go up and look old before they are finished. nothing matches.

we sit at a table with Turkish tea. glass cups. redish tint. a gypsy girl calls us sir and madam from the road. we eat our cheese gozleme. talk of interracial couples as the dust blows around us and a man with a hose sprays down the footpath.

women collect water near the mosque. build 1292. almond eyes in the desert. the sun scorches. we drink ayran.

crowds crack seeds in their mouth and spit empty shells on the street. there is music. blood and geography. constant beeps from the old yellow dolmus. mules. wedding drums and mopeds. negotiations on the fly.

this is a dusty town. men with slicked hair and tight jeans. covered women. old men with sticks. modern gals with bright lips and blond hair. Turks return for the summer buying up cartons of cigarettes and purchasing mobilya to ship back to Holland or Germany.

yesterday a ship captain fed us popcorn, green melon with honey, and white cheese.

AMASRA

the dijinns are relative
this is affecting a lot of people
near you
a good wonderful
kismet
toss yr hair
squeeze me
off
check that fish
with lungs

*****************************************

i met your moods
out to lunch
spices of the black sea
fish with coca cola
a tinkling of knives
that mountain
made pregnant
with Zeusfog

*****************************************
you were an armful
slipping out the balcony
the flies won’t
leave me alone
i’ve an inkling
to become
a beach bum

*****************************************
I’m accessible but
difficult
pardon
yon
girl sd
and took
my green
lighter

*****************************************
the girl behind her has a hiccup laugh
sucking out to blow in
or the other way
around
and ah kuh
she says
out of nowhere
“true blue”
and her friend says
“higher”
and then its sayumbabayakma
or something like
suzzie got magic
this is Turkish
homophonics
Kolay gelsin

miss this fine fella in North Carolina!!!

B. Howe’s Wax Wroth

A TONALIST WRITING

in response to a review of Tom Raworth in which the reviewer argues that so-called difficult poetry is anti-capitalist and difficult “modernist’ poetry carries more political weight than the movement/mainstream poetry in the UK with its easily summarised themes and conversational speech and so on . . ..the old language school argument . . . and of course modernism consists of more than so called high modernism . . . i don’t want to choose between difficult or accessible . . . . there are many kinds of interesting art . . . nice response from Barry

either “accessible” nor “difficult” is a quality with inherent aesthetic value–that is, to state what I hope is obvious, there are good and bad “accessible” works just as there are good and bad “difficult” works (though there might be pleasures that are specific to difficult works that are unobtainable through accessible ones and vice versa). So to speak of accessibility or difficulty as either in themselves laudable or not is really barking up the wrong tree, like having an argument about whether marble sculptures are better than steel, or sonatas in minor keys are better than those in major keys, or landscape paintings are better than still lifes. It’s taking a descriptive quality that only takes on aesthetic significance within the total complex of a given work as if it had some absolute value in itself.

Mugla
(Turkish wedding)

born for the void
dry dolls fall
around me
there are ikons
there are ikons more
horrible than
angels mangled
in the trees

the sperm
scented
gardens with goat’s
cheese

the groom did the gorilla

the bride pined
with money

the upchoke of sea scents

the special chimneys

what passes
for my mind
ballistic reports
as you disappeared
everything is
not too ha ha

melancholy wakings now
attack the nipples

this milk turns to fire

the prophet comes
into a virtuous lady

my hymen
amen

here comes the wind
the blinds clacking

like stuck penguins
I’m sleeping with

a flower vender
on a moped

with a bell from hell
let’s part the hood

and ride
our Hegelian brides

with the wicked smiles of those who jerk
off and off

in solid white cloudy tissues
and the ashes of Irish mermaids, yep, them

i clog along
in deer hoofs

my thursdays
bleeding
into your weekends

silk hair expiring at
yr ankles with

a sea map between
cleavage

yr voice cracks
like a piano you keep
moving we’re long
gone

water boils in the clouds
of the sick

i run on beams
a baptismal dish
when i’m smiling
my jaw turns to stone
heft yr own hungry
ghosts

