Sometimes

London has

Been gone

For almost

Eighteen months

And sometimes

He still 

Bursts into tears

When he thinks

About her.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published in May.

BETRAYALS OF HATRED QUEUE IN PATH OF LOVE

I met her on resuming junior secondary school.

On Monday, we all resumed school and everyone promised to study well. On that week, we all wrote our first test which was to test the seriousness of a student when they have gone away for holidays.
Like water in a basket, the first, second, and third weeks came and passed. On the fourth week, a new student was enrolled in our class, a female student.

We have a classmate called Ummul Khayr who acted as if she knew the girl before. They were classmates in the formal school she attended.

On Tuesday morning, the new student introduced herself to the whole class. She was friendly but a bit proud.

Fatima was the kind that felt proud of herself in the classroom which I hated. So I spoke to her rudely about her arrogance but it led to a serious odium between me and her in the classroom.
Fatima and I never spoke to each other in a good manner but we were always being rude to each other.
We always had to fight in the classroom every single day since the day we had a misunderstanding with each other.

The first term went by without counseling with each other but we would always find new abusive words to stab each other with.
The second term came again and went by but still battling also the third term.
We were given a holiday for the end of the school year which makes me think about the issues.
I asked myself:
Should I stop this rubbish fight? or what will I do?

After the resumption of SS2, I tried my best possible ways to dodge the girl problem but all went in vain till the day I slapped her but still regretted my actions.

The first term passed by and we resumed as “not friends not enemies” and I really enjoyed myself like that.
The second term was so special to me because I met the love of my life.
In the middle of second term, the school embarked on a excursion to “BILKI BAB”. On that day, I just don’t believe myself when I realized that “NURAINI AND FATIMA” were chatting and smiling with each other.

I have a classmate called Salihu who saw us talking to each other. He announced it to the whole class member and wrote on a paper that “Nuraini and Fatima have started playing love”. some of my friends told me that is there a wish and Salihu said he had a dream about it before.

On our way back to school after the excursion, the bus was full with the story of the new Romeo and Juliet.
We continue like that until the speech and prize giving day of my school. The school gave one month holiday that distracted our relationship. So as a newbie poet I wrote a poem and placed it on my cupboard.

Fatimah
You are like a weapon that budged the gap between me and odium
You are the bridge that bridges my ribs to build a household of love in my heart
You are halal theft who took my heart without permission
You are a kind kidnapper that kidnapped my feelings and emotions
You curtained my heart so that nobody has access to it again
Let me tell you, Fatimah
My heart is your palace
Where you can do anything you like inside, Twerk yourself as fun
My heart is a palace that the kingdom In it never ends but you are only the queen forever.

We resumed SS3 in which I became shy of her. So I wanted her to first speak to me but no response.

NOW
I bought a chocolate and wrapped it in a lovers’ package gift container, I dressed up in a very ironed suit and walked to the front of the classroom. I brought out the gift and started writing with three colors of markers on the whiteboard.

A hyperstructure of surreal evocation:
a review of Kaos Karma by Rus Khomutoff

Kaos Karma, the latest chapbook release from Rus Khomutoff, has remarkable weight for such a slim volume. Coming in at a mere nine pages, the book, were it not a digital only release, would feel delicate in the hand, something only barely able to delay its inevitable collapse. This feeling is soon swept away once you pull back its figurative cover and begin to read. What is found within is a poetry that is anything but delicate. It is a poetry wrought with energy and power. A poetry that does not relent and does not care for the easily overwhelmed senses. Perhaps it is a blessing that it is so short.

Kaos Karma does not bring the reader gently into its message. From the opening page, read as a solid block of full caps text, the reader is almost overwhelmed by the concrete, almost monolithic structure of the work. Its appearance seems almost intended to intimidate the reader. There are no soft hands to guide you as you read on, you are hit again and again by these unrelenting blocks of language. These almost endless sentences are like surreal billboards and indeed I would very much like to see some of this work as billboards. A wakeup from the endless detritus of the advertising world. A hyperstructure of surreal evocation. 

