Use the jukebox to
 listen to some cool music including Winter Beach by Suchoon Mo as you browse the site

+ 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


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...”