Sunday 30 December 2018

J’attends l’obscurité par Walter Ruhlmann



Sans doute le sang perlera à nos fronts,
les gouttes de sueur rosée suinteront
des pores de nos peaux brunies, brûlées
par le soleil, les sauts d’humeur du ciel.

Parfois aussi ce sang se mêlera aux flots
saumâtres versés par les montagnes,
les cimes brumeuses obscurcies par le souffre,
le méthane étouffant, les cendres des cités.

Les vallées inondées serviront de refuges
aux animaux rescapés des incendies
causés par les déflagrations, les bombes
tardives, les explosions nombreuses.

Quelle nourriture putride aurons-nous
dans les mains ? Quelle substance écarlate
étanchera notre soif ? Nous sustenter
deviendra notre peine quotidienne.

La poésie sauvera-t-elle l’humain ?
Est-il d’ailleurs souhaitable que d’aucuns
ne survivent au déclin de l’espèce invasive,
destructrice ? Demain n’existe pas.


*****

Walter Ruhlmann enseigne l’anglais et écrit depuis plus de 20 ans. Il édite et dirige la revue Datura et les blogs et éditions Beakful et Urtica. Son dernier recueil en français Civilisé est paru chez Urtica en 2017. Ses blogs personnels: http://thenightorchid.blogspot.fr/ et http://nightorchidsselectedpoems.blogspot.fr/

Wednesday 26 December 2018

Walter Ruhlmann Poèmes 1993-2001


Disponible aussi sur lulu.com
ISBN: 9780244445027
15€ (+ frais de port) -- 308 pages -- couverture souple

Lire Walter Ruhlmann, c'est ouvrir un tiroir secret de notre conscience. C'est aussi s'élargir l'esprit et cultiver le goût de la différence.
Frédéric MAIRE, dans Press-stances n°7, décembre 1995


Walter a une conscience aiguë de sa propre existence, de ses envies, de ce qu’il veut ou ne veut pas en faire, des plaisirs qu’il y trouve, comme de ses souillures et de ses souffrances. Sa poésie est son album de voyage, la trace de son itinéraire parmi les hommes. Et ce besoin, de dire et d’écrire, il l’exprime debout, dehors, face aux vents. Il se mouille, forcément. Alors pour vous, je ne sais pas ; moi, il m’atteint, me touche et me mouille aussi. La poésie de Walter ne sent pas la rose, c’est certain. Pourtant, quel parfum de rose pourrait ainsi vous prendre à la gorge ?
Bzone, préface à L'horizon des peupliers, 1998


Je déclare que Walter Ruhlmann est la version française de Georg Trakl, et puis c’est tout.
Marie Lecrivain, éditrice de la revue américaine poeticdiversity, Facebook 2017

*****

Sunday 9 December 2018

23 to be an other another by Edward Wells II


outside night languid wanting









languid
wanting
her
fingers





wanting
her
fingers
tickled





fingers
tickled
to
tremors





to tremors red rims









red
rims
remembered
lids





rims
remembered
lids
canyons





remembered
lids
canyons
eyes





inside 23 is us









is
us
learned
lineage





us
learned
lineage
felt





lineage
felt
connection
the





felt connection the hope









the
hope
of
language





hope
of
language
passing





of
language
passing
in





of language passing in and passing





language
passing
in
and
passing
among



passing
in
and
passing
among
and
passing


in
and
passing
among
and
passing
and
passing

and passing among and passing and passing and out
to
be
metabolized
by





metabolized
by
an
other





by
another
outside
night





Sunday 14 October 2018

Where Alexander Drowned by John Grey



Waves spiral into shore
spurred on by waves behind.
They roll over my toes.
The correct retort eludes me.

For I wish to respond
to the headlong desperation.
But sorrow has no orator,
just foam and sinking bodies.

All before me is transient,
cannot be restrained,
is rolled under by the sea
to cry out then to vanish.

So I paddle among waters
where the dead return
in the guise of an echo
of salt and shell and driftwood.

But the sun’s too warm,
the breeze too salty.
And people only have memories.
Oceans, though, have their reasons.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly. 