The language of the book carries a heavy taste of surrealism, those dreamlike and visionary sentences that burn and strike the mind. ‘HEAR THE SECRET SUN SPEAK BLOOD LABYRINTH BLOOD FREED FROM THE WEIGHT OF ALL TIME ALL THE DARK REBIRTHS ARE MINE’ is but one example. Though this heavy language is broken up at times with a kind of new-age esotericism, ‘NOSTALGIA IS A DRUG’, ‘BE ALL THINGS IN ALL TIME’, the self-help for the burnt out searchers on the edge of an insane whirling mountain. Guidance from Khomutoff to where? And when? Who knows? This combination of the abstract and concrete in the language give the effect of the reader being brought back into a recognisable and understandable world, though only for a moment. Once the surreal language reengages the reader is sent back off into the vortices of mental propulsion.

And there is a purpose here, though it is obscure. The writing is taking you somewhere, like a guidebook, like the great Bardo Thodol, the Tibetan book of the dead. ‘ALAS THE CHILD WHO LIVES IN A MYTHICAL, PARADISICAL TIME RENEWING THE WORLD.’ But unlike that holy ancient text which reaches in to take the reader through the labyrinth of illusion through to a clarity of consciousness, through to the other side, Kaos Karma does not state which of its threads is illusion and which reality. Perhaps there is neither in Khomutoff’s cosmology, or perhaps both in a swirling miasma of meaning and nonsense. It is up to the reader to decide.

While only a brief taste, it is a taste so full and potent the reader will find themselves at the other end of Kaos Karma with the heady feeling of both clarity and confusion. This is an artwork both highly idiosyncratic and universal all at once. I have spoken often of the idea of the third text, a text that exists only through the combination of the mind of the reader and the work they are reading. A text that exists entirely unique and which is conjured by strange and powerful, but obscure language. Kaos Karma is such a work. The reader is all the better for having experienced it.    

Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. He is a member of the C22 experimental writing collective. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter/X/Bluesky @NJApoetry.     

“You were born from the Rays of God’s Majesty when the stars were in their perfect place.”

                                                                                                 ~RUMI

God I return to you in the lights of a star…shining bright with the light of love. Love from the beginning I return without darkness for I have seen the wonders of my soul. The hidden treasure of your spark within me. The world has not covered my soul in sin or emptiness leaving me without you in my heart. Your truth that speaks in me in the wee hours of the morning as the world sleeps forever more. I find my soul among the stars circling the outer rim of Saturn’s moon. I’m that star to the right of your heart. O God never to become dim for you created me to shine forever more.

“When you lose all sense of self the bonds of a thousand chains will vanish…”                                                                                                        ~RUMI

Where can I go O God where you do not exist? I have not traveled far enough to not feel your Holy presence within my soul. Delightful thoughts about the beginning of time together. Reaching for the clouds, as I lay in the fields of joy wishing to see the skies once more. Before the clouds cover the moon and the sun fades into the distinct mountains of Vermont. Once we had a conversation, as I sat on the porch wondering about my life. It was a conversation about my beginning without end. My heart listened intently as you spoke of salvation and redemption. Christ the messiah came alive within me. No more doubt nor sin to confuse my aching soul. For I had received the communion of life with these three words: You are forgiven.

Green Hair

    Have you ever felt like killing someone? I think most have, maybe four or five times in a lifetime. My number’s higher, maybe twelve times a year. I don’t consider myself a sociopath or psychopath. I don’t know the difference. Is there a difference?

     In 2005 I was on an elevator in the Prudential Building, glad to be out of the cold of late February, on my way up to the thirty-seventh floor. The elevator was empty except fore me. It glided silently up at a good clip. I was thinking about how much it would cost to heat this entire building in one Chicago day. Maybe more than I made in one year. The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and a young man got on board. He was skinny, dressed all in black, and his hair was dyed green.

     The young man rode the elevator to the seventh floor. When we got there he stepped half way out, leaned his left arm on the door and gave me a big smile. Then he hit all the buttons on the elevator going up to the top by running his fingers across the panel. That meant the elevator doors would open and shut on every floor till I got to the thirty-seventh.     

      Anger flared through every muscle of my body. I rose up on my toes and slapped the now closed door with open palms. The anger management class had not prepared me for such a sudden show of hostility from a young stranger. When it came to the young, my anger made few distinctions. They seemed egotistical and took their comfortable world for granted. They had no respect for those who had sacrificed to serve their country.