dawn’s kingdom
maketh me

beside the rancid
waters

swift with my
antlers

my tawny
bride

engorged
me

I danced myself
a tomb

a goat two goats
stood on the rocks

my hand raised
towards
THE DAWNS

in this Karaman
desert

i’m beat beat

there is a sweatstorm
in my trousers

and if you find yourself
falling apart

there is a rain of mud
and a lake of salt

I’m posed and popping
like a peacock

what used to calm
rips my life to ribbons

my gut kicks
map it blind

i can’t say it’s a sickness
but a stranger slipping nooses in my den

yr old man was
a wishing machine

a toy chest
if only we hope

what was the fate of the turtle gripping the talons of the eagle?
do you miss sauerkraut stew?
do you miss the bubbles of Polish beer?
before you fall asleep
chronicles spray against the white walls of
yon mind
a pensioner of the void
broccoli dust on the night sheets
to be like plums in an icebox
lazy PUG!
my family owned peaches and a dog named Lady
when you add up all the sunday
roasts I ate many a cow
what is the convenient truth?
my liver today requires a fresh bleeding
copulation:cooperation:community
we’ve been tricked into saucey action
lately the booze has been scratching my eyelids
making tea in my underwear
something to eat to clear yr mind
something bad inside went away
can a vibration alter our ocular visions
don’t take the voices for silky gods
a kiss on yr molten eyes
the lure of mermaids
they are waiting in the ether to form
propogate only to die
and I grant you no wishes my pretty son
tell me what you wanna become
a union of mammals
a mammal republic
milk giving fiends

—————————————–

Lato lato swansea swansea
step o step o the music
blok switchey o na me
lato lato
switchey ah na nanny
swan che say
moze
alle tato lato
NO LATO
switchey ah na me
na namey
Swansea Saaaaayyyyyy

—————————————–

do you have the urge to speak
of mud and marrow
my wallet is on the fire
summer esconced
a red deer sleeps
in yr marrow
water and rust between
the antlers
look for me
the cracked shells
of turtles provide
a pattern
plasma clocks &
metaphysical pain
humans are
relationships
how do you look
inside me
eyes cut in deer juice
gleaming a beat a real
beat
because we are
young
or old
and the rose
is suffering from surprises
a dazed turtle
is still a turtle
before you fall asleep
switch off the remote!

breakfast:

white cheese, tomatoes, fresh bread, orange juice with a drop of wodka

readings:

A Marzipan Factory by Grzegorz Wroblewski
Seoul Bus Poems by Jim Goar
The Story of England by Tom Beaumont James
I Too Went to the Hunt of the Deer by Lale Mulder
Small Gods by Terry Pratchett
Nausea by Sartre
Nadja by Andre Breton
Gangway 40 (expatriations): http://www.gangway.net/40/index.shtml
Cleaves: http://www.cleavesjournal.com/

ANTALYA

I’m writing to you in this weather
among buckets of bumble bees

I am trying to write as if
something is happening to you

these leopard skins are not my people

I do not understand your way of turning

an animal curls up in silence
reality cannot be forced

I bought a jacket
everyone kept calling us German

the bar was Russian
the women were Russian
the music was Gypsy

we were both perceiving and it is said
perceiving is complex

the gin and tonics
were expensive but strong

The TURKISH/IRISH CONNECTION

some poems from Primitive Pianos (Polish section) in new issue of Gangway:

Gangway #40 – Expatriations: The expatriat edition

art is recontextualization

underwhelmed???? NO WAY MAN!!!

Barzakh

And I am always trying to think about how to write. As if starting over again. So that I am using different modes all the time and seem to resist doing what I know how to do, resist using modes I may think I have gotten good at. In some visceral way, my feeling is that everything I have written is unsuccessful, and that now, today, as I write, I might find out how to do it right, in a completely different way. Of course I know I never will. Still, I have that feeling–that writing is essentially inexpressible and mysterious, and one is always trying to figure out how to do it and never quite getting there. That there is something absolutely essential to be expressed but one can’t ever quite express it. So it always feels like finding a new way to write, starting completely over again on a new tack.

