Friday 31 March 2023

Excerpts from gnōstos, Volume VII (manuscript) of the Grammaton Series by Irene Koronas


Excerpts from gnōstos, Volume VII (manuscript) of the Grammaton Series by Irene Koronas 



transpositional; a neuter

category on an armature


A perversell alignment

with diagonal on temporary


“I am tired of movement”




Brôme wheels tied to crudity,

compost jells the eyes. How

is it possible, the torture

of vacillation’s grind.  Without

measure. “How could they” make

print an annex to geofy the madwho


In comes the ass. 6.


Sharp ears cut fissure


qua qua qua qua


Comedy replaces the false

face for an audience. The synthetic

Evid and Optie atomism


The monad hyposcript sops up

conviction. Sop moderates

a phallic glide








We reproduce the pattern

a body for its head. Sawol

premembers on return


the limb’s need


can unsettle distinction

Clump the long tongue


The differs: spit trickles from

headless sleep. He shoos away

his dull thud and skirts a snore

an unnatural slap ‘n blob


What is it?


An interpretation?


An explanation about 

plebeian taste


Waste of a sensualism

that powers sedum


I am the one thinking




There may be nothing

more sturdy or absurd

than certain insistence


A little “it” that italicizes

itself and subjects it to ex


An impure adjustment

ridden by removal


Hung by profundity




A kabbalistic contraction

A promethean ellipsis


A camouflage circumflex

leak. A shoelast

An open sole

for ferreomembers

A highheel congregation

spins and taps. Toes

eager for umbrage



Irene Koronas is the author of numerous collections of xperimental writing. Her Grammaton Series includes siphonic, Volume VI (BlazeVOX, 2022), lithic cornea, Volume V (BlazeVOX, 2021), holyrit, Volume IV (BlazeVOX, 2019), declivities, Volume III (BlazeVOX, 2018), ninth iota, Volume II (The Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2018) and Codify, Volume I (Éditions du Cygne, 2017). Her collections include Turtle Grass (Muddy River Books, 2014)  and Pentakomo Cyprus (Červená Press, 2009). Her xperimental writing and sauvage art have been published in Alligatorzine, BlazeVOX, The Boston Globe, Buzdokuz, Cambridge Chronicles, E·ratio, Marsh Hawk Press Review, Offcourse, perspektive, slowforward, Taos Journal of International Poetry & Art and Word For/Word. She is the Publisher of Var(2x). Her website is

Irene Koronas' gnōstos, Volume VII (manuscript) of the Grammaton Series is an unanguagic, hyper-minimalist écriture, melding its aporias with a mix of staccato posthumanism and The Nag Hammadi Scriptures. 

Excerpts from The Metempsychosis of Salvador Dracu, Volume VI (manuscript) of The Posthuman Series by Daniel Y. Harris


Excerpts from The Metempsychosis of Salvador Dracu, Volume VI (manuscript) of The Posthuman Series by Daniel Y. Harris



L’autre kippa, its idempotentia

(monoids): iOS wifi demons

            in ZeroClick

            RCEs—this imperia

            (inceptuals): purūs/hīlum,

mix deextinction with apeiron. 


Transfer this epiphora (RDDoS):

rhizomorphyl, if not the Godhead.

            Plainsight: c:|winnt|system32.

            This nomomorphemy

            is for shapeshifting:





Run Hoaxshell and lay teffilin:

omit/nullify—or run Dystopia

(MOTD, Port, Hostname).


Origin’s unoriginal


            its roots ḤBL/BḤL pitch

            metaphora, epiphora,

            allotrios. The propositional





Archiintelligibilité: body inhume

(databyss)—its Bible Ganglion

            a wrist Gedankenexperiment

            or eye its buttox with Vulscan.

            Against phatica, add dicitur’s


Zeus Scanner (ˋ-l/--dork-listˋflag):

screed up. Veritas in dicto: patch

a heapbuffer overflow in WebRTC.

Fuxploider for Nazgûlics, the Black

Hat Hackers—this binary exploit:

blaze fast urwörter (prototrans),

            for mqltifyrms are terminus

            a quo. This semiophantic

            act—bypass Mitaka: crypta,

            pure relata. Here’s theorein,

            veer back: eventus.   





the retaux conjecture or configure

            Harpoon: numverify

            its malshare, the


            This urlhaus—exchange API

            for zetalytics (ʿal ha-qadmut).