     I felt in my left inside suit pocket for the piano wire I’d had since my tour in the Vietnam in 1970. I kept it because Chicago is no longer a safe city. Even in the loop area, this close to Lake Michigan, a person might attempt a robbery. Now I felt immediately that I was justified in killing that smiling green gutter snake.

     My plan was to come up behind the guy and strangle him with the wire quietly and quickly. Before that green dude got off the elevator, he was probably seeing as fat and out of shape. No threat to him. Just an old man.

      I got off two floors above where green dude got off on the nineteenth floor, took different elevator down to his floor. I walked all the quiet hallways but I could not find him.  I opened all the doors on the floor and looked in. Mostly they were law offices. No sign of green hair.

      How can anybody be so stupid as to dye their hair green? Must be a lonely, attention-seeking dude. A narcissist. Pathetic. No women will ever love him. Leave green to the trees and plants.

     I forgot my job interview on the 37^th floor and went back down to the lobby to wait for the green guy. His hair was pasty like a green avocado, only shiny. I waited an hour, trying to look busy on my cell phone, but he never came down. Could the bozo actually have an office in this place? Maybe he had a company that sold hair color for men.

      I decided to walk around the area near the lake and then over where the big department stores were, hoping I’d catch sight of him on the street. After an hour I gave up in the cold and ducked into a bar on Wabash to warm up. I was ordering a beer when I look down the long bar I see that the second bartender has green hair and wears black.

      “That’s an unusual hair style,” I say to the guy standing next to me at the bar.

      “That’s Pete,” the guy responds. “His father owns this place, or did. He died two weeks ago.”

      “Well, I guess somebody has to run this dump,” I mumble.

      “Yeah, I think the family has to sort it out. Does it go to Pete or to the brother of his dad? His uncle helped run it. The dad died at fifty-five and left no will.”

       “I’m not a lawyer,” I add. “I used to sell cars. It seems right this place should go to the son.”

      “That’s what the regulars think. We remember Pete when he was a kid pushing a toy truck between the tables.”

       “I didn’t play with toy trucks. I had toy tanks, soldiers and fighter jets. My dad was killed in World War 2 at nineteen when I was two. My parents were from Alabama and got married at sixteen. I don’t remember much of my dad.”

      “Hey Pete, come down here. This guy’s a lawyer.”

      “I said I was not a lawyer.”

      “Pete, this guy can help.”

      “Great, tell him he gets free beers.”

      “Pete, I’m sorry,” I say. “Your friend here got it wrong. I’m no lawyer but don’t mind a few free beers.”

      “You look familiar. Haven’t we met? Didn’t I see you earlier?”

      “No, I just pulled into town. I live in Wheaton over an hour away.”

      “Sorry about the mix-up. Things are always noisy in my bar.”

      “No problem.”

      “What do you think of my hair? Odd, huh? My customers here can now always spot me.”

      “It’s a bit odd by Wheaton standards.”

      “I did it for Saint Patrick’s coming up. I thought I’d do more this year than green beer. It’ll give folks a laugh. We can all use some cheering up.”

       Green Hair goes to get me a beer on tap. As he walks back toward me with the mug of beer I study his face. Is this the guy from the elevator? He’s the only green hair guy I’ve seen all day.

     “Sorry about your loss,” I say. ‘Your dad left you something wonderful, and thanks for the beer.”

      “You’re welcome,” the green-haired bartender says. He gives a quick smile as he walks away to help another customer.

don’t touch me please

don’t touch me please

the grenade of death ignites inside me and will not explode

the ruins around me are overgrown with emptiness and others are dying instead of me

these others (for some reason)crave life in a glass of metallic milk

these others are born and die alone, inhaling the smell of milky silence

don’t bother me please

give me your first gift (you never gave me anything)

give me your last gift (I gave you my tears and you didn’t know about it)

death is nothing more than a surprise box

death is nothing more than a nuclear bomb that will tear me to pieces

no need to pick up my pieces from the floor pleaseеееее

splinters of dreams cut the veins of silence in which the clock clicks

countdown and nuclear bomb will teach you how to fuck like in porn

countdown and nuclear dust will teach you water

because the future is water is spit flowing from the wall of a destroyed house

no need

the sun is so in vain that the snow doesn’t melt and the fingers are still dumb

an island of a concentration camp of thought is buried in an ocean of knowledge about the principle of nuclear fusion