Tuesday 9 October 2018

Il se peut que ce soit l'inverse par Florence Andoka

Photographie de Jeanne Menjoulet


Il a démissionné_ C’est un russe et un américain qui ont créé Google
Il a commencé à pleurer_ La guerre froide s’est soldée par un moteur de recherche

A ne plus pouvoir sortir dans la rue _ Où l’on apprend que le thé vert à haute dose est mortel
A voir le vide comme un ennemi intime_ Où l’on peut choisir d’en commander pour Noël

Il a décidé de changer de ville_ La politesse étant le garant essentiel de la paix sociale
Il a décidé de s’enfoncer plus loin_ Il faut de ce fait saluer ses voisins comme il se doit

Là où personne ne le verrait_ Seuls, deux pigeons se sont rencontrés   
Là où personne ne le saurait_ Sur les toits comme un contrat sexuel à ciel ouvert

Mais il se peut que ce soit l’inverse en termes chronologiques

Saturday 25 August 2018

ain't no leader like the one you can hang by John Sweet

from A Bastard Child in the Kingdom of Nil, Analog Press Submission, 2018
Art cover by Gregarious Bitch
born in the
kingdom of nil, in
the season of dying

born during the war
your children will inherit and
will you teach them
god is a lie?

that every tyrant's days
are numbered?

the only road that leads
to the future
will be paved
with their corpses

*****

John Sweet, b 1968, still numbered among the living. A believer in writing as catharsis. Opposed to all organized religion and political parties. His work has been appearing globally in both electronic and prehistoric mediums for the last 30 years. His latest collections include BASTARD FAITH (Scars Publications) and the limited edition HEATHEN TONGUE (Kendra Steiner Editions). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing. 

Monday 20 August 2018

Fandango by Walter Ruhlmann is Out Today


FANDANGO by Walter Ruhlmann is out today through Urtica Press. With a foreword by Steve Klepetar

Order your copy
$10/£10/€8 (shipping included).

ISBN: 978-0-244-10516-7 - 54 pages

contact urticalitblog at gmail dot com

"Love is illusion, and even lust is stripped of its romantic, erotic charm. Inside, hidden from the lover, lives the wolf, an embodiment of appetite as dangerous as it is energetic and wild. These poems lay themselves bare, rejecting the false comforts of easy and joyous connection." Steve Klepetar



Excerpt:

Sapiens Sucks

To disconnect oneself,
to unwire from all the mass movements,
hysterical people made more hysterical
by the atrocities, the blood-filled images
spilling over from the boxes, the overloaded screens.

To enter blunt dumbness,
no matter what happens.
To unplug from the sound, the noise rather;
razor-like screams of children being torn apart,
women raped and men beheaded
by pigs whose silvery, sharp teeth penetrate
the human mind, the fandango.

To switch off the wide eye,
any blinking eyes blinded by purple lids,
liquid hums, snow flakes melting
on the carpet stained with tea,
semen maybe, an orgasmic mayhem.

To cherish these moments:
sofa crouching,
bed burrowing,
cat purring on the laps,
laptop off, folded back to its lair.

To forget existence, others' work or worries,
only mooning over the Earth,
the large crust ball formed then deformed,
through the geological epochs.

To feel the blows of a comet,
another gamma ray outburst,
the billion miles, the trillion stars
out of reach, under this bruised skin,
concealed deep in these tar-coated lungs.


First published in Nude Bruce Review #5, August 2015

Tuesday 14 August 2018

Fandango Release Date 20 August

Fandango by Walter Ruhlmann is out in 6 days through Urtica Press. With a foreword by Steve Klepetar
$10 (shipping included). £10/€8
ISBN: 978-0-244-10516-7 - 54 pages
contact urticalitblog at gmail dot com

"Love is illusion, and even lust is stripped of its romantic, erotic charm. Inside, hidden from the lover, lives the wolf, an embodiment of appetite as dangerous as it is energetic and wild. These poems lay themselves bare, rejecting the false comforts of easy and joyous connection." Steve Klepetar

Excerpt:

Poem

You say you want me inside you
but you don’t know what’s inside me.
The roguery, the erratic wolf craving for
more
meat.

