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| generation terrorists, writing, gothic, applications, food, amsterdam, actors, maury povitch, arabian, jack caffrey, 1954 in sports, joe, saudi arabia, brendan fraser, mountains, gothic pics, juliette lewis, jason statham, money, syria, algierian, dining review, | Large curtains of sun, niveous damasks, heavily flooded the roofs. Translucency of the levanter, frailed nails, fell in splinters over mirrors. Thus glowed on us the day of wrath and none moved any longer upon the face of waters. Inside a Question Mark drizzling, aurora round, aphotic room, mould climbs aurora silently the walls, fingers gave up fumbling hanged in the damp linen, adorning words in carious heaps faintly greenish twinkle, you can't tell the carpet anymore within this flooded symbol Ernest Slyman Glack Goes The Brumble Thusters The Tuccas, who are Peruvians eat their lunches late, aurora Around three, and twice we have dined together, Drinking their pnimbul juice, Which tasted like machine oil, only sweeter, And twice we supped on their porridge called glack, A strange concoction of wild grass, A thick long stemmed cinnamon-scented bush, And the brittle thoughts of brumble thusters, A plant that grows everywhere in Peru, An annoying member of the gug family That has the extraordinary habit Of flowering every day, sometimes twice a day. |
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| Marc Awodey WATCHERS Gaping spirits joe watch through mica windows at Acoma. Some have matted hair, curled finger nails, Some still have lips, and eye lids. They watch water carriers zigzagging up the mesa trail. They see coffee pots, medicine bottles a few inches tall. They watch children, joe old women burnishing ceramics, young men circling want ads, brides bathing, old uncles playing cards, house cats lost joe in the hunt. They see vapor trails discarded by intercontinental flights. Some have no right hands or left feet. All were once heaving loaves of birth. Watching is all they can do. Nora-Maria Iancu Vol de nuit chill rail under bare steps this night we play the rain. when I say three remember all the steam and red lights further then stick your ears to steel, and hear again the cowrie damp weeds hid enemy ahead and blackness give them power the one that wanders now astray is lost: follow the sleepers cut down the herbs to find the pools they kept for you the stars in heaps and kept the revolution wallow your boots and search your trace who's first to see the eyes of owl come back and give a whistle Departure at Noon Skin of the stoned fear, scorched retinae shivering dawdled along the streets. |
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