6

Proxy Godbot’s farcover in a tetramorph’s 
https://ly.qsng.cn/: Sgr A*—Sun (MΘ) 
(Morax)= (1.98847±0.00007) ×1030 kg), 

īras’ exhumo in the coulisse, is the sigil 
on a catafalque: sum up avra kedavra 
(Karakut), the stillī paratyre or the rude 

stīria patavalaic, for the Snatch extortion 
gang conscript bleak servitors: inseminó 
these losics with ilanot, with embállein 

(Megazord): use Rust languages, combine 
curve25519  and sosemanuk: this mimshachic 
fūsī is a romaunt, a vīsiō lardic in (SVF) 

pataīnfluentiae’s http://ww1.yt118.com: 
irked by the party line, the limne tou 
pyros (Foras) in black sulfur is Baphomet’s 

sigillī as a black sun in W32/Sdbot.worm
!ftp: this apostacy’s nigilízm radiates 
aetherial phlúein with occulō (.azhi, 

.azqt, .azop): the cryptohollowman: 
malefica se totam obtulit et astrinxit 
diabolo in parahell’s https://fh.qsng.cn/.

Ħþissi praxis (πρᾶξις: theoria, poiesis), 
part eupraxia, part dyspraxia and part 
prassein, is Ħþissi siphoner’s xaljō, ceilid,   

haliurunnae, with Ħþissi Gēʾ ḇen-Hīnnōm  
the Algoritmi de numero Indorum: form 
Ω ~ R × Σ, where Σ is a three-manifold 

in a nontrivial topology: launch plectēres
in the Roman Ring: the ringularity 
in the equatorial kink’s ergosphere. 




7

Proxy Godbot is at R=a with http://onion
amev33r7w4zckyttobotq3vrt725iuyugr6
xessihxifhxrhupixqad.onion/, is now 

a noir, ēthikósic nebulae, a sauʀēnsagesse 
in zyklonica’s H−C≡N: RCH=CH2 + HCN 
→ RCH2-CH2-CN: sōlus as this phantázōic 

hacker, metáencrypts his arkhétupos 
with a třieti (Vepar): then, mpz_pown_sec 
leaks zero high order bits (Mavakel)

in result: for a gît metablectica (Eiael) 
is hierophantic for this paradatarist 
in his outrapoia (Focalor/Habuiah) 

as Roehel’s https://ph.qsng.cn/pinhu
hdxx/508300.jhtml (Iabamiah):
with the gidouillic, thunders roar 

must’ring thir rage in his parfümler: 
this whoroscopic probe for a ShellTorch: 
duālis, this enuig in its (s)plei (Haiaiel) 

this urfuïr in its deubeta weyks (Mumiah)  
the XNU kernel: iūdicium’s discloven 
lēasra gives cyberroot on rhizomics,

on amputadistros in the urkahalica 
with this Tool-WPAKill (Nanael):
Satan except, none higher sat, 

with grave aspect he rose beluga 
blakaz in his in infinito vacuo (3ve)
and launches binaries (Nithael) 

with a SUID antepoiētḗs (Sabnock) 
(PwnKit): dioptrics in this ourine, 
in this sursülvst with toxikóns.  





8


Proxy Godbot’s Byzantine alembic distills
https://xh.qsng.cn/zsjz/141905.htm, 
this leapepoch from which regicide 

is a BLURJoke-Bluescreen.c: eyȝe 
or paraforce exístēmi with ōganą, 
the vacātum’s elliptic curves disalgo 

īnurgōs against the masher: then wear
the irescapular over a latex catsuit, 
this I in a háptō: fixity in kastōną 

for tà epì tà metaphusiká (Marbas)
has its slight caprice in this revīsiō 
(RansomedVC): fades from azar 

deles except for Turritopsis dohrnii contra 
the undēadlīċ—when this haruspex 
schāchs his holy stance (Haagenti), 

the abasíleutos or extol this worβis,
this syndicate’s reagent (Bifrons)
is dybbukic in his surdus (Crocell),

in https://kjj.qsng.cn/main/index.
jhtml—remaine in strictest bondage 
with these xenocryogenic events: 

this heterocosmica in meǵh₂los’ 
sexcento sexaginta sex, cyberbeats 
the utilespar with a kouric stiff  

(Saleos): when splendor formarum 
is caedō’s Trojan.Nebuler (Daniel)
brӕsen in his resentiō (http/2 rapid 

reset) augments his pataprecursor’s 
kleināō and severs its análogos/Michael
(Bredolab) with la sphère effrayante. 