What’s happening inside ourselves
always erupts and bursts outside,
in the shades of some unfathomable shelters
where we cherish the sheer moments of calm.

Now you're there, looking for me,
absolutely nothing could reassure you;
humming like I used to in the time
when we blossomed.

The mountains encircle neuralgia,
clear water is springing from their flanks
like dark blood is spurting from a corpse.

Nostalgia are at peace with themselves
but they will never leave us unharmed.
Let's collapse in the deep corridors of mercy
and burrow through a chemical shroud,
or a shredded duvet.


http://urticalitblog.blogspot.fr/
urticalitblog@gmail.com

Sunday 5 August 2018

Not So Much Staycation by Alyssa Trivett

I was a dried out prune
in the sun
enjoying my alcohol soaked time
with Summer brightness
and car tires whirring by.
I sniff newspaper delivery
java scents
and chainsaw rev up
my coffeemaker in the kitchen.
Begin.

*****

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. Her work has recently appeared at In Between Hangovers, Apricity Magazine and The Rye Whiskey Review. She can be reached at facebook.com/alyssalovestowrite

Friday 3 August 2018

Correspondances par Zig-Zag


publié en 1993 dans New-Loque, puis dans Mauvaise graine 11, juin 1997

J'irai naviguer sur des champs de Légo
A la recherche d'un morceau de pelle
Symbole de la terre et des patates à l'eau
Ivre de soupe et de caleçons en dentelle

Les chameaux bleus et l'île de Pâques
Tournent dans le tourbillon du bidet
Criant leur haine de la bière en Pak
Ce n'est qu'un ressort trop rouillé.

Monday 23 July 2018

Fandango Release Date 20 August

Fandango by Walter Ruhlmann, Urtica
Release date: 20 August 2018
With a foreword by Steve Klepetar

"Love is illusion, and even lust is stripped of its romantic, erotic charm. Inside, hidden from the lover, lives the wolf, an embodiment of appetite, as dangerous as it is energetic and wild. These poems lay themselves bare, rejecting the false comforts of easy and joyous connection. In one of my favorite among these, “Congratulate,” the animal is a cat who hunts to feed her kittens: “She brings them back dead animals,/lovely huntress – she should be called Diane…” Like the goddess she is lovely and deadly, proud of the fleshy prizes she brings, left there “on the carpet for us all to consider,/her treasure, her trophy, a feather in her cap,/an awesome gift for the month-old furry balls.” Maternal instinct intertwines with violence, pride, and death, capped off by the adorable image of the almost newborn kittens. The emotions here come off as complex, ironic, informed by cynicism and humor as well as by horror."

From the foreword, Steve F. Steve Klepetar

http://urticalitblog.blogspot.fr/
urticalitblog@gmail.com

Tuesday 17 July 2018

Protest by Gary Beck

Brokeback Mexican by Karen


Two young, middle-class, white women are on their way to a demonstration against impurities in lipstick.


Liz: “I can hear a commotion around the corner. That must be it.”
Sandy: “It’s very noisy. I wonder why they’re so excited.”
Liz: “Well its about time that someone got angry at the junk they put in our make-up.”
(They reach the corner and see a demonstration about immigration.)
Sandy: “Look, Liz. It’s about immigrants, not lipstick.”
Liz: “Immigrants are important. We need people to do our nails and stuff. As long
as they don’t move in next door to me.”
Sandy: “You don’t have to worry about that. They couldn’t afford the rent in your building.”
Liz: “That’s not the point. I wouldn’t mind a French or Swedish person next
door. Just not those Mexicans who talk so fast you can’t understand them.”
Sandy: That’s how you might sound to them.”
Liz: “Don’t be silly. I speak English.”
Sandy: “I see there’s no point in discussing it with you. Do you want to join this
demonstration?”
Liz: “Of course not! I’m no immigrant. Let’s go someplace nice for lunch.”