Like probably all poets my writing comes out of reading, and reading may be a form of writing and vice versa. So I am reading something important to me and then at some point in reading I am drawn to writing. It is a nearly physical sensation that I have come to be very sensitive to.

from Norman Fischer interview with Hank lazer

EDA (Istanbul)

Adana kebab is sizzling
behind me in Sultanahmet
a man in an all-white suit
gets his shoes shinned
I’m skinned
he speaks of Kurdish and Armenian
symbols animals & patterns
Silk. Wool. Silk & wool. Crosses.
the azan prayer booms
from mosque to mosque
in surround sound
I move among the crowds
of Taksim
I run my hands
over the Galata tower
move through tunnels
move through the songs of gypsies
EDA is a foreign land
a foreign tongue say
ghosts the ghost of
an idea EDA is not
a verdict EDA moves
through 20th century
Turkish poetry
a crossing, a bridge,
pronouns are fungible
pre-rational pre-Islamic
a profanity and a purity
there is no sticky tape

—————————————————————————————————————–

I slept on the banks of Bosphorus and woke to a cold breeze. This is a city of crooked teeth.

Canan is an idea. Canan is the beloved. Canan is pronounced Ja nan. Canan is the lion’s milk the lion’s inferno.

I learnt the formula for the perfect potato by the banks of the Bosphorus in Ortakoy. The Turkish innovative poet ILHAN BERK:

“I don’t like the potato. But all the world consumes it; it grows everywhere, / knows no boundaries, belongs to an international family.”

and

“The potato has no personality”

“From the soil it yells: / Hey! The Ground! Hear me?”

EDA (Istanbul)

framed by the Hagia Sophia
framed by mucus
framed by mounds
framed by lute players
framed by mangy cats
waiting for a ferry
to the island of Büyükada
watching
the Golden Horn

a birthday cake was presented
for my middle passage

crossings & double
crossings

bridges &
balloons

* Thoughts and ideas of EDA taken from Murat Nemet-Nejat’s amazing anthology EDA: An Anthology of Contemporary Turkish Poetry

MIND SORES

eagles search for turtles to drop and crack upon the rocks
this is a tangible instant of a pure orgasm
cracks in the hands of a moviestream
the body of a cracked door
sun crackles across this country of mosques
dirty scientists gather a genesis of light
cracked armies attack the honeycombs
how fast the summer passes with drums
peons with a rainstorm of rugs and flirts and virgin brides
cracks in the muslim masks
all the pretty boys just for the hell of it
yr cracks lay upon my pillow
the body of a cracked nation
cracked producer of royal candies
a voice in a hammock cracks the trees
a cracked lung for penitence
you were born and we kept you hungry
cracked cats lick yr name

MIND SORES

eagles search for turtles to drop and crack upon the rocks
this is a tangible instant of a pure orgasm
cracks in the hands of a moviestream
the body of a cracked door
sun crackles across this country of mosques
dirty scientists gather a genesis of light
cracked armies attack the honeycombs
how fast the summer passes with drums
peons with a rainstorm of rugs and flirts and virgin brides
cracks in this pegan country
yr cracks lay upon my pillow
the body of a cracked nation
cracked producer of royal candies
yr boat moves upon cracky sounds

dawn’s kingdom
maketh me

beside the rancid
waters

swift with my
antlers

my tawny
bride

engorge
me

DETOUR
(Karaman, Turkey)

here comes the wind
the blinds are clacking
like stuck penguins
in an Anatolian desert

this plywood mouth
moves

the soul ala ala

the soul in mouldy
chariots

and crumbling
zeus bricks

superstars
of the civil wars

GOLDEN HANDCUFFS REVIEW

Andrei Voznesensky

Celestial Teabags
(Karaman, Turkey)

there is a sweatstorm
in my trousers
celestial teabags
officianados
wise ones
the sun whose
subject
is neurosis
flames of
disenchantment
the blinds are
rattling
sexology
sigh

it is hard to keep
track of my buttons

reality is a sandwich stuck
between my knuckles

i’m in fact
a thing a thing

in this mountain town
covered women & more goat cheese

cross women slapping the cheeks
of cheeky children

down on this cracked desert earth
Rainer Maria Rilke
I’m putting in my ear-
rings a phantom paw
paws me

cat angels
everywhere around here

i’m beat beat

ANGELS STORM HISTORY
ARMENIAN GENOCIDE AMERICAN GENOCIDE
and so on . . .

I’ve been stabbed by the Baltic
fleet and live with the Ottoman
trading company

Artangel | Stranger in a strange city: Janet Cardiff on The Missing Voice (Case Study B)

think like this: “May all creatures be happy and safe,
May they all have happy minds.