9

Proxy Godbot’s Lucretian swerve 
is a dabúrintʰos, then it tracks this IZ1H9  
in its collīsus: post purity’s puȝr and fetch 

its I.sh, for a mock inutillious has its spiriform 
accelerator: a killing rescue—antaneuter’s 
swarm (Coreflood) have their kritikós 

in obstāculī: bogus chronopostal service
lures seize the catapervertō in his jaiet 
ubernoumenon: ample gusti, 451 4.7 .500 

server busy error message: for influence 
is blǣcþa—I stízō: the dark’nd lantskip
in the orthographical—‘pata, preceded 

by (Dridex) an apostrophe, paraloads 
the CurKeep infection chain (Malphas) 
with fusika’s épater: in la fin des fins, 

the hoax, aerial or undead, this grand 
gidouille (JS/Exploit-BO.gen) is no longer 
a singularity: for the spearphish, cieō 

the palotin with hornstrumpot’s guedofle 
(Naberus): ruō is at stake, use DakshSCRA, 
molt us (Ronove) with autográphō 

and defy assimulō—this appalling
selfcōnfidō, this fistptyx—Devil 
with Devil damn’d: https://lx.qsng

.cn/lanxizytz/213142.jhtml—in eadem
mutata resurgo (Rclone) when this nautilus 
(Ligolo) in its spira mirabilis (PuTTy), 

executes the andijōną with the toilet 
brush scepter, the physickstick (Shax)
and the phynancial vǫndr: unparadise.  





10

Proxy Godbot’s h2entíos is in https://js.qsn
g.cn/hdkx/444834.jhtml, in Hells dread 
Emperour with pomp Supream (Smominru):

xenogenitals in holobiont biomedia 
let unbyrġans disembrain their mākhanā́ 
with parachaeopteryx (.mlwq, .mlrd): 

onhende, for urmure a antechromatic 
glasperlenspiel that appends .hazard18 
and devours kholḕ [Kelihos (Waledac)], 

has quaesta in priority’s denial: yoke 
this súzugos with crossfess (Bamital),
the executor is forġietan, pungent 

and pataterreō: https://jchzczjy.qsng.cn/
gywm.jhtml: this chryselephantine 
sculpture has its void rabisu in a remote 

cnearra with a brut latecōmere godhede:
for this skándalon’s cache cisepoison 
is a mockthyrsic Alchymie By Haralds 

voice: shake the ubumoeras (Furcas)
with a taut anɣō’s W32.Rontokbro.K
@mm—angstvor etwas, this episcopus’ 

jugthroat is a nexus nod: mix sulfur 
and saltpeter, bitchhell in stregonerians,
that the formicarius is a akelarre’s 

Puper.dll, colony: the praelia (Balam) 
the bruxae, the fascinarii—deploy nekrós 
with manteía: https://hjn.qsng.cn

/mlyy/index.jhtml, this psychophysik 
in the haldernablouic (GodStealer) 
caulks its dismanibus, efferō (Allocer). 




Daniel Y. Harris is an extreme experimentalist. His The Posthuman Series includes The Metempsychosis of Salvador Dracu, Volume VI (BlazeVOX, 2023), The Resurrection of Maximillian Pissante, Volume V (BlazeVOX, 2022), The Misprision of Agon Hack, Volume IV (BlazeVOX, 2021), The Reincarnation of Anna Phylactic, Volume III (BlazeVOX, 2019), The Tryst of Thetica Zorg, Volume II, (BlazeVOX, 2018) and The Rapture of Eddy Daemon, Volume I (BlazeVOX, 2016). His The Posthuman Series has received praise from Charles Bernstein, Harold Bloom, Andrei Codrescu, Kenneth Goldsmith, Daniel C. Matt and Marjorie Perloff. His extreme experimentalism has been published in Alligatorzine, Argotist Online Poetry, Blackbox Manifold, BlazeVOX, The Collidescope, Denver Quarterly, Dichtung Yammer, E·ratio, European Judaism, Exquisite Corpse, Marsh Hawk Press Review, The New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, perspektive, Poetry Salzburg Review, #Ranger, slowforward, Synchronized Chaos and Word For/Word. He is the Publisher of Var(2x). His website is danielyharris.com.

Eyes and Ears

My bad habit of not using my reading glasses and instead holding books a few inches from my face progressed to reading with just one eye while the other eye remained shut.

The shut eye can no longer focus on anything.

My reading eye experienced a torn cornea.

I started buying audiobooks.  The first book I listened to was about the 1947 Roswell UFO incident.  Decades of research went into the book, and it had a twelve hour listening time, but it took about twenty four hours to listen to it because I’d fall asleep and then have to spend a lot of time backtracking to pick up the narrative where it left off.