*****
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 14 published chapbooks. Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City

Friday 13 July 2018

Datura: Blooming


General submission guidelines for datura literary journal

Send five poems or artwork, three fiction, reviews, essays to mgversion2datura at gmail dot com. Previously published work OK as long as you give publishing background. Simultaneous submissions OK just make sure you tell me if your work is accepted elsewhere.

Write your full name and submission type in the header of your email. Name your attachment with latsname_firstname_title_datura. Make sure the title of the piece you send appears at the top of the page. No more than one poem per page.

Send all submissions in a txt, doc or odt file, attached to your mail. Don't copy/paste as formatting tends to get awkward, and hard to manage afterwards.

A short biography (very short -- essential only: where you are from (city, [state/province], country), a link to your blog/website, your latest publication...) is welcome but not necessary.

Read the former journal mgversion2>datura or the literary blogs Beakful or Urtica, and the books published through mgv2>publishing or Beakful and Urtica to get a sense of what I am used to publishing.

I don't retain any rights, your writing is your creation. You are welcome to cite the original publishing place in case you reprinted your work.

Submissions read year round. Response time may vary a lot. https://daturaliteraryjournal.blogspot.com/

Thursday 12 July 2018

Fluid Situation by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Decorative Concrete Kingdom Concrete Wood Flooring - Rapid City SD


There is nothing pretty
about the words that
matter

the ones
that climb under
your skin and grow
infected

spilling out this pusey
yellow fluid
in rotting weepy
bubbles

that you squeeze onto
the faux wood floor
your landlord is so
proud of.

*****

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review and The New York Quarterly.

Wednesday 11 July 2018

Depression by Erich von Neff



I take solace
In touching steel

Rubbing my hands
Against its smooth sides

Hearing it reverberate
When I rap it with my knuckles

I like the feel of I-beams
And steel pipes

Trombones for itchy fingers
Icons of my mind

from The Shadow of the Dog

*****

Erich von Neff was born in 1939 in Manila, the Philippines. Shortly before WW2 he returned with his family to the USA. He has had many jobs and uncountable poems and books published worldwide, especially in France, Belgium, Switzerland, and the USA https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ErichvonNeff

Monday 9 July 2018

Ejaculer de Walter Ruhlmann

transversion de "Ejaculate" extrait du recueil Fandago à paraître en août 2018 chez Urtica.



Personne ne veut se salir,
s’engager dans ces batailles,
ces copulations horrifiques
tournées, jouées, notées, toute la journée.

Pourtant certains aiment regarder
les hommes nappés, aspergés,
enrobés – c’est amusant que le sexe soit parfois décrit
avec du vocabulaire culinaire.

Fourrés, ils gémissent tous, certains grimacent,
tous vendent leur fierté, leur amour propre.
Nul ne devrait juger leurs écarts
puisqu’ils nous permettent d’éjaculer.


*****


Walter Ruhlmann enseigne l’anglais et écrit depuis plus de 20 ans. Il édite et dirige la revue Datura et les blogs et éditions Beakful et Urtica. Son dernier recueil en français Civilisé est paru chez Urtica en 2017.

Sunday 17 June 2018

Scarred Face in a Mirror by John Grey

Fight Club 1 by Milos Milosevic


Ugly zigzag lines
slide down the glass like mercury,
a recurring wave
that stumbles the sound of confidence.

Flares fly off wherever skin is visible,
May as well point out horror with a cue stick.
And the mirror being cruelly convex,
a face bulges toward its source.

Promised some grafting,
you’re restless as the raindrops on the pane,
longing to be have it done
no matter the cost, the consequence.

Without new cheeks, new chin, new brow,
there is no tenderness, no amusement, just regret.
A mirror cannot keep a secret.
This is the face that belies description.

It looks much better in dreams.
This view, even in the waning light,
can’t protect you going forward.
It is a life with visible scars.

