Bookworm

The novel begins: two travellers, seagull
and star, see the night bus run empty.
Do you speak human? asked the Riverend
Alpheratz. I speak Joyce. The bus turns
the street to comic-strip. I am devoted to
the smooth running of internotional thought.
In dictionaries is defined what it is
we no longer have. A devil in the toenail,
mathing the voluminous timespace that
ends on the black of the page, askeletal
desplorer buzzsawing climaxes. Collapsed
Tetragrammaton did not act
rationally in writing these, his eyes bled
out of word and he explained in too
many voices, in glossed unterwelten of speech
that ladders did not reach, in the attic
when books swarm angrily from their boxes.
This is the song we empty as the head
heaves with inanotion. Populations
surge: in their hooked hands is sand,
siftwork, sieved the varioral textscape.
He shouts in his sleep he is stuck inside
time’s tomefoolery awaiting the age of mildew.
The people stand incredulous: they drilled
rubble to find an ancient library
in cinderends, within it buried the word
for you, ill in your vast bed. Whistle
the treeself, disarmer of night, driller:
under your darkness your undercovered travels
in leafed delyrical intercludes.
We forgot how the forest stretched
into a single twig or spire of dust.
Ghosts fit between pages, waiting for
the news to tell them we invented time to forget
eternity. Mistress of index, what she
cannot unearth, the sparsim tararas
under the carapace, I have eyes
to hurt myself with, a sense losing in the spill,
so sleep the words into the book, tunnel
a novel, erupt as bullethole or butt, aporia among
the embers, ideal reader, eat alive the pronouns
make fleshword, think open the sensefolds:
all pages are binding upon the reader.

Giles Goodland

Bluebottle

Blubber your syllabilly tremblone,
betatest dreams above your workstation.
I shall spend my next five days
letting light lose itself inside a screen
neuromarketing an ingestments portfolio
until a piece of me opens and images
exit like flies from a headwound.
If the air spoke inwordly.
nobode of the deathsent is
murmurmuring into an eartomb’s
elevensing to milkclot the governmeat.
Listem the striplit signsongs
the schlosch of heroshimmers
the cleptoparasite sups, ushers, shushes
upon its gluts of ingotten illgots.
Crystaleyed the wind somewho
flows like a house at night and creates
words the length of tongue, refracted to
myself yet goes crazy as a cast of
silence and nightblooms inside
longunsung songs we understand.
Children cloud round us and from some
where an animal is still sobbing:
it so much wants to be human, to
build a house that is sentence, the wind
sticking to us the names of things.
If our eyes break open weight of dayness
we accentuate the apple in its bowl
its blue-green shiny back sickens
into the song the illness of words.

Giles Goodland

Soldier Ant

At this Hermes smites him with his staff, saying, ‘Will you not allow the gods to judge men as you judge ants?’

When the Kings of Brazil are on the march
dismay is general, since they have all one soul
and make bridges of one another. River of
pureprose or chaingang of instramentality.
They cast stars as lots and clawmarch: disorderers
of seedstores, swarmtroopers, spillagers,
sappers, deforesters of pages, agents of
entail, retail. In the bloodjohned khanates
hear uzis thundressing as calamiterror’s
drearmament spreads heavy losses. Their cry:
art is efflorescence of capital, no more.
In submachinese deafending the footclog’s
secretacy to greenstrike the flowers
each fear handles its arms, swings warhammers
to make the sky stop then setfeet into
Noigandres and bladestorm the foodreserves.
The black-helmeted 6th foot charges into
the teeth of danger, it’s said: they are filled
not only with food, but bleed-heavy combat,
performating feasts of legs, as if the sky
uncracks, singing within the west of sign,
polpoet, to innovate is to destroy
the words fall wrong, cutting-edge is
consumption, avant eats before it
the wounded queue here pipe songs
ground-to-air the arithmetic militants
will notwithstand the flamethrow
dragoon the burndown barracks horde out
of foxholes in harm’s deployment
press on to their own desert to embed
the firearmed geometers who pincer-move
towards the reader with a lesion from
warring clans pipedowning their clasts. Who
crooked the fleshclad wave, the fields of Mars
are drowned, grass is flesh, setaside at sea-
end is sickled and cycled. Art is dead.

