Joel Fry

Black



Come to me now
while sunlight pillows
a black-turned field.
Earth's slow simmer
is summer blood mixing,
you and I
shoulder to shoulder.

Hard crusts
and leaf rims
babel
with every step.

And the creek,
listening with sharp ears,
turns new
on silver sides.





Wife


For today, I live in the legend
of the present, past rows of hedgerows
and houses deep in flowers and gardens deep
in spring in the reach of all unknown
that is whispered into the earth.

I live alone for now,
still waiting in the room
but not for a call.

A woman moves past me.
In traffic she is my friend.
When I kiss her hand I have
known her.

When she wakes me up
at night I expect her.
When she hands me
our son after son,
the long line stretches
past war and death,
through plane flights
to Nashville and Christchurch.

I am almost her.
She waits for me to come home.




Joel Fry: I live in Athens, Alabama, and I work as a mental health worker in Decatur, Alabama. In my work I try to improve the lives of the mentally ill and mentally retarded. I have had work published in the Melic Review, Stirring and Eclectica.





Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Steve Dalachinsky

blood blossoms ( with a nod to John Ford's Perkin Warbeck )



i am a man without parents
an orphan
a stone stoppeth in my bladder
pink-flecked against pink tiles
a huge spider
i brush my teeth
rain slowed
mist breathing
absorbing
absorbed by mts.
dream an affliction
as bad as money
as passionate as the kinsmen that
beshrew me
with their (objective invectives)
i am struck by abject lowness
must try to unlearn myself
again & finally
i feel like stitched preferment
renewed
a pledge of truths
a pith of contradictions
& henceforth a princess
NAY of blood
no pawns
untainted & drawn upon
take
take my head, kind sir
whilst my tongue can still wag
tis fit
i overpass in silence
the rain begins to pile upon itself
again
i am struck by prerogatives & stragglers
rogueships & familiarity do not come cheap
sentiment ever cease pithy imposture
screwed to distraction, persecution & torment
spiders
tormentors
i commend thee to importunity reprieved
t' endangerment the harness & digest derision &
affronts
blood blossoms from my eye-lets
my skin punched full of
i live mutt'ring creeps
let me die in this lousy hole of hunger
i blow on the spider
it animates & scurries into a corner
feeling unseen
pink on pink wall
i feel contrary concealment
advertisement
a studious thief of candor
such another treasure the earth is bankrout of
i owe a fee of thankfulness to destiny
charity
simplicity
mercy
& oratory
to intolerable cruelty
& death
most of all to death
& its voluntary compulsion
i have the charm of witchcraft
blood shed
& stiff neck'd arrogance
this day of the week is ours
i soon travel home
the day of battle will be Monday
& let us pray the butchers spare us
coarse creatures are incapable of excellence
let the hangman come
tis most fit that my ripeness be the ambition
of your mercy
i am a man without parents
an orphan
a stone that might become polished glass
if harvested well
i must thank you who have infringed upon my liberty
brute beasts who have both rock & cave to fly back to
i dare both motion
herald sound
these birds that speak even thru the dense rain
traitors
it is my pleasure to dine with you next week
the fabric of my designs is tottering
my judging eyes blossom counterfeit tears
tis fit i overpass in silence
desperately miserable indeed
tis wise that i suffocate these obsolete phrases
tis brave i interrupt these obsolete words
for today
for right now
our bodies when purged of corrupted blood
can rise in good health
let me rise - an orphan - a man without parents
find a place where i am welcomed
& beshrew the knowledge of our natures
for no more are we impassioned wild runagates
& the spider too shall one day vanish from our sight
so
dine with me next week
the hangman comes on tuesday
tis fit
tis only fit
that i should overpass in silence.

