Panning Out
the ontological panacea
galloping airbrakes their launching
moles against angry vibrations
inveighs awful reverb to
orange scrape dentures
and beefburger eyeballs
the reveries of memoriam putting
darkening the screwdriver period
harkening sonic calcification
negative zoom: sternum
curls tight in tumid sector breath
the cornered moonbeam’s communique
latent in seawater
softened the homecoming eardrum
while
victors
bubbled
driveway claimants
stepped where clichéd glitter
stoked thoughtful commotion
drenched by deuce dropping
narrowed diaper compartment fairgrounds
Day Turning Dark for the Night
daylight drifting
intones the scented patois
its daydream stolen
the mixture
a bartered abandon
disposed the grim fret
holiday eponym aggression
the firestorm boiled
at empty eyebrows
to rapture in firecracker roadhouses
( )
a subterranean temptation
glinting retorts umder caliper vessels
nominal venom prefixes
nuance eyebrow tactics
repentance blueprint blown last
off the walks, a despair tankard
covered in a thermostat virginal
cowered before posse moonlight
( )
numbered breakthroughs
catapult the thought, not the few
the insight rushing
sycophantic mezzanine colors
docket tension
wayside caring
the chance phonemes neon remedial leave
The Loyal Backing Away
spectral allegiance
sampling
the legendary obscure
a rugby phantom
gone missing in the rain
a dalliance
dripping slippery breath
over wet tentacles
periphery bursting a drunken glow
no motto left
to have or habitate
over
each
nomenclature cufflink suicide undecided
beyond the reach
of any tonic’s clef
( )
at root
a sonic declamation
amply
scuttled
the celebrity rumor gloss thickened
its equivocal moss
festering essential time legions
where lingering denotes
chronic enervation in keeping
up with
a rumored sample
under a hiding sun
a traitor shadowed
Under the Weathered
the rain needs certificates
abducting a marginal soufflé
process merchants acquired
a projective conditioner view
that shuttered trough tests
to pace their slow sharking
over clustered frustration
their regions remembered
decorations bare for the rite
fossil taxes renewed raking
over the scrotal oration cloud
a weary gabble once it left
phylum rafters a cartilage city
warring below sweatshirt fringe
benefactors plaster the known
parameters vomit members
shopping becomes undone
for the wetter energy barking
commotion to terminal daylight
a tractor-lined euphoria danger
factored when foundations air
footed barbarity notwithstanding
clamor swim coincidence taunts
lunging turned danger a force
as voltage pits looted their colors
from omelets deleted as savage
the wary pain of practical turmeric
their savage daylight left unfilled
a mudslide flavored the movie
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Alan Catlin
673- Sontag reviving Godot in Sarajevo. An act of faith. Hope. Or madness. Durrenmatt. Remember Durrenmatt. No. The Visit. “Better to watch than think about later.” Applies to Beckett too. The Physicists. Endgame. Life in a trash can. A domestic arrangement. Waiting for the man to come. For. The. Nuclear winter. 674- Writing in semi-trance. Like Yeats. Like his wife, Georgie. Who cheated at Ouija board. And what about James Merrill’s paramour. Was he a cheat at Windhover. At Sandover. Seemed awfully convenient. Having that gift. Not a Nabokov. This is. A Gift “An oak is a tree. A rose is a flower. A deer is an animal. A sparrow is a bird. Russia is our fatherland. Death is inevitable.” 679- A History of Present Illness The Doctor Is Sick. Dr. No. Fleming or Everett. Both. Illness as Metaphor. Cancer. Ward. Medicine for Melancholy. (Again) Homesickness. Stories. Subterranean Homesick Blues. Songs. Blue Bayou (Again and again). Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend Is Lain. Giving up the Ghost. Writer. 680- Operation Delirium. Wars without Killings. Clouds of physicochemical(s) instead. Like the movie. The Fog. Shadow and Fog. Like a frat party. Seduction involving roofies. Interrogation involving LSD. Defenestration follies. Flexible flying. Like a Leonard Michaels story. Wear your Air Jordans and soar. Your Keds treads. Hard landings happen. Go ask Francesca. Woodman. 682- Sex in outer space. The concept. The practice. No shortage of male volunteers. Not a Playboy presentation. Not NASA sanctioned either. Yet. Raunch-O-Rama. Presents. Trailers and features. A sub-rosa media giant in their chosen field. A real growth industry. To pun or not pun that is the question. In the morning. In the evening. Ain’t, we got fun. Tits on the Moon. The poetry collection. 683- Meme wars. Like chemically induced paranoid thinking. Mass delusions. Better than brainwashing. Social media. Consciousness raising or consciousness debilitating. Tactically induced seizures. Dizziness. Fear. Operation Delirium in action. Twitter. Panic. Hysteria. Hallucinations. Migraines. Suicidal ideation. Like planking. Only fatal. Virgin Suicides. What a waste. C.I.A. Fucking C.I A. Living in the USA. 685- Imagine a cocktail party of 1957 army officers. And their respectives. And an LSD punch. Not a moment in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Book or movie. In real life. Just to see what would happen. Imagine the whole base’s water supply laced. Superiors “were pissed” when they found out about the punch. It sounded like a good idea in theory. At the lecture. In the position paper. After the euphoria came Severe depression. Anxiety. Abject fear(s). “I feel like I’m fixin’ to die.” With Country Joe. Take a trip with Peter Fonda. Hare brained scientific experiment Or good clean fun. None of this is made up.
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
birds come home from paradise and sing songs the silence recedes *** Angst Angst Angst Angst Angst AngstAngst AngstAngst AngstAngst AngstAngst AngstAngst AngstAngstAngst AngstAngstAngst AngstAngstAngst AngstAngstAngst AngstAngstAngst аnd I’m not scared anymore *** the fields what's lurking out there nothing It's been a month of war *** what the tear hides spring is playing hide and seek а winter feeling creeps into my heart а tear freezes and doesn't dry up inside the child the wizard dies and becomes an adult *** You don't come home You don't come to the neighbors You don't come to me You don't come to your senses You can't take out the trash You don't clean your ears Looks like I died Inside your head Mandatory link to the source «You don't come home»:https://issuu.com/tiptonpoetryjournal/docs/tpj52 *** This poem smells blue | | | The color of wrinkles in the sky ¶ Black shapes in clear water ∆ This verse will be picked up by crows in the morning And they will be thrown from heaven On icy concrete heart rocks ~ All in vain .
Winner of the international competition «Art Against Drugs», bronze medalist of the festival Chestnut House, laureate of the literary competition named after Tyutyunnik. Nominated for Pushcart Prize.
Published in the journals “Dzvin”, “Ring A”, “Polutona”, “Rechport”, “Topos”, “Articulation”, “Formaslov”, “Colon”, “Literature Factory”, “Literary Chernihiv”, Tipton Poetry Journal , Stone Poetry Journal, Divot journal , dyst journal, Superpresent Magazine, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Alternate Route , Better Than Starbucks Poetry & Fiction Journal, Littoral Press , Book of Matches , on the portals “Literary Center” and “Soloneba”, in the “Ukrainian literary newspaper”, Ice Floe Press.