Whatever living things there are –
whether feeble or strong,
long or short, whether stout
or of medium size, whether quick or green,
whether big or little, whether seen or unseen

whether those living near or far away,
or those being born as well as those
only seeking to be born –
may all these beings be happy,
may they all have happy minds.

Let no being deceive another
Let none despise others
nor wish harm, in anger or with hatred,
upon another.

Just as a mother protects her only child
with her entire will and being
so let us each cultivate a boundless friendliness and love
toward all living things

Let each of us radiate limitless love
toward everything in the world:
above, below, beside, and across – unhindered
with no ill will or enmity.”

Do this whether standing, walking, sitting, or lying down:
develop this attitude!: this is how to live nobly.
Let each of us not fall into useless thoughts
but be virtuous — and be endowed with an insightful heart,
and discard the lust for satisfaction

so that we may never again come
to be born into pain.

—”Karaniya *Metta Sutta,” or “Sermon [Hymn] on Lovingkindness,” by Siddhatta Gotama, the historical Buddha (translation/compilation by GG, based on original and translations by Thanissaro Bhikkhu, Ñanamoli Thera, the Amaravati Sangha, Piyadassi Thera, and Acharya Buddharakkhita),

* [“Metta” is a Pali word meaning “lovingkindness.” It is an attitude of mind that can be cultivated through an activity called “metta bhavana.” “Bhavana” stems from the root “bhav” — “to grow” or “to become” — and can be translated as “cultivation.” Metta, according to the teachings of Siddhatta Gotama, the most recent Buddha, is one of the “divine abidings,” one, that is, of the four most supremely satisfying and wholesome states of mind a sentient being can achieve. To cultivate metta, one holds an attitude of friendliness and good will toward all things.

Metta directed at others or oneself can be felt across time and space.]

Grzegorz Wróblewski’s A Marzipan Factory

A Marzipan Factory is the most original and enticing book of poems I have read in years. It is Kafkaesque and yet tender, cynical and yet warm, elliptical and yet wholly immediate. GRZEGORZ WRÓBLEWSKI can take the most ordinary of phenomena and then give them the twist of a knife: to “spare” the life of a living organism—a “dry” tangerine for instance—is, from another angle, to forget it. The pleasures and terrors of sex, of age, of the fear of death, of the deceptions of our social life, have rarely been so brutally—yet wittily and charmingly—documented as they are in these short, often gnomic poems, surprisingly well rendered in Adam Zdrodowski’s translation. Grzegorz Wróblewski restores one’s faith in the power of lyric poetry to renew itself. – Marjorie Perloff

Gluttons (original)

It is 03.28 on the second day and my fridge is full of Pınar Doğal Yoğurt. There is a haze of lights outside my window. I’m at REAL shopping centre. Prayers crowned the air. I was a translated clam. This is where the world’s nuts are made. I’m waiting for the ruins of a Roman bath. I’m waiting for the temple of Augustus. I’m waiting for the Monument to a Secure Confident Future! Everybody seems hard on the face but soft in the mouthholes.

It is 06.42. I’ve slept one hour. 15 min till I am supposed to awake. It was a night with my life. Or parts thereof. Snow and microbrews, ping pong beer, erotic nights in hotel rooms. Paper routes and swimming pools. Little boy and big boy. Dusty hands against the window, sweaty trousers and moldy cheese. Hands on the nightstand. Running & running round the tracks. Jesus on the ceiling. Angel light from passing trucks. Tootsie rolls from Mormon missionaries. Las Vegas lakes and rocket ships.

It is 09.00. It has rained and the red clay of Ankara sicks to my soles. The stones glow at the old gate. This is an ongoing nomadic poetics. I’m drinking Seftali Nektari in the east campus cafeteria. In this garden of dark howls i search for my twin. Cleaners clean around me. When you awake what sticks to your skin? Who colours these keenings? The old has been sold. Culling the senses in this cold wind I have felt the devouring. Praise the whirling dervish. The ecstasy of petals on an empty platter. The non-arousing of hotel erotics. The corona is in the clinic. I’m 90% glutton free.

AFTER GOOGLE TRANSLATE FROM ENGLISH TO TURKISH BACK TO ENGLISH

03.28 and second day that my fridge is full of Pinar natural yoghurt. Lights outside my window is a haze. I’m worse than REAL mall. Air crowned prayers. I was translated oysters. Made it the world is nuts. I’m waiting for the remains of a Roman bath. I’m waiting for the temple of Augustus. Monument to a Secure Future Confident I’m waiting! Everyone seems on the face of tough but soft mouthholes.