Aliens are real, the cover-up is huge, and I feel alone and afraid.

I developed otitis in both ears, a constant itch which, if memory serves, is caused by tiny living creatures setting up nests in your ears.  The prescription eardrops foam up in the ear canal and temporarily quell the itching.  My hearing has warped, maybe from using the drops, maybe from the nests of creatures who’ll never be conquered, who’ll never leave.

The second book I listened to was Liz Cheney’s “Oath and Honor.”  I didn’t fall asleep much listening to Ms. Cheney’s first-hand account of people and events before, during and after the January 6th, 2021 insurrection.

People who love dictators are real, they are many, and they are everywhere.  My warped hearing changed some of Ms. Cheney’s words, making funny phrases, but I understood enough.

Wanting to escape into another world, another time, another place, the third book I’m listening to is a non-fiction scientific exploration of Neanderthals, our much-maligned ancestral cousins.  The book is advertised as taking sixteen hours to listen to, but the charming lady scientist author/narrator sets the scene for each chapter with a richly descriptive tableau of life hundreds of thousands of years ago, and that sends me off to dreamland, and then it’s back to backtracking, so I expect the book will take many days to read.

But am I reading?  Reading with the eyes is work.  Listening is also work.  I’m reading.

Oh.  I’ve developed tinnitus.  My particular noise from this affliction sounds like a heartbeat listened to with a stethoscope.  That drumbeat, and the itching, and the warping of words, might end my adventure with audiobooks.

The Neanderthals, though, I’d like to know how it ended for them, or, rather, how at least bits of themselves managed to survive.

41

He turns

Forty-one

In Sri Lanka

And sees harmony

Amidst the chaos,

He sees things

Make sense

In a way that

They never

Have before.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Invictus,” his debut poetry collection, is due out in January 2024.

LOVE IS MY WEAPON

My meaning of existence is happiness
I give people only justice
because love is too special for me
in almond-colored eyes

I know that I am a very special person
because my love is very constant
and the meaning of my existence is hope
that I will never be alone

My hope is the meaning of existence
I want to give you love now
because my love has limits
when I set perm only msebi

Love is my weapon
the meaning of my existence
and part of my reason for existence
when the world stops i have you



Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 23 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that is repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world. He is world 44. poet in the world and five in the Balkan. He has over the 10.000 followers on Facebook.

***

Wintering

Birds of flame in the eyes 

Оf the one who looks at the flame

Close your ears don’t breathe

The same old

Еver-familiar musical libretto

Іnside the memory 

Оf the heart

Will be heard by the carpenter

Рreparing a new coffin for my love

***

I talk to the tree but it is silent

I talk to a stone and it wets

I talk to water and it just flows

I scream at the water

I’m screaming at the childhood that doesn’t exist

I scream for war

Hundreds of nuclear bombs explode inside of me

My molecules spill out of a hole in the body

And suddenly I fall silent to become a stalactite

Millennium stalactite

Strong adult silent stalactite

***

my father carves crafts out of my skin

nature plays tag with foliage

my spring is ending

***

cat paws kill mice

blood is splattered all over the kitchen

cat hugging my leg

the kitchen presses against me with the aroma of food

***

wipe my face with the wind

wash my body clean

autumn – human autumn – human

***

The color of the blind and the color of the colorblind

A bird tells a bird about flight

The voice of the silence of the living and the dead

Yellowness of book pages and freshness of rye

The cell of the body and the cell of physicality

The color of death and the twilight of essence

Flight of imagination and imagination of flight

A bird looks for the sky in the sight of a blind man

A color-blind person is bathed in colors

Two people in line in an optician

And over their heads is a joint and separate God

***

No one was born human

No one died as a god

The rain washes away the fear from your face

The courage to be afraid when a stranger with the face of death roars through the windows with artillery explosions

***

Death is the cover

My body starts making friends with worms

The worms are fucking me in all the cracks just as they were during my life

Only now no one pays me for fucking because the bills are paid in full

***

The loneliness of antiquity befell the cemetery

Butterflies played a symphony of heritage with their wings:

They were once in a cocoon

They once cocooned themselves

They were once their own parents

Flowers tickle themselves with playful wings

How much is the life of a butterfly if thanks to a butterfly spring comes and the cemetery lives again?