La Parole Soufflée: HITPA‘ELs spurt.





            Un nourrisson

hérisson—Cloudtopolis: koodous

from the AlienVault, the blood’s

jus natalium. This floruit


(threatgrid)—clones crAPI

repositories: razes secare

in hieratics, twits.




Daniel Y. Harris is the author of numerous collections of xperimental writing. His Posthuman Series includes The Resurrection of Maximillian Pissante, Volume V (BlazeVOX, 2022), The Misprision of Agon Hack, Volume IV (BlazeVOX, 2021), The Reincarnation of Anna Phylactic, Volume III (BlazeVOX, 2019), The Tryst of Thetica Zorg, Volume II, (BlazeVOX, 2018), and The Rapture of Eddy Daemon, Volume I (BlazeVOX, 2016). His collections include The Underworld of Lesser Degrees (NYQ Books, 2015) and Hyperlinks of Anxiety (Červená Barva Press, 2013). His xperimental writing and sauvage art have been published in Alligatorzine, BlazeVOX, The Denver Quarterly, Dichtung Yammer, European Judaism, Exquisite Corpse, Marsh Hawk Press Review, The New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, perspektive, Poetry Salzburg Review and Word For/Word. He is the Publisher of Var(2x). His website is

Daniel Y. Harris' The Metempsychosis of Salvador Dracu, Volume VI (manuscript) of The Posthuman Series,  is a misprision of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico Philosophicus with its 7 primary levels divided into 525 sublevels. The protagonist, Salvador Dracu, is malware as Jacques Derrida, Black Hat Hacker. His Posthuman Series has received praise from Charles Bernstein, Harold Bloom, Marjorie Perloff, Kenneth Goldsmith and Andrei Codrescu.

Four Poems by Alison Hurwitz


Photo Synesthesia


Remembering how she loved them,

how she stopped and marvelled

at their tracery, their canary convolutions,

a nest of tangled sunlight on the forest floor-

I send a photograph of this year’s bounty:

trout lilies in the wood, sepals lifted as in prayer.


She returns the gift with hellebores: dusky rose,

palest green and white, arranged inside a curve

of darkened bowl. Last week’s snow woke them,

dappled in the cool of mossy places. Such small

adagios. Spring stirs overtones, sips beginning in

a whisper of circumference. She awaits its overture:


my mother knows each harmony by heart.


March Comes In


The predator month arrives already

hunting. So late the hour’s early,

March rakes its claws across the sky,

rending fissures flashed and strobed.


As with any nature show, this soundtrack

stretches out suspense, then booms cacophony:

pouncing, it rips arteries from necks of cloud,

torrents geysers drum-rolling on the roof.


Dog trembles, knows something has awoken

ravenous, caught his shaking scent. March

waits outside in downpour, whisker-twitched

and crouching, ever-ready to Spring…


Early Spring, North Carolina


Soft, the door of morning

swings, unfurling silk:

narcissus, tulips, daffodils.


I sound out their language,

whisper tongue to petal, tunic

shed, I try to conjugate a bud.


My walk meanders past a stream

that’s mid-soliloquy, improvising ferns

and jessamine, small scatterings of snowdrops.


Here, the taste of daylight,

traced with dew. There,

the water’s undulated song.


To be a witness.



For Robert Hurwitz, musician


You have modulated now

into another key, a chord not

diminished or augmented

but a different mode, still undiscovered

by our human mathematics.


You never said that death would be a part

of larger composition, but the silence

left behind; reverberation after a conclusion,

that sense a spreading skein of light’s

diminuendo into dark.


Yet I find, in these gray days

which follow winter rain, I hear

as if dotted on the wind,

astringent notes of finches, defiant flutes

that perforate the clouds.


I can still read the notes

you left inside me: a progression

without parallel. I, your youngest

daughter, fifth in family, your almost



Now the air of you nocturnes

my pulse, and so I sit here,

breath stretched and strung to bridge

across your rest. Beneath my skin, I feel you

spreading out your arms,


as if waiting for forever

to begin.

