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 


1

 

transpositional; a neuter

category on an armature

 

A perversell alignment

with diagonal on temporary

 

“I am tired of movement”

 

2

 

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

 

3

 

(in)difference

indif-ference

indifférance 

 

We reproduce the pattern

a body for its head. Sawol

premembers on return

 

the limb’s need

Reconstructing

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

 

4

 

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

 

5

 

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 irenekoronas.com.

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


3.11

 

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:

            (/ˌtɛtrəˈɡræmətɒn/). 

 

3.12

 

Run Hoaxshell and lay teffilin:

omit/nullify—or run Dystopia

(MOTD, Port, Hostname).

 

Origin’s unoriginal

            S/copula/P—weorold,   

            its roots ḤBL/BḤL pitch

            metaphora, epiphora,

            allotrios. The propositional

            sign—holon.

 

3.13

 

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.   

 

3.14

 

Carnophallogocentrism—inspur,

the retaux conjecture or configure

            Harpoon: numverify

            its malshare, the cybercure.ai.

 

            This urlhaus—exchange API

            for zetalytics (ʿal ha-qadmut).

La Parole Soufflée: HITPA‘ELs spurt.

 

 

3.141

 

            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 danielyharris.com.

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.


 

Movement

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

resolution.

 

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 alisonhurwitz.com

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

 

 

Truckin’

 

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.

 

 

Explanation

 

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.(http://wp.blazevox.org/product/my-kinship-with-the-lotus-eaters-by-lewis-lacook/) 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


 

Surrender

 

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

 

What?

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       ...