Burning Australia, 1945

I have this feeling of boats
burning like the oldest known coal fire
and as we end another bushfire
a grim reality
                ancient hunters molded by dried vegetables
                but that acrid set won't let us cope

my sisters triggered the burning of a body
and then the tickle of thunder haunted us like
    the atmosphere is a complete disc
    a burning montage of smoke

this hot yellow field is lonely
perhaps we have hats and roots
splitting up into sections of a body
only this is making up a history
it can be touching and lifting
we look up and only see more grim fire

                the moon here smells like a cherry bomb
                this is not layers spent over little time
                the violence in a church burns different

I quit spending time on layers
while Canada's ice floes were underground
                a seam of coal
                burning for 5,000 years

how can we sleep
                when Australia is burning 

when some
drunk
dies

I tie
a bagel
around
his
snout

open call for submissions @ PinchPinchPress

Barnaby Jones needs submissions! FEED HIM!

best song of the year (so far)

Art History

Rules (by Lacey Hunter)

must include:
a color
i need to feel the wind
a moment in the supermarket
the smell of lettuce
7.5 lines

(the first two were warm-ups)

#1 Boat Smell

I took a boat to the supermarket
and I heard lettuce snapping
sweat-rain & filth-rain under the bed
this organic cat / we recalled / is so
breezy in his excellent wind gear / the hairs
in my skin were pressed and whispered
to / the scary market

#2 Orange

aisle 4 is full of blood again / I am
so happy drunk and horny, cereal
boxes & tang up against my palm / so the
room is painted for me / now magicians
fuck under big lettuce letters
spelling "LUCK IS WET" / yet I'm
still an asshole


#3 Francis Ford Copolla's Dishwasher

lettuce bungees my son's throat / yarns
of mashed potatoes and this is the
wet placeholder of her body--a supermarket
burial and a sound flight against rotten
into preciousness / first the engine then
chokes up dust / the moment the heart
made a flat sound

#4 IWW

boy aboard the red and silk mills
riding letters as in support / a mine
becomes dirt again / yet time, space
effectiveness, light / Mario humping a dryer
drum / clouds are fixed and the
breeze kills us / now art collectors
dig this lettuce

#5 Red & Black

Lenin's crooked donkey jaw breathes on
my whiskers, tells me about sword & shield
birthdays / he / two colors of breathe
one of which is lettuce / I try
to kiss the lens / his eyes/ and
he flees to a broken trunk / he
cowers like new mud

#6 J.B.

Josie becomes a red bird without shape
or no vocal jaw / she hops amongst
the slope / not a banana dance /
but this man in a white hat kills her
making music history while
napping / breath calling wind
lettuce hair is desperate

OctopusMagazine #11

The new issue is incredible. It looks amazing and the people in it are fantastic. I especially liked the pieces by Joshua Marie Wilkinson, Michael Earl Craig, Julia Story, and Brandon Downing; but really everything is good.

Part I: The Dirt Mall

1.

like you / bitter little son
of a surface under carbon and the blank meter of Dogtown
you drunk shit dragged right out and now
women falling into a swimming pool

skateboards are interesting
galaxies are interesting
snakes are interesting
owls are interesting
cats without names are interesting
                
                but Dogtown
                devours our hill
                it can bite / can be a father to himself
                everyone here is mother a fault
                in that pistol on our poor ocean
                on the other side of a balanced plague
                and they are just carbon, Charles
                as if you knew a kind different

now we may be devoid of a play
no way no ghost man
shot of a castle in a chess player
like some hollow in a board
but Charles made a deal of wood
and Helen hated a soft pillow
or mornings fucked in Egypt
so long after drinking up her brother or morphing into annoying trophies
her eyes were plates of hot fire
not to mean anything would be simple like making tools sing
Helen hated of all things blue

        there is a kind of place
        a yellow buggy two sets of dice our mothers hair in folds
        not to be a box around my ears
        framing this is our constitution our / our anger
        Maximus you frightened ships wheel
        drag me across a leisure suit
        let me be golden for this