It has no dimension other than
what someone did to you
or what you did to yourself.
There is no honor

in any attempt to conceal it.
And indifference is a lie.
You are scarred for life.
You are scarred for living.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

Saturday 26 May 2018

A Sonnet to the Siren Annabelle-Leigh Eyeglasses, short silver hair, edgy by Lenore S. Beadsman

Image credit: NASA/JPL/Space Science Institute


Eligible for the waiting which it might take to result in the feverish zone
Which might have to saunter along the perpendicular and convinced
Of the range should it be silent along the musty grey and standard grip
Of her fingers which will stand to corrupt the lonely side of the mere clone
Which was how she would stand alongside the meekest memory was rinsed
Away with the model painted aside from the killing spray was a verge to sip

This is how she can be pathetic over the lambasted configuration is a gag
Permitted to stain all in its way of the marching predicament would she prepare
The modest pedigree is the future of what is with the hampered told never again
To sprain the exercise with the mostly faintly harbored serious is the lie drag
To fill the emptiness with another gutsy repeated is the sure side of the care
That is emphatic to lisp away at the meekest sounds are a nary the rude ascend

Thursday 24 May 2018

Vient de paraître Necro manigances Dandois saisissantes

Illustration Pascal Dandois
Ça gratte, ça écorche, ça grignote aux écornures
Boniments, élégances, radiothérapie des ligaments.
Fleur de sel et autre pigmentation vénérienne
Ribambelle et flagellation des cordes vocables.
Particules, poussières, rhume des soins
Sauvetage assidu d’endorphines faméliques.
Médecine légale des sentiments à nu
Voyeurisme amateur déporté par transparence.

On palpe, on pince, on tâte les arrières faussetés
Véhémences, torsions, foulures des condiments.
Sauce naguère et assortiment des passés
Élongation des nuances de farces et matraques.
Atmosphère, oxydation, grippe inestimable
Émasculation des niveaux de gris tempête.
Doctrine sédimentaire des couches émotionnelles
Tabloïd grandeur mature dégorgé sans souffrance.

Le corps est un autre homme qui tente de survivre à l’extérieur.
L’homme est un autre décor qui se serpente de l’intérieur.

Necromongers, Les tentacules de l'esprit

Les auteurs:


Necromongers: Ma courte carrière, déjà enrobée de quelques mythiques navets (précédemment acceptés chez Revue Métèque, Corbeau, Absynthe, La Matière Noire, Gorezine), sent la patate chaude à des kilomètres à la ronde. Fort de quelques années d’écriture (une vingtaine dans l’ombre environ) et de quelques kilos en trop, je m’efforce d’améliorer les deux avec une hargne sans précédent.
Mon histoire commence là où mes contrées de volutes se sont égarées, en direction d’une brume épaisse. Je suis né un jour où la Simca 1000 trônait encore comme une représentation perfide de l’adultère mécanique. Un temps névralgiquement (si si) condensé comme une utopie galopante, d’une naïveté addictive. J’ai tué ce rêve jusqu’à l’insomnie, lui faisant l’ombre nécessaire à son oubli.

Pascal Dandois: Artiste béquillard et multidisciplinaire ayant publié des textes, nouvelles et poèmes, dans divers revues et fanzines (Violences, Le Bateau, 17secondes, Bloganozart, etc.), ayant participé à l’anthologie Dimension Violences chez Rivière Blanche, et La folie chez Jacques Flament, a illustré les nouvelles de Patrick Boutin dans les recueils La fin des haricots, A la folie, pas du tout et Corps et âme chez Z4 éditions, et La cité des brumes de Sylvain René de La Verdière chez le Garage L. 

Poésie et arts -- 26 pages
A commander auprès de l'éditeur urticalitblog@gmail.com
Prix 6€ port compris

You Wouldn't Have Known Me Then by John Grey



Far from the quotidian rhythm
of sleep and waking,
the reinvention of thought
into dream,
of perception
into detail and desire -

or maybe not so much far
as at its core,
like the stone dropped in the pool
that keeps the ripples coming -

the first truth,
the initial discipline
of embryogenesis -

ancestral legacy,
dark energy,
ordinary matter,
hastening in the womb.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

Saturday 19 May 2018

gangsta rap made me write a poem by Sudeep Adhikari


it was the same old morning. my kid
making my world go round,
despite the historic rocket-launch
 by mr. mike hughes, somewhere in a
california’s desert-strip ,
to prove mother earth is a humble pancake.

sipping a cup of tea, i was
listening to ice cube and reading

steven pinker’s new book,
that looks like a fat juicy pulp-fiction
by its cover. dude started a chapter
with a quote by barack obama, which

was just about to throw me into an
inaudible swearing-fit; and my wife said,
at least listen to some god-hymns in the 
morning for god’s sake!

i said, i would dear, if gangsta rap made me do it.