Poetry from Ashley Mann
TAKING SIDES and why do you hate (democrats) (republicans) exactly- only hearing about them, not talking with them, hating them, for what they're only more people who don't know what they're talking about, flipping on a screen of one side to believe and the next day relishing that the same screen agrees. people dislike an other side because someone else judged it and they agreed, upset when their side is judged and are there really sides anymore when we all do the same things at the bottom of a hole, too dark to see POUNDING PAVEMENT driving in cars on highways is the norm, living in simulations is the norm, spots for cars in a city outnumbering slots for human beings, bands don't make bass but computers, machines pound their noise into heads eyes, ears, minds oversaturated, filling time, no time to see overviews, totality, what's happening, no time no time to be wise fentanyl lab made food cause disease more addictive than drugs- find em cheap on every corner, every store, wrapped in plastic- a by-product of oil- because it's cheap because it's cheap because it's cheap to die, they'll watch they'll watch they'll watch as you die TEXAS In Texas you'll see a field of grass out to the horizon flat and a couple donkeys while you hear a jet plane overhead. You'll see a plane low landing toward a military base as the old yellow school bus rolls by. Neighborhoods of identical houses in plywood uniquely priced. Neighbors will forget to say hi. Rolling out trash bins on wheels to the curb and pay strangers a dumping fee, they won't know your name, dogs snarling at you from behind their gate, in Texas, there'll be no sidewalks of people walking by, there'll be no choice, more headlights growling, roaring than real eyes passing by, in Texas. LIVE MINES you would get everyone sick, sick enough with disease that they'd die- as to (rid) (dispose) of the carnage that would have remained after a disaster- maybe you'd get the government to agree, to work with you, because millions dead through disease is easier on the mind than the thought of piles blown up, exploding to dust- gas pipelines- laid mines would be easy to do if no one saw you do it, if they saw you looking normal, under their own eyes, construction crews, foreign builders always building, laying foundations, construction sites, trenches and laid mines maybe you'd introduce into the environment the specimen- named-disease, toxins in foods, eaten willingly addicting, fentanyl pills made at the seat of the world, in the east, undetected- would this be ironic funny even they say comedy is tragedy plus (after) time- and live mines Mann is a young writer from Texas. She has worked as a writer and analyst at the state's house of representatives and committee on appropriations in Austin. She spent the pandemic living in San Francisco to release through contemporary writings and illustrations. She believes poems ought not always be fluffy, but real.
Short story from Jim Meirose
—this is in response to your recent complaint about our librarian’s treatment of your son Mouse Mousie or whatever alias you currently got him using—he’s nothing but a stick-faced mole of a hellraiser; him and that pal of his—Rat, I think it was? Mouse, Rat, Rat, Mouse, no after a while they merged into one somehow. One great problem for me—one great problem for the patrons of the library—one great problem for the entire library system—legendary in their snot-caked red raw howling blathering yelling screaming superindifference to everyone else—like the whole planet revolved about them—the way the planet that spawned them is doomed to circle in chains forever about the big fat overheated and overestimated big fat squirt-ass of a Mothersun. I would probably have less disruption to my supposedly calm cool day to day life which is why I got into this field to begin with, if they stripped nude in my library but just sat quiet heads thrust deep in their respective computer screens their privates hidden in their fat tubular roundy-round fleshfolds and their hands buried in the dark somewhere thereabouts doing the unthinkable at least no one would have to hear that at least nobody would have their deep thought-trains burst and ripped and severed over and over by the bleating of your undisciplined thoughtless crushing bore of a Rat or a Mouse or a Mouse or a Rat or whatever they merge in my face anyway into one quick downzip of a couple of dozen fuck the rules ass pimping hoodlums! No rules in the animal kingdom, you know, Miss Mousemother. They can lick themselves in the animal kingdom you know Miss Mousemother and that’s exactly what your phony son and his helped do to each other all day every day. We had to dumpster the chairs they sat at because I did not doubt that some of the hours they did sit quietly, heaven forbid, they may have done this or that nasty and use your imagination Miss Mousemother. Negative Rat-lady queen of all bass lines including one of the most eloquent found in the variations, to which Bach added chromatic intervals which provided tonal shadings; and as you also are main patron-saint of each and every fecal impaction human dog hippo or otherwise, get this and see it is the most final—this plot to self-enrich your gang most masturbatorily, for