sassafras is concrete / poor old man trying to surf more
this said harbor is choked in snow and
now she is annoyed by furs and fish and bullion
ahh lady please don't make a history of this
but Helen / Helen remembers being a girl locked in a rivers locks and rubber bucks
He walked some miles in old shoes
watched not our moon but a moon only it couldn't be real
did I miss her
how does someone begin to miss a scented tune

my brother who was born misshapen
now you know that about me / the real me
with materials for me and a disguise
I had kissed Helen and brutal tones insinuated themselves against me
she the librarian twisted knew better of me
she kept lisps and whisper in a cold blue
then little boxes / this is where I live in
was with when / when cocksucking goddamn
 
ONE.

to be magic:

the basic words / "to be able, to have power”
I am a machine in the magic lantern
what is the glass in Greek cinema 
how we became projected with similar rapidity

the bol weevil / with a mystery inside it / was with it's things in Europe
but us people have no motorcycles or summer plants for chewing
so a breeze a real cat inside a plaster one
this kind junk around his shop / making a mockery of lines
   
        I punish thee
        push trampolines with no spaces
        into light where clasps our plaid light
        thus the science and religion of magicians
        the hunter of souls binds thee into spools
        we held to society like form of shape
        putrid dripping knowledge of unwholesome revelation

these "magical types" are hidden fences
in our hometown
by a misshapen lake

BUY BARNABY JONES!!!

THE PAYPAL BUTTON IS BACK AND JESUS WANTS YOU TO BUY IT.

Drunk Post: The 1,000 Travels of the Panda

i am now the kite
i am a literal kite
it is sad to have sticks for arms
and legs
and a dick
flapping in the wind
watching people move around in circles
i just flap
i try to move in circles
but there are pandas with trumpets
singing choral praises to Christ
irregardless of the trumpets
god it is pleasant to be wasted
this is standard verse
this is not my kind of Thursday
i do not dance
but i can feel lonely
and know that it sounds stupid
to hear the radio
but only listen for the low sounds
waiting for that faint call
the trumpets from pandas
on a grass somewhere
calling me down
and waiting for me
with a smile
if they can

New Work @ Drumstick Variations

MC BC

Bryan Coffelt being brilliant and drunk.

Charles Olson "The Librarian" & "Maximus to Gloucester, Letter 27"

His voice is like lightning dragged through smoke.

I could watch this all day.

From The Fall

"Believe me, for certain men at least, not taking what one doesn't desire is the hardest thing in the world" ---Albert Camus (1956)

Dear Sorrowful Lungs

---For Me

ONE

Our carved mess of hair and deaf tangles are wearing out of us
are making a very clean mess of my veins
and now they say graying
I'm not very
little hands filled with muddy soup
abortion of forts / clods of feeling shitty

You tasted some kind of broken metal
and you knew of it and broke with it
and am now used as frame
If I could a way of it / get out and play a woodwind
or watch something spin till I sleep
Did you see the snow make a cross

TWO

Please hear me lords of warm guts
I am straining and sitting again
I am not the place where dust greets pale teeth
I am the depression of your back / of my back
I wish happy out loud

Did you know birds kiss in anger now

I will borrow the name Louis
and buy violins and textiles
punch along the range of streets
find a square and be done with it
turn to you to be sorry and vile

THREE

I am prepared not to be
and not and not be to you
the thing prepared also to be
to a one also prepared doubly
but pushed a needle or light
left in you and not of us
the numbers can be but often move
like people without sound and color
but are and not and turned off / if not at all
to be fair or putrid or haunted
and a kind / a piece not sleeping at all

FOUR

How did the clubs, tubas, matches
find this cabin filled with water
not like a lung or not being a carafe
as if nothing could be that
but we are that kind of calming motion
the volumes between two orange stars

Owls can say, no people die now
but nature is full of terrible orchestras
and Chinese ballet stars
but in this moment I am piece of dirt
lodged in the nail of a violinist
He could be beautiful to me

	Heatmiser - [Hidden Track] Half Right
	Found at skreemr.com