*****

Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from Kathmandu, Nepal.  His recent publications were with Beatnik Cowboys, Chiron Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Midnight Lane Boutique, Occulum, Silver Birch Press, Eunoia Review, Utt Poetry and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis. Also a Pushcart Prize nominee for the year 2018, Sudeep is currently working on his 4th poetry-book Hyper-Real Reboots, which is scheduled for publication in September 2018 through Weasel Press, Texas, USA.

Thursday 17 May 2018

Omaha by Matt Dennison

Basement Pantry by Susy Morris

When fathers stopped wearing fedoras at ballgames
unity and chaos wrestled in the mud.
                                      •
When fathers stopped telling the old jokes
quills grew on the tongues of their children.
                                      •
When fathers stopped strangling ice picks
cars sank in a traveling darkness.
                                      •
When fathers stopped building bad-weather traps
fish split themselves open for fun.
                                      •
When fathers stopped wiping the sky with red handkerchiefs
marbles settled the war.
                                      •
When fathers stopped chasing parachute-suicides
lawns carved the traveling salesmen.
                                      •
When fathers stopped leaning on enormous flap-wings
history snuck under the fence.
                                      •
When fathers stopped counting jars in the basement
hyenas licked cardboard hyenas.
                                      •
When fathers stopped carving urinals with ivy
cakes nibbled once-trusting palms.
                                      •
When fathers stopped stuffing clowns into suitcases
birds sang falderal! in the sun.
                                      •
When fathers stopped lassoing pig parts for war vets
cats drowned the horizon's bathtub.
                                      •
When fathers stopped stealing cartographer headlamps
newspapers taped their own wounds.
                                      •

When fathers stopped practicing hand-shadow puppetry
 brooms had a faint holiday.
                                      •
When fathers stopped riding banshees in goulash
clocks turned on ugly balloons.
                                      •
When fathers stopped hoarding soup soap and quarantine
ropes signed The Treaty of Knot.
                                      •   
When fathers stopped hollering ravens! 
When fathers stopped drumming cathedrals
When fathers stopped practicing bird dreams 
When fathers stopped shouldering trinkets 
When fathers stopped tripping on mufflers 
When fathers stopped breathing in cisterns
When fathers stopped spitting out wrenches
When fathers stopped pondering cheeses 
When fathers stopped bathing in coal bins 

cliffs healed themselves to the top
fence posts unzipped the sky
Aspnum gave birth to Charrsid
worms laughed themselves into consorts
garage doors snagged their own eyelids
shoe boxes climbed all the poles
hellgrammites danced in the cupboard
tug boats shrugged their conceits
cowslips died of anemia
                                      •
When fathers stopped measuring castrate battalions
trampolines called it a day.

previously published in A Cappella Zoo

*****

After a rather extended and varied second childhood in New Orleans, Matt Dennison’s
work has appeared in Rattle, Bayou Magazine, Redivider, Natural Bridge, The Spoon
River Poetry Review and Cider Press Review, among others. He has also made short
films with Michael Dickes, Swoon, and Marie Craven.

Tuesday 15 May 2018

Panorama by Sanjeev Sethi



For the parched
semblance
of shower is enough.
Unruliness
of our union
is song
to saplessness.
Bias is built-in
the human chip.
This is an offshoot
of the temporal run.
It is not in the texture
of alluvial soil
to understand
ruth and rue
of the scorched.

first published in Futures Trading

*****

Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: The Broadkill Review, After the Pause, Chicago Record Magazine, Former People, Unlikely Stories Mark V, London Grip,  Postcolonial Text, Communion Arts Journal, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Monday 2 April 2018

Teabags Steeped into Nonexistence by Ryan Quinn Flanagan



Of course there are the elements to consider
the stations of the cross like a subway of contrition
teabags steeped into nonexistence 
new governments formed though natural processes
of erosion and osmosis
nefarious Chaplin and the pride of lions
all semblance and form and power steering
shipping crates packed full of the instruments of war
so that child soldiers can say they are in the band;
the last time we saw each other was not so good,
you with your husband and guilt, and me with
my many doomsday proclivities,
if we come together again, I would suggest more
like a car wreck, but without any of the apprehensions,
the room itself was nice: the water pressure agreeable
and the house stationary too.