Alison Hurwitz has recently been published in Global Poemic, Words and Whispers, Tiferet Journal, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Anti-Heroin Chic, Book of Matches, The Shore, Amethyst Review, Rust and Moth, Thimble Magazine, Speckled Trout Review, River Heron Review, Gyroscope Review, The Jewish Writing Project, and SWWIM Every Day. Her work is forthcoming from Minyan Magazine, RockPaperPoem, and Carmina Magazine. She lives with her family and rescue dog in North Carolina, and when not writing, officiates weddings and memorial services, hosts Well-Versed Words, a free monthly online poetry reading, takes long walks in the woods and dances in her kitchen. See more at

Six Poems by Lewis LaCook


Coffee on kentucky avenue


This is the season her mirror thunders at her

inhibited only by what’s left of his pension

something in her mouth climbs out

tells her what she should look like, what she should do


The house throws back its head and laughs a belch of smoke

its windows blind him in drifts of shag carpet

his mother’s hands roll biscuits out of wood-panel clouds

they clear just in time to kick open the failure of his heart


Her children tell her what she should look like, what she should do

they fail her heart and disappear into her mirror

her mirror with its gasp-sharp teeth


Her room is bigger with the TV on

it talks to her with faces that never sag, never crack

it crawls into her mouth and sits at the kitchen table where her mother did





He knows about the roads around here

tracing fog on the windshield to sign his name

to enlist, behind him the creaking metal trailer

behind him the leaking 38th parallel, cat-eyed girl


at the gas station in a little red car smiles at him

behind nerves, citizen band radio sizzles on the windshield

beating back fragile diamonds, rich with hours, horns

asphalt smoking in deeper nights between cities


His children play with monsters

they find bones in the woods

charred by ghost fires that attack their hearts


His children play monsters

lapping blood from bodies in their dreams

he hauls their faces state to state



Flying ointment, limited liabilities


Do you want to cool off on the cemetery lawn?


You would rather wait. You wake up in the middle of the night feeling what everyone you know feels in that moment, the middle of that moment. You walk up and down the cold bottom of the lake.


A slow woodpecker tapping the thickness of a branch above you sounds to me like dead friends still coming to the door. A face traced with no care in dust.


Do you want to cool down on the cemetery lawn?


You wake up in the middle of the night and the sheets are infested with eyes. Eyes closing around you, grinding you to sleep. They sidewind away.


Do you know who would be up this late, to watch you wake up in the middle?


I’ll wait. You walk up the cool blue gone where you watch me wake. You warp the face of the deep until it smiles. The shape of minnows.



The Black River is empty


The Black River empties into a cemetery where your urn reminds ashes of wholeness. Its stiff waters green steel banks patrolled by police officers with furrowed brows and in its depth one can see the glister of shining minnows blowing like a halo around my dead friend’s chalked outline. In 1971 you set it on fire.


Father, I said, at one end of Broadway we lose our names, on the other our bodies are taken from us by black wind. This is all I can tell you about myself. The Black River is empty.


To hunt, herons compensate for refraction, swaying, unruly child, with your white bandana declaring how tough you wish your father had been. He would never look you in the face. What I hoped to find by crossing it on the trestle was some way to answer the officers without baring my teeth. Your father’s love toughened those stretches of tight quiet until every inch of your skin was snapping. In 1981 in the cemetery a black river lit green light on you as you walked home from school.


I think you know you can’t burn the river up. The Steel Mill is the cemetery’s night light. Police officers flow around your white bandana and chalk the borders of your body on the water. Perhaps a nice nap on the cemetery lawn. Perhaps my open mouth, spilling time.