no need to study science

after all even I am nobody needs and unknown to anyone

and no one is capable of knowledge while the unfinished house of life is being bombed

the cemetery guard reports:

for the past night in the cemetery:

no one died

no one was resurrected

he looks…

he looks at me with red eyes

he speaks invisibly and inaudibly

he asks and doesn’t know what to ask for

I look at his face and upper body

I look at his torso cut across by a shrapnel

I forget that I have eyes and that I need to breathe

our lips don’t move

we’re talking forever

End of hi-story

1

the first day since the end of world history quietly ended

2

red birds are still silent in the invisible void

red birds peck the grainy despair of the cemetery

red birds knock on the window of a bombed house

3

kittens died inside the belly

mother cat died inside the womb of the planet

4

warmly

coldly

birds

without feathers

without wings

without beak

without eyes

without a body

nothing

nowhere

warm cold of nuclear winter

cold warmth of late autumn

eternal autumn in the joints of the prison

tightness bleeds

5

the cage of reality is torn

forever

NON RIESCO AD INTEGRARMI

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un disturbo borderline

distribuisco gomitate tipo Greg “The Hammer” Valentine,

nemmeno se mi impegno riuscirò a aspirare al Nobel

deutoplasma irriducibile tra vacche nere d’Hegel.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un delirio schizofrenico

rifuggo dalle masse e intingo biro nell’arsenico,

canto, fuori dal coro, come un mitomane a X Factor

disinnescando bombe, spaccio col metal-detector.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho attitudini da killer,

deambulo tra zombie, stile King of Pop in Thriller,

volando a bassa quota quoto quote di quozienti,

costretto a impacchettare sottotitoli per non-utenti.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho ogni sorta di fobia

in coda appetisco il verde, come un virtuoso in dendrofilia,

mettendo a fuoco il mondo e sfuocati i tempi con lo zoom,

mi arrendo alla desuetudine della consecutio temporum.

I DON’T FIT IN

I don’t fit in, I have a borderline personality disorder

I give out elbows like Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine,

if I don’t apply myself I’ll never be able to aspire to the Nobel Prize 

irreducible deutoplasma among Hegel’s black cows.

I don’t fit in, i have a schizophrenic delusion 

i hate the people and dip my pen in arsenic, 

i sing, outside the choir, like an X Factor mythomaniac

defusing bombs and dealing with a metal detector.

I don’t fit in, i’ve got a killer’s disposition, 

i wander between the zombies, style King of Pop in Thriller, 

flying at low altitude I quote quotes of quotients, 

forced to pack subtitles for non-users.

I don’t fit in, i have all sorts of phobias, 

in the queue i crave the green, like a virtuous dendrophile, 

setting the world on fire, blurring time with the zoom, 

i surrender myself to the obsolescence of consecutio temporum.

IL POLLICE IMPONIBILE

La tassonomia caratterizza l’homo sapiens dalla forma della mano,

non distingue l’ominide della Bibbia, l’ominide del Vangelo, l’ominide del Corano;

l’anatomia moderna s’è imbattuta in una scoperta attendibile:

l’italiano medio è dotato di pollice imponibile.

L’aumento esorbitante dei tassi non comporta una sparizione delle tasse,

nessun sessuologo animale è mai riuscito a uscire dall’impasse,

le tasse aumentano, in caso di abbassamento o crescita dei tassi,

saranno tasse ninfomani, lontane dal desiderio di ribassi.

L’Italia è la repubblica fondata sulle tasse, da Nord a Sud,

tanto che a rimettere le cose a posto ci vorrebbe un Governo Robin Hood,

l’italiano medio, ogni giorno, è in ADE a misurarsi la pressione fiscale,

arrivati al 50% chiameremo l’anatomopatologo a certificare l’embolia cerebrale.

L’Itaglia è terra d’inventori, si mette una tassa sull’ombra delle tende dei locali,

il massimo del cuneo fiscale (presa per il culo) è la tassa comunale sulle centrali nucleari,

che, in bolletta, ti trovi una tassa EF-EN sull’efficienza (?) dell’energia elettrica,

come cazzo riescono a convincerti dell’incoerenza è cosa comica.

C’è la tassa sul televisore, c’è la tassa sulla tassa, d’incostituzionale disappunto,

e scopriamo che la nostra spazzatura, soggetta ad IVA, ha valore aggiunto,

la tassa sulla morte, intesa come certificato di constatazione di decesso,

ragazzi, ditemi voi, se ci fosse stata ai tempi di Yeshua, Lazzaro come sarebbe stato messo.