steve dalachinky sasebo city, japan 5/19/06




Bud Powell - for Yoshiko Otomo


ho ho keh kyo ho ho keh kyo ho ho keh kyo oh oh Yo shi ko
oh oh Yoshiko - throat is gloved    & we are so full of self-pity
                      taut urges   diminished

nightingale singing outside your window ( oh oh Yo shi ko oh oh Yo shi ko )
followed unexpectedly i send you my twisted fear & young man's love
strutting like a wild bird of desire in the dense rainy morning
& breaking down - stroked & diminished
( your appetite still full like your smile )
i kiss you gently on the lips & say goodbye
you chanson me with your tiny voice & utter Bud Powell
i kiss you again on the forehead - yup that Bud Powell is really sumthin -

you die on a beautiful spring morning
slight wind
scent of flowers in the air
one canary yellow sock on - the other off
there on the floor beside you in the kitchen where you had fallen
it is Mother's Day
what is this strange gift you give us @ 9 a.m.?   Ah Yoshiko
the talking doll that kept you company
sits on the kitchen table
mumbling unintelligibly in its funhouse voice -
i break with the room
pull away the table
& become that brilliant partner
soft stuffed lizard of a doll with its programmed emotions
i'm not allowed to eat bad food   but i do
the day smells of perfume
the women break down then the men
i send you my slippers
my lonely selfish consciousness
strawberries
watermelon
pudding - french toast
& romantic french cinema
wrought iron roses - linked arms - & a kiss on the lips every day
soft pale lips -   OH   OH YO   SHI KO OH OH YO SHI KO
a tear falls on my shoe - single voice clustered harmonies - ghost of a chance
there is a perfumed wind as you cross the channel
a slight mist hangs over the mountains
this one's about grey hair   i think
Bud Powell splashed quick & delicate around the kitchen
i missed your departure but saw you lying there breathless
a shy & breathless dignity that even death could not dismiss
a slight wind & i hand out tissues to everyone
as we weep        a tear falls onto my shoe     it is Mother's Day
everything but death is in a language i don't understand
but maybe death too
alright i'll stop crying - a perfect gift for us all on this day of mothers

we all write our own stories
the emergency room is one legged bleeding fingers
teeming with LIFE
it's Mother's Day
did we push your innocent smile too hard?
Oh oh   Yoshiko   Oh oh   Yo shi ko
i pick up your tiny sock & place it on the chair
push the table back into place
this time it was death that brought us here
not good food - scenery - or strong constitutions
those these are in abundance
clusters of notes fall
you must learn to live for others
if you've given up living for yourself
don't wear red on red days
breathe   Yoshiko    breathe
this is a perfect gift you give us on this day of mothers
even the doctor must feel blessed

mist rising   &   exploded
wind exploded
tears falling     exploded
smells     exploding
your heart full     just exploded

i touch your brow - break down
                                  Bud Powell
        i whisper
                   Bud Powell

mist rising from my eyes     Ho   oh   Yoshiko   Ho oh Yoshiko Ho oh Yoshiko

steve dalachinsky sasebo city japan 5/14/06





steve dalachinsky was born after the last Big War & has managed to survive lots of little wars. his poems have appeared extensively in journals on & off line such as, Big Bridge, Milk, Unlikely Stories, Xpressed, Evergreen Review. Long Shot, Alpha Beat Soup, Xtant, Blue Beat Jacket, Unbearable Assemblage Magazines, NY Arts Magazine, and the Lost and Found Times. plus such anthologies as Beat Indeed, The Haiku Moment and the esteemed Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. He has written liner notes for the CDs of Anthony Braxton, James "Blood" Ulmer, Matthew Shipp, Roscoe Mitchell & many others. His 1999 CD, Incomplete Direction, a collection of his poetry read in collaboration with various musicians, such as William Parker, Matthew Shipp, Daniel Carter, Sabir Mateen, Susie Ibarra, Thurston Moore (SonicYouth), Vernon Reid (Living Colour)has garnered much praise. His most recent chapbooks include Trial and Error in Paris (Loudmoth Collective - 2003), Lautreamont's Laments (Furniture Press - 2005), In Glorious Black and White (Ugly Duckling Presse - 2005), St. Lucie (King of Mice Presss - 2005) Are We Not MEN & Fake Book (2 books of collage - * Page Press -2005). Dream Book (Avantcular Press - 2005). His latest book is The Final Nite (complete notes from a Charles Gayle Notebook - Ugly Duckling Presse - 2006). His latest cd is Phenomena of Interference with pianist Matthew Shipp (Hopscotch Records - 2006) He has read his work extensively in the N.Y. area and throughout Europe.






Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Aldo Tambellini

November 5, 1990

met garcia lorca
standing under
the gigantic
dish antenna
the signal
bouncing off
the bloody moon &
back past years
into a jungle
lorca tells me
of the people
vomiting on
new york streets
while famished dogs
tear off the liver
of the homeless
living in subterranean tunnels
then I see
lorca's skeleton
passing by silently
then I say
I know you
from the underbelly
below the brooklyn bridge
they killed you
for being a poet



"He has done more damage with the pen than others have done with the pistol." Alanzo Ruiz, the Falangist who came to arrest Lorca. The squad executed Lorca at the Fountain of Tears, July 1936





Aldo Tambellini was born in Syracuse, New York in 1930 his father from Brazil, his mother from Italy. At eighteen months, he was taken to Italy where he lived in Lucca, Tuscany. A survivor of the bombing of his neighborhood during World War II, Aldo, at an early age, experienced first hand the oppression of the Fascists and later the terror of Nazis in Italy. He returned to the United States in 1946. He received a BF from Syracuse University and an MFA in Sculpture from Notre Dame University. Active in the 60's Counterculture Movement in NY. He pioneered in Video Art and Multi-Media Performances. He co-founded The Gate & The Black Gate Theatres in the Lower East Side, NYC in the 60's for experimental films, radical plays and performances. He became a Fellow at the Center for Advanced Visual Studies at the MIT. His art, films and media work have been featured widely nationally and internationally. Since 1984 he has concentrated on writing and performing his Social Poetry in numerous venues. In 1998, he founded and hosted the venue "The People's Poetry" in Cambridge, MA. His poems have been published widely and translated into Italian, Sicilian and Russian His most recent work is a computer generated movie, "Listen," a political stand against war, screened at several International Film Festivals, won the 2005 New England Film Festival in the Short Film by Independent Filmmaker Category and First prize in the Syracuse Film Festival for Best Experimental Short Film. Aldo's visual poems are currently in exhibit at the Guerilla Art Show at the Altered Aesthetics Gallery in Minneapolis, MI.






Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Charles Frederickson

Chanted Blessings



Calling saffron robed monks to
Order cast tongue-tied clapper resounds
Bronze wind chimes gold leaf
Coated playfully tickling gentle breeze

Dangling knee crossings awkward lotus
Position bent pretzel limbs benumbed
Suffering discomfort taken for granted
Tucked under barefoot ignoble truths

Clockwork precision temporarily loses face
Hands raised in noontide “wai”
Timely cogwheel mechanism on hold
Skipped heartbeats dispelling cerebral thought

Spilt darkness dusk evaporates midnight
Twelfth of nevermore or less
Almost normal anxious moments collide
Impossible dreams laid to rest

Eyelids sag butterfly lashes flutter
Pious flesh committed to self-denial
Exposed indulgences tripping over themselves
Leaning on crutches embedded slivers

Novice goldfish explore underwater depths
Surfacing for breaths balanced keel
Stony willful free spirits petrified
Ticked off secondhand promises recycled





Continental Drift



South America and Africa once
Fit snugly puzzle pieces conjoined
Supercontinent called Pangaea jigsaw giant
Leavened bread rising above crust

Map constantly changing slowly reforming
Avoiding ethnic purges moral collisions
Acoustic tectonic faults dissonant counterpoint
Bullyragging push comes to shove

Split personality wedges floating icebergs
Enormous chips off polar block
Bottom heavy global warming meltdown
What lies beneath surface enigmas

Conical peaks eruptive liquid core
Lava wake blinking false eyelashes
Mascara running down dimpled cheeks
Molten teardrops steamy demonic wraiths

