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cypress Nov 2020
iconoclastic art spirits wildness

served against the knuckles of mainstream engagement

it falls like vinegar in the oils of western modernism
Hammra Sistur Aug 2020
⠀⠀⠀ we (us, earth
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ and.⠀⠀⠀your
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ grasses
) have
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀this time frozen for just you
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and me
⠀⠀ today
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀come to think of it, it’s
⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ w o n d e r f u l
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ b
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ u
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ t
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀what will happen
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ w
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ e
retrace our steps (in
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ reverse, or sdrawkcab
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀) , a
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ n
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ d
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀then find that
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ we’re firmly
rooted in tomorrow- oh i don’t want
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀only this romantic
Lee Peter Apr 2020
Selection Criteria

We seek a person showing an authentic engagement with the culture of language. The applicant needs a broad appreciation of linguistic form and an inclusive approach.


• Two good honours degrees from a top performing university - Or relevant experience as an autodidact or dilitante.

• A willingness to appreciate and engage in other people's expression of poetic form.

• Openness to the ways in which language is multimodal and able to blur the distinction between word, voice, sound, body and image, whilst being able to draw upon the conventions of each mode.


• Colourful life-history, and a keen eye/ear for human and natural dynamics, and the capacity to dissolve the distinction.

Please submit sample below:

There was a tree. Indeed, there was a tree... that night we played with Gertrude or some girl or boy or some other echo or other.

Had she not mentioned the issue with the fragmentary interjections by candidates? The capacity of evocation is lost with this fashion for modernism [Golden light of blue buzzard and some such and wot not before azure cream in winter time and  crystalline glaze] and its reflexive interruptions. Perhaps she should start again. [Does it even need to be a word? And what is this anyway?]. Re: Start again - good lord we are forced to read some nonsense [in the steam rows and the bath cabin], often with a similar flow. What about the art of pleasing our palate? We bump our heads against the brackets, elliptical conjurings and compound punctuation: -

Oh! ... Out of time? Battery low? Well, this will have to be the submission then. Good luck.
Eva B Apr 2020
Sister Magdalene had her own parking space
in the lot of the church where my grandfather
placed his hand on my shoulder.
Over the other, Joan of Arc whispered a joke
about the Father.
Something about bad breath.
I giggled a fragmented

As a young girl I dreamt of the honor
of battle and the burden
of armor. Each morning I’d awake,
my wrist sore from painting fields
menstrual red. My thighs ached.
My horse's name was Gust.
She was the color of overcast.
Once, she got so tired
she kneeled. When she stood
her stomach held the night sky.
I laid beneath her and named stars
from bits of her fur
until the field began to whisper so loud
that I woke.

Sister Magdalene sat in the first row of pews.
Her skeleton hands held a candle. The flame
tip-toed up her habit with the resolve
of a field of corpses rolling their eyes
toward salvation. When the flame
reached her chin I bit my lip.
Joan asked what’s wrong
or what’s right.
My mouth was full.

The flame grew to reach the Father,
kneeling at the feet of a cadaver.

I listened to the church bend
in the heat until Joan begged that we leave.
Based on Otto Dix's 1914 painting, The Nun
Eva B Apr 2020
A cross. A crossroads.
The desire to erupt.
If the world were red and brown—
If. Jarr
it open.
Resist and grind.

The clouds were piped
by God. Onto the sky.
To forget the tombstones—
To remember the tomb.
Round it out and fluff.
Depress into the ground,
fellow bush.
Eva B Apr 2020
Squeeze the spire.
Steal it of breath.
And then hear it gasp.
Pull the green
over its head.
Eva B Apr 2020
The purple desire.
A vortex of lust.
If the clam were to shut
on the fingers of a plate,
then what is the pearl? A rooster?
A blue embrace.

The plates are traps.
J J Mar 2020
I misplaced a tear drop
                                     in a jar full of collected rain.
Cloudy thoughts sway me forward to face the day
Chloe May 2019
Quiet streets
Tall buildings, dotted with a grid
Of uniform windows.
Little sets them apart
But the people within.
You watch their silhouettes,
And try to determine their stories.
Are they alone? Are they happy? Are they asleep?
There’s only so much you can draw
From a brief shadow.
But there may be meaning, there may not.
Meaning is what you make it to be.

Black pavement
Lies bordered by dim streetlights.
A telephone box
Stands vacant, serving little purpose.
Another relic of the past.
Perhaps we should hold a funeral
For what once was.
But who has the time?

Concrete fades into dirt, gravel, sand.
If only.
It climbs between your toes, up your ankles,
Luring you away
From the city lights.
The waves roll onto the shore,
And you fill your body
With the freshness, crispness of the air.
You hold it, but you know you have to exhale
And let go of the waves,
The sand,
The cool wind,
This place trapped in time.
You know you have to keep moving.

There is little time
To be still.
To watch strangers dancing in windows,
To gaze upon a distant horizon,
To catch your breath.
Keep moving,
Or you will be left behind.
Keep moving,
Or you are lost in the crowd.
Absent Smile May 2019
mannerisms containing grace and beauty vanquish
when conquering the internet's cruel anguish.
feeding sins with apples that bloomed in the evening
of february to survive in a fast world unreal to the underachieving.

in solitude, her essence blooms despite her
bruised virtuous soul that screams her damnation.
in isolation, the substance of his being thrives in the
waiting room of circumstances that bring prosperity.

reprise a revolution for the modern age of devils,
let them build e-tombs for the sensational forgotten.
encourage the death of language for the birth of a new culture
where the muted can still share words for the world to publicise.

beware of trolls lingering between the lines of text fonts
for a new plague has occurred with no treatment found to cure.
the heat of a blush from "i love you" absent from the screen,
the streets are a little too quiet for the comfort of elders.

do not be frightful for a generation
made from a future a past had conceived.
do not be hopeful for the undoing of the internet.
believe in amor fati, my dear, for this was inevitable.
the internet is a scary place
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