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23. Featuring: Chris McCabe (UK)



Laura Bottomley (uk) + John Burroughs (USA) + Leilani Cesnek (UK) +

Cyndi Dawson (USA) + Vlado Kreslin (Slovenia) + Hosho McCreesh (USA)







I am thinking of your voice.

How thinking of your voice?

I try & all I see is how you looked.

Sometimes, without hearing,

I picture the sound of your words.

But where is that?


How the Tube makes us read

ourselves each time new

– under the Thames the tremulous –

I almost panicked; is there anything

remains in analogue of how

you spoke, once, captured as a joke?


I create the format to support it

picture the reels on which you spoke

but when silent to listen, all I see is your face


Chris McCabe

Still Time


The sparkle in my eye I renounced for sand,

For bricks I sold my face,

My shadow I exchanged for land,

And dogs, my only companions.


Now I live in this quiet house,

This golden house of mine.

I open the door only to those

Who bring me fresh eggs,

And take away my trash.


I still have time to learn whether

I should stay or go.


One day I might tear down this fence,

Perhaps one day I might leave,

A new face will breathe with this house,

A new pair of glimmering eyes,

While only dogs remain.


I still have time to learn whether

I should stay or go.

I still have the time to learn

The ways of right and the forbidden,

Does the clouded sky hold the answer?


Vlado Kreslin



She said she was going to the shop with me

She was going to the shop with me

She was going, she was going

She was gone. Gone

And yet she wasn’t at the shop with me

The door was in front of me

A big oak door with brown and cream

And did I scream?

Hell, yes!

And I banged and banged, but

Still the shop was there

And I was here.


Leilanie Cesnik



I waft the rice with a table mat

while you rake

like a gardener who likes lines.

The steam gathers under our faces

                                                                    hangs there



The vinegar odour, shocking as distillation fumes,

will be with us for days in hair, skin, jokes.

We test it, taking it up in sticky snowballs

and throw it.

Squid unfolds as it is ripped from itself.

Salmon is held to the light, slapped,

Unfurled over the palm.

The artery tweezers rummage

for the splinters of glassy bone.

Pulled clean out

like teeth.


We pass the fish, raw as blood, between us.

You pinch the rose-peach flesh

between your fingernails and swing it in,

closing your mouth around it.

The daughter shows the father how to make shapes.

He listens like a child.


Laura Bottomley

1986: A No Heat Space


We might have been listening to The Ramones

but God knows I have long term memory loss.

What I do know for certain is that you

were high as Orpheus and we skated through

hallways, imaginary blades connected with feet--

unaware of frigid air, this no heat space.

Dishes stacked for days blended into stains

in an old porcelain sink...


It might have been you who said it first,

that only blocks away Sid had murdered Nancy.

You can’t make this shit up. Something about it

seemed so romantic. Because you had

rockstar shoulders, necklaced by low slung guitar.

Because we were chemically parallel, we were

sailors coasting same city floors, tilted.

If you killed me now I might be famous, too.


Somebody turned on an amp. Then I heard it...

Her singing, from another room, siren in its

ethereal, and I knew she would come rabid for you.

I knew if I slipped prostrate, glimpsed you,

beautiful with light slipping from pore and lip

that the way her hips changed with seconds

You would reverse coma a kiss for her

Hoping to tear skin, hoping it would end in blood.



Cyndi Dawson

Ahem (a hymn)


Stand up, stand up for Jesus

While his father knees us in the nuts

Plugs us in our butts

Aims to please us or displease us, as the case may be

By leading us into paths of unrighteousness

For his name’s sake

Never giving us a break

Teaching us to take more than we live

Die more than we give


It’s the same stale story

We distribute his excrement

In this world gone grim

And attribute the government

Of this shitcan to him


To God be the gory

Grating things he hath done


John Burroughs