Mass exodus inhumane forced migrations
Stranded refugees anywhere else bound
Fleeting dreams too soon forgotten
On edge destinies inextricably linked




Desert Oasis



Sahara from Arabic signifying desert
Barren arid wasteland borderless space
Eternal life straddling halfway equator
Edgy horizon yields diminishing returns

Spiritual exile invoking stillborn vespers
Dunes hewn by relentless gusts
Buried alive fossils protest smother
Peregrine falcon talons swooping prey

Sandscape contains nothing but distance
Serene oasis craving left aloneness
Fertile green spot tenting tonight
Mineral springs contemplative silent reflection

Nipped buds prematurely forced open
Crushed petals potpourri alluring scents
Perfuming air frankincense myrrh incensed
Black gold hubbly-bubbly pipe dreams

Blinding obsidian squint blurry shuteye
Dilated pupils refocus star-chamber heritage
Ripening date clusters palm fronds
Feather dusters fanning torrid swelter

Du’a supplication five times daily
Prayer rugs directed towards Mecca
Parched lips whisper eventide devotion
Seeking divine atonement bowing Salaam





Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai 4midable, 10acious, cre8ive 1derer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com. He is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with credits including 100+ publications on 5 continents, such as: Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, Blind Man’s Rainbow, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Madpoetry, Melange, Newtopia, New Verse News, Planet Authority, Poetry Canada, Poetry of Scotland, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, etc.




Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Stan Dunn

About the Bug

            from words found in The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka



Gregor's armor plated back,
legs waving helplessly,
brown fluid issuing from his mouth,
dripping on the floor
isn't what brought
his parents
to the the brink of
forgetfulness,
it was his success,
translated into their coin;

Now UngezieFer -
family suppressed disgust,
exercised patience, a little,
yet thought him
the root of trouble;

Shedding his
human background
opened before him
the unknown
nourishment craved: Father.

The rage
brought a melancholy silence,
a vacant and peaceful meditation,
the last faint flicker of breath
from the unfortunate son.


*UngezieFer is German for vermin, or bug.




Stan Dunn is better known for his work in abstract experimental art for which he holds signature membership in the International Society of Experimental Artists. His poetry and art play off of each other, challenging the reader to reflect on subjects that are often less than pleasant.






Michael P. Workman Lois Marie Harrod Joel Fry Steve Dalachinsky Aldo Tambellini Charles Frederickson Stan Dunn

Issue 20

Image (Copyright © 2006 Christopher Kelen)



Christopher Kelen
Ben Kemp
Christopher Barnes
Kenji Siratori

Christopher Kelen

on five acres


dawn is all travels
night's snout had at ground

last of frost
dawn's glint fires paddocks
brings the Myall to light

see timber
crouched in cold
piled cut
the lizard already begun

setting out by breath alone
I stand in weather
the odd man tinkering breezes

o how may I be lost as them?

o thanks you gods I am

walking


the wild winds
prefigure spring

birds sing in my chest

go out walking
and the grass gets deeper

after a while silence falls in
gives its rhythm
ambling day

forest falls
foot after foot through me
on

hides like a hammerstroke
in distance cleft
sun shelters from sight

fence says
climb under
climb over
climb through

ducks rise at my passing
by this means I hail them

when the tracks grow thick
to vindicate making
puzzle a way in my limbs
as roos do

birds half bright half dull
make my circle

a track says
on
and this way
that
back
and pause
tune an ear to this silence

green and yellow among
grey over

every creek I pass
keeps time

sky full of it


always beginning
tapping a way blind over roofs
to come clean

it hears itself
paints over the land
runs ink out of meaning
shines me once
for luck again

*

between it
I smell the ants working
sense dark structure to the day

leaf and tip and horded light
green hive of a home soaked still

cheers the frogs
till the prayed for sun
taps on my shoulder
the argument leading
down to the lowest

trickles down
good fall in which are voices lost
like rat's feet over what was to sustain me