*****

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review and The New York Quarterly.

Sunday 18 February 2018

Dieu doigte en abstinent, comme conséquent de Claire Hurrimbarte

Photographie (c) Jean-Pierre Dalbéra

Au début était le Balistique


OBJET — (voulait somme tout le concret).

Pourrais-je apprécier l’analyse qui achoppe, temps intégralement foutus, attouchements mus sans hurlement procréateur — est-ce ADÉQUAT là-bas !

VERBE — (comprenant que son fils de quatre ans pouvait rayonner)
Voulez-vous pousser ? 

OBJET — Nous disons le boire, le manger, spéculé et métabolisé ?

CONSTANCE — Vos alertes font pulsation : un je me mets à m'ébruiter disent-les on du mal à se déjouer. Sans vous la têtue acceptation enjambée.

- C’est laquelle mon empreinte ?

Voyez-vous étant subordonné à une histoire naturelle qui reproduit des vues fixes par tics douloureux comme marque infaillible destinée à expulser les mouvements réguliers d'un mécanisme d'accumulation.

            - J’ai vrai, non !?


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J'ai assis sur mes nodosités textuelles et sous-morales si je m’offre bien, ce désaveu dilué de demi-tours dubitatifs qui s’intéresse autant à Insoupçonné qu’à nous rappeler l’histoire d'un devenir Prématuré !

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Surveille la pelouse presque bêtement, je la regardai : elle est aux soulèvements d'argile promiscuité embarrassée... 
Combien ai-je connu dans le monde de chattes velues qui ont été surprises par l'imitation du cri de l'oiseau essoré - ?

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«  Recherche phénomène Idiot furieusement logique »
   Alphonse le Confesseur

Il est étudié [b.a.-ba], en attroupé les propriétés de l’unité ci-gisante [c.-à-d.], illustre comparatiste qui décomplexe Passablement, escouade tailler en pièce maîtresse :

J’avoue juger mes ongles ignorants et en cure-dent,

Phénomène instruit et assujetti...

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Né chronologiquement, faire accomplir le lapin saut quantique !

- Instant minus, instant pour Nestor, sourire mi-août, spin vous-même «  Tant vaut Temps, tant vaut être tendancieux ».

Naisseur le Gros Orteil ébranlement comme conjonction de coordination odorante, courant dans les parcs, permettant de faire des Mortifications stratégiques légèrement antispasmodiques (indiquant non la vérité, mais une terre ensorcelée).

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Clou sans fin retiré, je m’additionne de petites toutes petites lésions réchauffées, toujours à un isolément près je me jouis vis-à-vis avec Amphigouri la sœur du marquis.

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Éperdument fidèle,
Sachez que les fureurs utérines d'une Locution servent à stimuler le vicieux bienfaiteur (cette dépouille dont on se sert pour applaudir un attachement au Pue-bien rameur), par agonie priée plusieurs fois de s'infliger...

Oui, oui, cadencé par des collectionneurs qui maltraite nos esprits rapporteurs !

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Le machinal et l'incommode pour un temps agenouillé, on ne perçoit pas le raccourci.
Arrière-garde exposée à un naufrage envieux caractérisé par l'éternel intérim d'esprits sans extension pour des rencontres calcinées sous un soleil rongeur...

- Attention il est conseillé de pré-commandez !

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Comme le Croyant j’habite grassement le Bourbeux qui berce le travail de mes yeux... Je me buse, je psalmodie, ce n’est jean-foutre qu’un peu de choppe et bizarre gorgée que j’innocente de Grammaires névropathes.

**