It was 06.42. I slept for an hour. If I wake up offense 15 min. Was a night of my life. Or tracks. Snow and microbrews, ping pong, beer, erotic night in the hotel rooms. Paper paths and swimming pools. Small children and older children. Windows, sweaty hands, pants and Dusty against moldy cheese. Hands on the bedside table. Running and running tracks round. Jesus on the ceiling. Angel of light trucks to pass. Mormon missionaries from the Tootsie rolls. Lake Las Vegas and rocket ships.

It was 9:00. Ankara sicks red clay base and I have it rained. Ancient stones glow at the door. This is a continuing nomadic poetry. I’m drinking peach nectar in the east campus cafeteria. My nation is the dark twin to call it in the garden. Cleaners to clean around me. What sticks to your skin when awake? Who is this keenings colors? The former is sold. Culled in the sense that the cold wind I felt I was devouring. Dervish returned the praise. ecstasy leaves an empty plate. Arousing non EROTICS hotel. Corona has a clinic. I am free 90% gluttonous.

Gluttons

Bu 03,28 ikinci günü ve benim buzdolabı Pınar Doğal Yoğurt doludur. Benim pencere dışında ışıkları bir pus olduğunu. Ben REAL alışveriş merkezi daha kötüyüm. Dualar hava taçlandırdı. Ben tercüme istiridye oldu. Burası dünyanın fındık yapılmış olmasıdır. Ben bir Roma hamamı kalıntıları bekliyorum. Ben Augustus tapınağı bekliyorum. Ben Secure Confident Geleceğe Anıt bekliyorum! Herkes sert yüzünde görünüyor ama mouthholes yumuşak.

O 06,42 olduğunu. Ben bir saat uyuyorsun. 15 dk uyanıyorum suçsa kadar. Hayatımın bir geceydi. Ya da parçaları. Kar ve microbrews, ping pong bira, otel odalarında erotik gece. Kağıt yolları ve yüzme havuzları. Küçük çocuk ve büyük çocuk. pencere, terli pantolon ve küflü peynir karşı Dusty eller. komodinin üzerinde Hands. Koşu ve koşma yuvarlak izler. İsa tavanda. kamyon geçmesini Angel ışık. Mormon misyonerler dan Tootsie yuvarlanıyor. Las Vegas göl ve roket gemi.

O 09.00 olduğunu. Ve benim tabanı Ankara sicks kırmızı kil yağmur yağdı vardır. Eski kapıda taşları kızdırma. Bu devam eden bir göçebe şiir olduğunu. Ben doğu kampüs kafeteryada Seftali Nektari içiyorum. karanlık uluyor benim ikiz aramak bu bahçesinde. Temizleyiciler çevremdeki temizleyin. Ne zaman uyanık ne cildinize yapışır? Kim bu keenings renkler? Eski satıldı. Bu soğuk rüzgarda duyular itlaf ben yiyip bitiren hissettim. Hamd dönen derviş. boş bir tabakta yaprakları ecstasy. Olmayan otel erotics uyandırarak. Corona kliniği bulunmaktadır. Ben% 90 obur özgürüm.

Hamam
(Ulus, Ankara)

the upchoke of black crumbs these
melancholy wakings now
attack the nipples
in the Hamam a man
slapped me
with soap bubbles
and scrubbed my face with sandpaper
red dots spot my back
what is raki without rhyme
what is lion’s milk
what are bluejays without Hermes
my hymen
amen
the people
are still moving
unassailed
they
are free in their
pussies
and crocks
free to love
in this red clay of Ankara

REALLY LOVE THE POEMS IN HERE!!

