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01. Featuring: Dee Rimbaud




This perpetual twist shifting, the chapel

On a polluted October blustering impossible morning...


She condenses all thought, all feeling into similes

Like butterflies caught in a web of clichés

(it’s easier that way)


     Albert walks meandering thru W12, proud as

cactus hairs, a twine of Verlaine in his sick pockets:

prole voice pole-vaulted thru distant clouds (but he

has never seen one up close – airplanes, cocktails

and dark sentiments don’t mix).  Albert is a man with

his feet on the ground.

                             Anodyne & alert

                             she sucks his dull prick


The penis, a hairless cactus plant in the desert

Of her lonely soul.


But, the poetry is a complex issue

And the rubbing of dry tissue

A catharsis

And Albert,

A man with his feet on the ground.


*   *   *  *


in algeria, on a clapped out remington rand,

with syphilitic ten year old boys in his yard

he explored a netherworld the beatniks

only dreamed of...

but that was way back when

before the shepherd’s bush

of altered realities

shrunk into banality


*   *    *     *


In the cloisters of 49 Adelaide Grove,

After the short dark walk from White City,

He enters her: a stranger, an envoy,

A messenger.

He reads aloud

Passages from People’s Friend:

Rocks her to sleep with his laughter.


Dreaming on her laptop

He calculates

The days gone by.



In the clock gland

In the clenched fingers of his right hand.


Sometimes he imagines a ghost from a Munch painting

Swallowed by a giant vampire cunt.

He is dried out, desiccated

A misanthrope

Hung by his own rope.


    She smiles into her knitting

    And he is compliant

    Silent tap tap tapping

    On her laptop

       a spew of words

       a senile calling

       these days gone by.


*   *   *  *


algeria is a dream of dark red blood, of vulva:

mirrors speak of hallways and labyrinths and monsters.

she winds the clock... but not back.

peeling away labial lips

she smiles, like a score of young sun browned boys.


*   *  *  *


And then they are a fusion of cock and cunt,

An extinguishing of all distinction.

Into nothingness they fall,



And then there is that voice, the insistence...

“What flowers express

 Days gone by?”

And you know the answer:

It’s as clear as a Fassbinder film;




White lilies.


Dreaming, hands soft as bread,

Albert walks thru a monochrome forest.

He arrives @ a clearing

and e-mailed in CMYK colour

a JPEG florist shop

spilling over...


“Dear Laurie, dear tapestry weaver, dear dreamer,

 Today I ate a plate of mortality

 And faced a final certainty, so

                          I leave you each

                          A sprig of white lilies

                          And hope they express

                          Days gone by...”

+ Ellaraine Lockie + David Menzies + Sheema Kalbasi + Linda Benninghoff + Helen Kitson + Sam    Smith + birgitta jonsdottir + Ric Lee + Corrine De Winter + Iris N. Schwartz + A. D. Winans +              Corey Mesler + Madeline Artenberg + L. Ward Abel + Peter Bowen + Les Merton + Dermot                 Glennon + Ursula Hurley + Majid Mohiuddin + Jacqueline Dunne +Farida Mihoub + Idris Caffrey