Giles Goodland

Waterbear

Their faces appear to be a self
under heaven’s shadow
decompression sumps the treaclot
a tricketty protocollage
follows from contort to nosedrive
the notochord and selfabsorb
middens and pondmachines
omenwhile the clank of unsease
uncertains forwards lit interiorly
to move sludge inside the eye
we reheat admass to see how
a slurpy syringesong sounds
tonguelong and volumptuous
ringfingers the protochasm
in palearctic rivery selflists, lollopen
the silence otherwise rainbow
numbody clings remains
incertain insipidity reverts
growlem’s nobloody glob
the language contracts to pieces
freezing where mouth matches with
edge a felt stain in the word
who manifeasts the light from the angel
(query re. askability of this)
exacted from lake nameslake
their lances heavy with sense
before you are fully under the road
a stream inhabits its myth
altears the refluent imwaterial
scushes the noncombastic rootroute
gunworn disembhodisatva is
winebriate endemicrobe expects
duty lividity and riverderived
ubernature spend on yaw
self on greensleeved motioning
of serpentiny tangenitals
tongueslip the sunsure surfacet
yardarms, as plops frogponder the riverse
a hand is the gesture of a mountain
among the trees that dream the forest
as altered meat without taste
the tuber’s gubernatural rustule is
xenoglossed in the gobletter
protophotocopy of semicell
prehends the lonesong
of a smallarmed skinimal
spins away the wordsworm
in a shadow before you the effluence
where each atom’s palace is
contentlessly fighting the
battle of waterlog its protopoem
as bodyhood’s mudsumps
sluices a mistcarriage of brain that
shall deliquesce the seethen
moon calling in fear from
its pointed rooftop, sense the
electric star caught in the gut,
mouth that releases one at a time
monsters of groundwater
where faunatures move articulately,
like the wireless amputee whose
diphthongued æligature can explain
as the river silts her wrists
that oilswell that endswill
the godless eye rolls forth from
thunder almost to open the box, spring
is inside but can barely quench
his fists on you or in a peal of
instant, granulate by the door
come forwards the each that in
one of us inches together
is how the rain’s explanation ran
ache between days provokes light
sand streambeds its fissive massif
the leachheld etherfall fleshleashes
and thoughtstrains the seethings
of heron-priested memebrane
the prolongability of droplet-bodies
darkseeking the siftware
in confuted fleshclick to semicolonize
timehole’s gentleworm chaos
in flatland’s anywave infusoria
as muscly corpuscle lengthins
discipline the lichor pliplops
headspan the sapper earthhorn
waravering particles forward
that unclambers inflectuously the arcades,
thickens the semiskinned seetheme.

Giles Goodland

broadcloth

V S O P
Palm up, swolling brass puddle, thfully, sbmindtly
What freeze in the big days, hunker Lincoln,
I already ate, says Charles Class

Bugle times, “Autumn Leaves”
Father with the pennant, covers the whole sky!

watted shrimp

inking

repeat inking in the press square inches
after the noon of sands, Chicago sands,
Prussian, Teviotdale sands

Michael Peverett

Spammerama

Susie Telekinesis adjusted her quicksilver
in the face of a Hawaiian blowback
that sprayed skyward toward the rotunda
like an opulent bullhead intent to kiss
her glidden cannabis breasts.
Her friends, the blurting, bludgeoning Madeleine Tanzania,
and the taciturn Tess Abyssinia,
their barbitalized bloomers temporarily sidelined,
gave puckish gunpowder grins
as they surveyed degreased collarbone cuts
from K of C, for bleak Bolshoi bacteria.

In the midst of this carbon adventure,
swingshift melanoma metastisized
to their duty stations in a clerk
who shall remain erroneous—
and permeated his balogna breach.

Up ran a wheezy Iberian, a paunchy, mink resistant
manipulate from the Baptist embassy, who remarked,
“the gust magnitude irrefutable bony Lithuanian anti-bodies
you harbor are without peer, you conspiritorial carolingian twit!
Oh, and might I introduce you to a wholly libelous whor
just arrived from the primp house?”

At this, the trio of cicada decadent trip-tics,
danced diehard shinto in formidable Handel,
proclaimed their diaphragms inseparable,
and resolved to found a dirge conservatory
in a great stickly pine’s
woodpecked recesses.
Which they did with deciduous crank-case aggression,
and played bargain crochet to boot.

Davis Johnson

Speak the Wet Language

Fronds and starfish
calf-bird of metal and wire
fronds and eye beams of metal
and a calf’s head of hair
cast the load down in front
it might open there

Moist on the beaches
clouds of gold coin
speak the wet language
speak the wet language

The pearl in the shell
how it whirrs like a bearing
lying with a bucket
on your head reclining
sucking lisping
the lolly mountain

Moist on the beaches
clouds of gold coin
speak the wet language
speak the wet language

So so so sibilant
sweet filling down the golden twist
so pink the sweet light
the same in as out
and baby in his heaven glue
baby in his heaven glue

Moist on the beaches
clouds of gold coin
speak the wet language
speak the wet language

GG