PAPER BAG

New Girls and Room Full of Surprises

fresh hot and bloody good:

Jim Goar’s Seoul Bus Poems

Flying Bird Teahouse (Insadong)

the sun on my
finches the feathers
in my cup

less plumbers
many electricians

an evening performance
of fruit sellers

Utopia Spa

cold pools
skating shakes
heated floor
wooden pillows
straws
leather lumps
unsheathed
pale drainage
never stop
winking

Itaewon

searching for nan and Russians
pot-bellied smart and tart
Zen Blud lust dhar ma top-
ped rice cake orange fish eggs
& salmon slices oh boy

as regards this meathole
tonked up testy & smiling

mind finds a home on the ground
a beard between me & my mouth

cramping at the knee

swamp grass
yogi-YO!

the allegory breaks
in the mouth

the old wood
sticks out
from the newer
handle

the neighbouring dust
will have its way

Q. And have you any belief as to the purpose which the authors had in mind in writing the Ern Malley poems?

A. They claimed to be hoaxing the members of a modernistic culturism.

Q. Don’t you believe that Ern Malley’s poems were never intended to be serious work at all?

A. I have no opinion on their intentions, I only worry about their content as poems.

Q. And you say that it doesn’t matter if the significance is accidental or otherwise.

A. I don’t know if the significance is accidental, I am concerned with the significance.

Q. A great number of people would regard the poems in Angry Penguins as being rubbish.

A. It all depends on what people regarded them, on the person.

Q. The majority of people in Australia would regard the poems as nothing but rubbish.

A. Yes, and Shakespeare.

greed

MOVEMENT AND MOTION

to get from the ship to the wave is a motion

the movement is what happens

my lover is movement

what is a motion of a lover if not an apology for death?

I has many notions

movements take place inside the coalshed

else inside a coal cooker

a coalhead

the paint is wet dry

it may happen the I is wonky

it may happen we fickle ourselves sick

therefore the I must keep moving

conceptions are not contraceptions

PETER ORLOVSKY

<a href="http://tomclarkblog.blogspot.com/2010/05/peter-orlovsky-namaste.html
“>PETER ORLOVSKY 2

This is how I wanna go at the end . . . . . alas of course . . . we don’t have really have a choice . . . a life lived!!!

YOU KILL YOURSELF TO RAISE THE DEAD

——————————————————————
the animals on a very bright day offer professions of good will. one month ago, near the shores of the Bosphorus, i slept on a park bench then ate a potato. the Bosphorus is not an empty background. this gut kicks or rather there is a stranger at the door and the stranger is a strangler. i found grieving in the grass and constantly stain the curtains. i found a pervert in my throat. What is attached to a dignified demeanor? If you are too comfortable with a voice do not employ it. The ships are not the waves and vice versa.
——————————————————————

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

all the people that we’ve _______ and all the people that we’ve_______

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

the years flash.

what goes thin goes sure.

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

freckles on the shoreline.

my phone refuses to sing.

——————————————————————

well, then, for my part, a lover distinguishes movement from motion. but i ask you what is the motion of a lover if not an apology for death. do you think me sheep? very well then. i am sheep. my nose tweaks inside every description. i’ve been pressed into a slow cooker. this grass is not dry and therefore i must keep moving. yes, indeed, you may even say i fickle myself sick. conceptions are not contraceptions.

PLAYING DRESS UP

this gut kicks. this is a stranger and a strangler. i stain these curtains.
——————————————————————
i found grieving in the grass. I found a pervert in my throat. Don’t mistake the ships for the waves. If you suspect a voice do not employ it. the animals on a very bright day offer professions of good will. one month ago, near the shores of the Bosphorus, I slept on a park bench then ate a potato. this forest is not an empty background.
——————————————————————

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

all the people that we’ve _______ and all the people that we’ve_______

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

the years flash.

what goes thin goes sure.

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

freckles on the shoreline.

my phone refuses to sing.

——————————————————————

PLAYING DRESS UP

this gut kicks. this is a stranger and a strangler. i stain these curtains.

a wave of ships.
——————————————————————
i found grieving in the grass.

don’t you swallow.
——————————————————————

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

all the people that we’ve _______ and all the people that we’ve_______

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

the years flash.

what goes thin goes sure.

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

freckles on the shoreline.

my phone refuses to sing.

PLAYING DRESS UP

this gut kicks. this is a stranger and a strangler. i stain these curtains.

a wave of ships.

i found grieving in the grass.

don’t you swallow.

all the people that we’ve _______ and all the people that we’ve_______

you kill yourself to raise the dead.

the years flash.

what goes thin goes sure.

freckles on the shoreline.

my phone refuses to sing.

ELBLAG POEMS

Modernism continues all over the world (Turkish Second New, NY School poetics, Flarf, conceptual poetics, Gnostic Poetics etc.) All is possible