Márton Koppány

The Half Marathon

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Bob BrueckL

                              Doubloons of Unsynced Slabs of Boodle

 

 

 

                              A rictus of cursive faff grubs the splayed-out

                              mooch in the hinder parts of smote ennuye

                              wringing the dregs out of the squiggly

                              maneuvers.

 

 

                              Oaves of slime-flux bleed into the air like

                              swapt night-sweats sump-pumping the

                              homeobox of orrery boom-ba bone-meal:

                              my digit is frigid.

 

 

                              Antipudic moments, flutter-tonguing the

                              naked-muzzled, splat-quenching star-jelly,

                              ablaut the mammilated bladder-fiddle in the

                              homojunction.

 

 

                              Headlong belches wrench the tension in the

                              bippy clacker's stultifying simultaneity of

                              offish swoons degusting the craquelure's

                              zvook chich

 

 

                              Scut fus zatch ort flouts the cony flitch rife

                              with braided burps thumper-tucking the

                              agapic torple-emiction chumbling the

                              teetotaling smot.

 

 

                              Unsorted cracks of plunging necklines

                              outlast the isthmuses of miasmatically

                              argent squeeks flounching the unstuck dimps

                              dawing squeamishly.

 

 

                              Snippets of veneer, blobjects of dict,

                              unevenly engorged, puff up artifices of

                              encapsulated extrapolations overlapping the

                              mock-shade glorg.

 

 

                              Amurcous sordor moldavites the glairous

                              gladioli bespattering the septically imbecilic

                              slutch-coctions of the least deft ooid cooties'

                              ichor

 

 

                              Worped hyena butter wheedles the

                              flagitiously frowsty skanq jumentously

                              puddling the collapsed soufflé of my boubou

                              zelfportret headshot.

 

 

                              Olid eleisoning sook me off while fribbling

                              away the drat tard drut exposing the

                              scansion rind lilting flitchy strips of limpy

                              inoculations

 

 

                              Cowless twunts vacuole the nidorous goiters

                              egesting the cadaverine ludology gulching

                              the curdling screwpile of piecemeal head-

                              scratchers.

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Allen Bramhall

My Beth Poem to Whirled

The history of day is a poem itself. It tells the house to enfold and embrace. The topic sits with power 
merge with function clock. To be a person in the light, landing in the sense of land, includes the hand that says it 
hands. This is the thing, if love could attain, all along linking piecemeal. It can, and has all the time. 
All the time, that brusque moment. To embrace the house as love fills it, that's why we have hands. A time intended, 
and tended, with a well, out back: these are running statements, you and me. With arbours and bee hives and 
visual trees: an orchard for the time, and the bees: exactly all the bees in their nature.

A deer is an envy.

“Greensleeves” edifies.

A pond is a planet.


People hold hands, truly. A hand is a vast continent, and a love is still waters. The day is the history of
Monday, or fall, or mostly sunny (until night). Night is the prime nature of when night as a feature, in terms of 
light as the caldron of when light could be by, fulfills a dark feature. When night is a feature true to love, you 
are a word in love. So we inhale land, clouds, other clouds, and the place where we could place, ourselves. 
The day is inside and out of that. Language is the poetry in the language of that. That is what we want.

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