La tassa sulla morte, maronna dell’Incoroneta, a morire serve un nulla-osta

ostia, il morto deve resuscitare e versare 35€ facendo la coda in Posta,

la tassa sulle invenzioni che non si applica all’invenzione di nuovi tributi

e ti accusano di diffamazione se affermi d’esser governato da una massa di cornuti.

La tassa sugli spiriti, in senso alcolico, la tassa sul rumore degli aeroplani,

il rumore degli aeroplani? Pensa alla tassa sul casino di un concerto degli Inti-Illimani,

c’è una tassa sui gradini, l’imposta comunale sui cani, la tassa sulle cabine telefoniche.

Ma andate a cagare, forse si stava meglio con le stravaganze fiscali borboniche. 

THE TAXABLE THUMB

Taxonomy characterises homo sapiens by the shape of the hand,

it does not distinguish the hominid of the Bible, the hominid of the Gospel, the hominid of the Koran;

modern anatomy has made a discovery worthy of belief:

the average Italian has a taxable thumb.

The exorbitant increase in rates does not mean the disappearance of taxes, 

no animal sexologist has ever managed to break the deadlock, 

if rates are lowered or increased, taxes will increase, 

they will be nymphomaniac rates, far from a desire to lower them.

Italy is a republic founded on taxes, from north to south,

for many who would like to put things right, it would take a government Robin Hood, 

tthe average Italian is in ADE every day to measure the tax burden, 

when the figure reaches 50%, we’ll call in the pathologist to certify the cerebral embolism.

Itaglia, the land of inventors, imposes a tax on the shade of shop awnings, 

the maximum of the tax wedge (taking the ass) is the municipal tax on nuclear power plants,, 

that, in your bill, you find an EF-EN tax on the efficiency (?) of electricity,

how the fuck do they manage to convince you of the inconsistency is funny.

There’s the TV tax, there’s the tax on tax, unconstitutional discontent,

and we discover that our rubbish, subject to VAT, has added value,

the death tax, aimed at the death certificate,

guys, tell me, if there had been in the times of Yeshua, Lazarus, how they would have put it.

The death tax, Holy Madonna to the Crown, to die gives the green light, 

fuck, the dead must resurrect and pay 35 € queuing at the Post Office, 

the tax on inventions does not apply to the invention of new taxes,

and they accuse you of defamation if you claim to be governed by a bunch of cuckolds.

The tax on spirits, in the alcoholic sense, the tax on aircraft noise, 

aircraft noise? We’re thinking of the tax on the mess of an Inti-Illimani concert, 

there’s a tax on staircases, council tax on dogs, tax on telephone boxes.

Fuck off, maybe we were better off with the Bourbon tax extravaganzas.

WWW

Il web è una cosa strana,

la libertà dell’ignorante regna sovrana,

dicevano i latini, dal mento volitivo, della lega anseatica, necesse est navigare,

e ci si trova imbrigliati nella rete come cozze messe a corrente da lampare.

Ci immergiamo, ogni santo giorno, nella melma del World Wide Web

senza bussola, come turisti nomadi intimiditi alla ricerca di un Club Med,

siamo incalliti e spensierati come membri di una neo-avanguardia

imbarcati, veri coatti, nelle cabine della Costa Concordia,

incuranti che a forza di navigare si finisca davanti ad un machete,

nella jungla sadomaso dei webmaster t’imbatti sempre in un webete,

disponibile a imbavagliarti in un rapporto di connessione / sconnessione,

convincendoti, senza fatica, d’esser tu il set da circoncisione.

Questi miei stupidi versi dove andranno mai a parare,

se qualunque palla finisce in rete senza possibilità di verificare,

senza opportunità di criticare, ti saltano addosso in branco, come neo-fascisti,

fasci in fasce con in bocca un biberon da insaziabili etilisti,

davanti all’uomo webete ogni ragionamento cade,

l’aristocrazia del web si incentra sulla marca di De Sade,

«lasciate ogni speranza» o voi che entrate, in blog

se avete il torto di non spartir merende col barone Sacher-Masoch.

