Wednesday, October 2, 2013

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
                              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
                              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'
                              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
                              Cowless twunts vacuole the nidorous goiters
                              egesting the cadaverine ludology gulching
                              the curdling screwpile of piecemeal head-


Tuesday, October 1, 2013

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.