Because it’s a steady pulse and what skips it

a type of tension-free melted ecstasy

meat weather inside the red felt restaurant

where they steal music from your stiff satchel

Because it’s a thready pulp hanging by the drips

of dear sister’s fracked eulogy for mother’s feeding tube

which both of us fear


Because it’s a heady pulpit in what grips us

what cups our bitter fun wasting closer to

loss which has never lied to us

I remember when you were there

before you were air and pictures curling

black with an orange heat that makes

cold homes for everyone


Because it’s a ready palm crossed with dull roads

over which weather considers sisters of felt

velveteen like liquid nutrition

It’s a dead park on the edge of a pink city

where we pale in our stalls as our pulse unwinds

on the lips of diamond-eyed toddlers

who laugh as we crack into ash



The county line


I dream a zany haunted house where my father drops me

full of beautiful rooms and unwanted cousins

This in a county where the lawns are the same green patches

that forget my home     Everyone is south here and wants

my attention which is only on the doors all of which

open to either rooms full of flannel ghosts or cackling

sunshine     In one downstairs room someone has set

a table full with fried chicken mashed potatoes boats

of gravy with their slick surfaces reflecting back

all this wood paneling     This in a country not my home

This in a house where my father wasn’t lost

but instead spreads out in a cacophony of others

jovial enough     I’m laughing at each new face each

with a joke and welcoming smile while I try

every door     When one opens to an untroubled sky

tears invade my eyes and I know at last that

I want my mother

Lewis LaCook - As a child, on interstate trips, Lewis LaCook thought the moon was following his family’s Econoline van. Upon reaching adulthood, he couldn’t tell whether the truth disappointed or relieved him, so he started writing things down. Some of these things looked like poems, and they may have appeared in journals like Lost And Found Times, Otoliths,Unlikely Stories, Whiskey Tit, Lotus-eater, Synchronized Chaos and Slope, among others. In 2012 BlazeVOX published Beyond the Bother of Sunlight, a book-length collaboration with Sheila E. Murphy; previously, Anabasis published his book-length poem Cling. His collection My Kinship with the Lotus-eaters was published in 2022 by BlazeVOX.( Lewis can often be found wandering the wilds of Western New York state with his wife Lindsay.

Five Poems by Lara Dolphin


Pray For Me Saint Brigid


Grotty and unwell

little fire in my gut

has me zeroed to the bone


Before you were saint

you were human

you were woman


Born a slave –

free my body

with a miracle of care


Restore my health;

without pain or bleeding

preserve my chastity


Disappear this life

that I may live

to atone and glorify God


A Jawn for the New Year


There’s a bushel of apples in the kitchen,

but friends declined due to weather.

Truthfully, I am overwhelmed.

Perhaps I will put on music to schnitz by.

What kind of next level madness

is it to peel and core and cut and dry,

to give over hours of toil

to be dazzled by treats of the harvest

deep in midwinter

to bear hope that some sweetness will keep


Turritopsis Dohrnii Visits The Woods Hole Science Aquarium


When you can begin your life over

and over

you’ve got some time to pass


ever been to Barnstable County

why not plan a trip

to look at creatures behind the glass


do you miss the wild oceans

wanting what might have been

the Portuguese call it saudade


if you could start again

then you would see

how close you are to immortality


Edward Hopper’s Google Autocomplete Predicts Cape Cod


Cape Cod home, style, renovation before and after, near me

I can capture the light off the side-gabled roof and dormers

in watercolour over graphite on cream wove paper


Cape Cod cocktail, recipe, variations

Cranberry red with a lime wedge

brightly lit in a darkened studio


Cape Cod lighthouse, Nauset, at sunset

Half-light and shade, chiaroscuro

sketched in my mind to be worked out later on canvas


Cape Cod black dog, topsail schooner

gliding toward the outermost edge of the horizon

where saturated colours dip into the deep blue beyond




The ocean at midday, high tide

waves heaving against the shore

and me, a child,

lost in play

gazing at the water


Suddenly the hum and roar

of something flying low

loops nearer

leaving a trail

in the cloudless, windless sky



my only reference–

black fumes from

a green witch’s

smoky broom


A glance at dad

asleep in the chair,

and mom nearby

holding brother’s hand

sets me at my ease


And so I return

to building castles

with giant moats

under the banner

God is Great

Lara Dolphin - A native of Pennsylvania, Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mom of four amazing kids. Her first chapbook, In Search Of The Wondrous Whole, was published by Alien Buddha Press. Her most recent chapbook, Chronicle Of Lost Moments, is available from Dancing Girl Press. 

Six Poems by R. W. Stephens

  Like Extended Haiku       Tango music muted , o pen window    Fading summer light s hadows   C hair on the porch   An empty glass       ...