La verità è che navigare è diventato un dramma,

senza aver attaccato all’USB del tuo Pc i fili dell’elettroencefalogramma:

chi non ha intuito che il www sia diventato un outlet,

sia condannato a osservar la rete come Boris Beckett.

WWW

The web is a strange thing,

the freedom of the ignorant reigns supreme,

as the voluptuous-chinned Latins of the Hanseatic League used to say, necesse est navigare,

and we find ourselves stuck in the network like mussels in the current of the lamparo.

Every holy day we plunge into the mud of the World Wide Web,

disorientated like intimidated nomadic tourists looking for a Club Med, 

tough and carefree like members of a neo-avant-garde, 

embarked, real roughnecks, in the cabins of the Costa Concordia, 

carefree enough to sail that everything ends up in front of a machete, 

in the sado-masochistic jungle of webmasters, you always come across a webheber,

ready to gag you in a connection/disconnection relationship,

by convincing you, with ease, that you yourself are circumcision material.

My silly worms, where will they ever go 

if any ball ends up in the net without the possibility of verifying, 

no opportunity to criticise, if they fall on you in herds like neo-fascists , 

bundles in layettes with a baby bottle in their mouths as insatiable alcoholics, 

all reasoning falls before the webbeast,

the web aristocracy centres on the De Sade brand,

‘abandon all hope’ you who enter here, in blog 

if you’re wrong enough not to share tastes with Baron Sacher-Masoch’s.

In truth browsing has become a drama, 

without having to connect the USB of your PC to the wires of an electroencephalogram:

who hasn’t guessed that the www has become an outlet, 

is condemned to observe the net like Boris Beckett.

EPIMILLIGRAMMA

Non ti devi incazzare se, a volte, ti nomino,

sai, t’ho reso immortale come un «ritratto d’anonimo».

Incide meglio il mio inchiostro che una ciotola di cicuta:

senza che nessuno lo sappia la tua fama si è evoluta.

EPIMILLIGRAMME   

You don’t have to put yourself in color if you look at your name,

you know, I’ll make you immortal in “portrait d’anonyme”.

My ink cuts better than a bowl of hemlock:

without anyone knowing your fame has evolved.

MANGIANO VOCI

se hanno carta bianca, i nuovi scrittori che cantano senza Musa

emulerebbero Géricault nella sua zattera della Medusa.

L’arte italiana è diventata un assalto al forno,

sbocciano versi a «cazzo» che neanche i membri di un film porno,

anche nel Poetryweb l’attore si confonde con il montatore,

rigurgitando testi tanto anacronistici da andare in copertina su Le Ore.

La democrazia lirica non deve essere una lirica da due lire,

indispensabile è studiare e non è vietato severamente approfondire

oramai tutti improvvisano, protesizzatisi con un bloc-notes,

come se invece che far cultura doves sero iscriversi a Tú sí que vales.

Per la scrittura sul www dovremmo mettere un test d’ingresso,

vietato toccare la tastiera sotto minaccia di sollecito decesso,

non occorre all’arte tardomoderna, Lucini docet, attempiarsi rivoltelle,

la malattia incurabile d’inizio secolo si chiama Adsl.

THEY EAT VOICES

if they have white paper, the new writers who sing without a Muse,

would rival Géricault in his Raft of the Medusa.

Italian art has become an assault on the pot,

more fulfilled in the ‘brothel’ than the members of a porn film,

so in the Poetryweb the actor is confused with a stallion

full of anachronistic texts fit for the cover of Le Ore.

Lyrical democracy must not be a two-bit lyric,

it is essential to study and it is not forbidden to go deeper,

all of them now strictly improvising, equipped with a notepad,

as if they should sign up for Tú sí que vales rather than culture.

To write on the www we should set up an entry test,

It’s forbidden to touch the keyboard on pain of sudden death,

not suitable for late modern art, Lucini teaches, his revolver at his head,

the incurable disease of the turn of the century is called Adsl.

Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature. Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2018 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi: Underground e Riserva Indiana, con A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, con Joker, Il Guastatore, con Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, con deComporre Edizioni. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria L’Arrivista; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale Información Filosófica; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e Fuzzy (deComporre). Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d’avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), con mille movimentisti, e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria.Il suo volume La malattia invettiva vince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporanei dell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva.I suoi versi sono tradotti in francese, inglese e spagnolo. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica).

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).