the consummation of which you called me this day—you’re not their Mother you’re probably just some collegepal slut-bitch in on the plot— yeah I know I know, the plot; the final insult being that your rockyheaded supposed son got down and jackhammered his head repeatedly into my floor yes my floor not your floor or their floor but my floor—and then got himself swept to the hospital for phony treatment—I cannot imagine how much you are paying the doctors and nurses there to diagnose a nonexistent problem—my God what’s this world coming to—the word professional means nothing any more —I ought to quit my job unbank my cash-nest and lock into my one-roomer and hermit yes hermit my time away so I don’t have to deal with such as your so-called boy or you, you little slut of a bitchface if that’s what you call yourself—yah I bet you do because inside yourself you know what you are—and I could bonbon my way out to eternity; but tell me yonder slappy-slutgirl— I ask you and the RatMouse evil twinboys are you really going to sue me and the system? Are you really really going to eh? Are you are you because if you dare you will at first see from your illusion of a safe calm sandbeach just the line of horizon—then after some hours a trail of smoky brownwisps will start curling up; then after some more hours a forbidding grey foretop will appear coming—then a battleship will form, mount over the horizonhump, and you will just go all agape—you may even layback and feast down a big sleepypicnic of a lunch while observing this anomaly like it’s just the start of a big parade—every other time you have basked at this beach it’s just been swimmers in sweetwaves but this time why a warship—a terrible trojanesque warship stuffed half with lawyers and half with well-thought-out briefs no not that kind the legal kind —including that wondrous canonic variation in four-four time, which Kenneth Gilbert saw as an allemande despite its lack of anacrusis--and half with motions; rotary motions turning in a circle; linear motion moving in a straight line; reciprocating motion moving backwards and forwards in a straight line; and oscillating motion swinging from side to side back to front top to bottom east to west north to south and again over again yah and; when you are all hypnotized by this transformation of normal life to abnormally entranced, the battleship will ground, burst as a classically woven straw piñata, and you will be buried in paperwork that you cannot burn away because we will have your oxygen and you and that RatBoy cum Mouseman buried, so—the message is don’t fuck with the regional library system no not the regional library system we are Flush with money and not the doggy kind doggy kind doggy kind no. If you don’t get that then go look it up, stupid. Good day sir or whichever you crappy diss’ of a mothering p—<end voicemail>
Poem from Sayani Mukherjee
Dream By Sayani Mukherjee Fallen leaves ashen branches Candy cream by nightswim high Pinky promises candyfloss gardens My beautiful headlines floor Penguins swarm around A lethe ward booking river My mushroom floor Icy clouds roadside shadows Horses catching for the cherry blossoms swim Newly renovated daydreaming gardens Nothing to do with reality bites For smacking paperflowers high From the ceiling top Little bunnies and Alice dream Down the rabbit hole dream For moonstone and ruins of paper work My eyes fleck Raining hard over the open skies Purple hibiscus disc and tulle flowers The nightstand of fallen leaves Potential for the first time Trying my Cinderella shoe.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
two weeks before christmas endless haze a chance of a tornado two weeks before christmas tell me again how climate change is a hoax we all know why the rich are going to space they have just about run out of places to fuck up here ----------------------------------------------------- drift to the beyond i am pretty much a quiet and reserved kind of guy put a little alcohol in me and i loosen up a bit add some drugs and i have been known to entertain with a story from the void mix them all together and hopefully i will drift to the beyond what a beautiful thought that would be --------------------------------------------------------- thursday it's a tight skirt and a dirty imagination my afternoon just got interesting --------------------------------------------------------- the kiss of the most exotic woman the anticipation hits your tongue like the kiss of the most exotic woman walking the earth give in say yes let go walk on water rejoice that life is still an option let all the thoughts drain from whatever brain you are using pressure is whatever you allow to be placed on you enjoy the control embrace the darkness ------------------------------------------------------- a quiet christmas mom's out of the hospital covid nearly killed us both it is going to be a quiet christmas this year not sure which spirit is going to bother to show up
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the last quarter-century, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Cajun Mutt Press, Terror House Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy and Jellyfish Whispers. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)