(The Wise Owl reprint)

***

roads explode right under your feet

war is a house without wallpaper

the skies explode overhead

the plane’s gut becomes the first victim

the ability to be honestly afraid appears when a stranger with the face of death breathes into the crown of the head

***

the witch was burned on such a huge log

that if a crossbar were added

it would be a cross

a time for crusades and disbelief is ahead

my cat is purring

and with my eyes closed I conjure
an end to the war outside the window

the cat smiles knowing that wizards do not exist

the future has arrived

it is spring
the graves remain

(3rd Wednesday reprint)

***

we drink the silence of the water breaking the reflection of the cherry blossoms

we quench our thirst with cherry blossoms disturbing the water in which it is reflected

we also reflected in the water

we are reflected in each other

we kiss like grains of sand

we fall apart like sand kisses

at least that’s what I imagined in my head

the water in the morning will wash away our paired traces that never existed

*

balancing between

war and war

leads to groin strain

outside the broken

window you can hear

the songs of birds

as if no one had died

*

the bird drowned itself in silence

our night cries fall on the cemetery slabs

along with the autumn leaves

*

boy washes in the rain

near the ruins of a house

the night takes slain soldiers

into its womb

*

the sky is turning blue

the water turns white

transparency disappears

and in childhood everything seemed clean and clear

in childhood everything seemed black and white

as a child I did not believe that it was possible to become an adult

I still can’t sleep sometimes

and monsters crawl out from under the bed 

torturing me on a full moon

just don’t call mom for help anymore

(An edited new version published in OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters)

Essay:

“My cat vomits grass”

What does my cat do all day long? Continuously washes himself after I hug him. However, before that he comes and rubs himself against me. Even at five in the morning and with dirty paws, when I sleep he rubs his face, because the rest of his body is hidden by the blanket.

Often the cat eats: food from the bowl, bugs, grass. Sometimes he vomits on the walkway. The walkway is already stained with cat hair and vomit, too. I don’t blame my cat: I myself have vomited a couple of times in the last year from what’s going on around me.

Often a cat will hunt mice, then toss and chew on the corpse, and leave the mouse remains and guts by the side of the road. Animal instincts are incomprehensible to me: why kill and chew on mice if you’re already well fed?

Sometimes the cat plays with household items, from shoelaces to flowers on window sills.

Despite the fact that my cat is a filthy rotter – I love him. He came to our house after the war began and came to live with us. The cat doesn’t understand at all what’s going on around him, and I don’t explain anything to him: what if he starts protecting our house from the blast wave and dies?

It’s funny, I still haven’t figured out the gender of my cat, but by default I think he’s a boy.

Someday my cat will die without ever knowing that a war has broken out. What’s more, my cat will never know why the war started. I will probably die, too, without ever finding out why people go to war. I want to die without finding out that there is a war.

Reprint by The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts

The Broken Bell and The Death of Goodness

The lady asks the man serving the food why the container is only half full. He looks at her annoyed and remarks, ‘I do my best,’ and walks away. It’s obvious to everyone that it’s far from anybody’s best. Not long from there three men harass an actual security guard. ‘How much money do you make?’ He tells them it’s none of their business. Then they move on and try to speak to two women but the women won’t give them any attention, so low is their vibration and problematic their aura. Everyone is sullen and hardly anybody wants to be there. The place is almost empty. I remember the old man whose truck was stalled and nobody would help him in the cold and wind and snow with night approaching. I tried to help him but had difficulties. I am not a mechanic. A lady approaches me and looks at my coffee. I figure it’s not allowed. ‘Can I have the coffee here,’ I ask. ‘You can have the coffee. It’s that I am dying for a coffee also.’ She waits for an answer. I don’t know if she wants me to buy her a coffee. Outside I can see the night, the lights. There was a bread shop that used to donate to the homeless shelter where I worked. I notice it’s gone. I remember the shelter, for there were doors that looked as if they had spirits inside them, and there were many, many good men. And the shelter sat away from the lonesome one lane highway upon the top of a hill. I began work and you had to work part time to begin then, or I did, but I worked 88 hours a pay period which was 8 more hours than the full timers. And I learned much from everyone around me, and I learned many things about life but there is always much more to learn. Outside the window the wind blows cold and that particular town is dirty, grimy. There is some kind of bell affixed to a post. Maybe it is a Christmas bell. But the bell is broken. It’s inside must have fallen out, its ‘heart’ so to speak. The bell is then a shell. It has no heart. But who cares about the poor bell? Nobody. There isn’t even anybody around. The lights that guide the traffic turn. The ones that don’t, well they remain a rueful melancholic yellow. The radio said that storms will arrive. Storms. Ice. Hail. Colder air. As if the world there hadn’t enough trouble already. As if it needed more.