Christopher Kelen is a well known Australian poet whose works
have been widely published and broadcast since the mid seventies.
The Oxford Companion to Australian Literature describes Kelen's work
as "typically innovative and intellectually sharp". Kelen holds
degrees in literature and linguistics from the University of Sydney
and a doctorate on the teaching of the writing process, from UWS
Nepean. Kelen's first volume of poetry The Naming of the Harbour
and the Treeswon an Anne Elder Award in 1992. In 1988 Kelen had won
an ABA/ABC bicentennial award with his poem "Views from Pinchgut".
In 1996 Kelen was Writer-in-Residence for the Australia Council at
the B.R.Whiting Library in Rome. In 1999 he won the Blundstone
National Essay Contest, conducted by Island journal. He also won
second prize in the Gwen Harwood Poetry Award that year. In 2000
Kelen's poetry/art collaboration (with Carol Archer) Tai Mo Shan/Big
Hat Mountain was exhibited at the Montblanc Gallery in Hong Kong's
Fringe Club. And in 2001 another collaboration (essay and
watercolour) titled Shui Yi Meng/Sleep to Dream was shown at the
Montblanc Gallery. Both exhibitions have been published as full
colour catalogues. Kelen's fourth book of poems, Republics, dealing
with the ethics of identity in millennial Australia, was published
by Five Islands Press in Australia in 2000. A fifth volume, New
Territories "a pilgrimage through Hong Kong, structured after
Dante's Divine Comedy" was published with the aid of the Hong Kong
Arts Development Board in 2003. In 2004 Kelen's most recent chapbook
Wyoming Suite "a North American sojurn" was released by VAC
Publishing in Chicago. In 2005, Kelen's long poem "Macao" was
shortlisted for the prestigious Newcastle Poetry Prize and a
re-edited version of Tai Mo Shan appeared in Southerly. Apart from
poetry Kelen publishes in a range of theoretical areas including
writing pedagogy, ethics, rhetoric, cultural and literary studies
and various intersections of these. Kelen is an Associate Professor
in the English Department at the University of Macau, where he has
taught Literature and Creative Writing since 2000. Kelen is the
principal investigator in the University of Macau's "Poems and
Stories of Macao Research Project" and the editor of the on-line
journal Writing Macao: creative text and teaching.

Christopher Kelen Ben Kemp Christopher Barnes Kenji Siratori

Ben Kemp

Opoutere

The sound of a piano is ringing through this ocean,
4 simple notes along side,
They are tied together by the fisherman’s knot,
With the ends neatly clipped,

The tide is low, shallow in this sink,
The shoulder of the coast is no longer submerged,
My belly rested on the seabed,
I have not the strength to ask, but I am listening…

The piece of music is biological,
An algorithm with an end,
4 primary colours on a palette that is the arm of the painter,
I am your brush…

The bed upon which my belly rests is warm,
Finer than feathers…
A casket around my body, but no dark hole…
“Opoutere”

Gentle hands & a rocking chair,
        &From their palms the same 4 notes,
        But not a piano…
        A gut string guitar…
        Handed down through 4 generations,
“Infant, girl, woman & grandmother”

The branches of my whakapapa are being clipped,
With secateurs,
& Musical instruments, unfretted,
My carcass is made up of leaves that fall in spring
“Opoutere”

How far have I travelled?
The miles have collapsed, but the seawater is made up of tuku tuku panels,
Navigating our way through the whare,
I am inside…

She is wailing, weaving freshly picked flax between the 4 notes,
My ears tell me she is beautiful…
For there is no seam in her voice…
I drink…         But my vessel is almost dry,

We are one tree, one body…
Fed by the same root & connected by the same fisherman’s knot,
I am my brothers & sisters & they are me…
“Opoutere”

My skin is growing cold, dry,
Spilling a glass of clear oil that is swallowed up by the sand,
        The oil is the mystery of consciousness,
        An undefined quantity that now runs through their fingers,
I did not ask, but I am grateful for their help…

I have never seen without the lens of seawater,
The undulation of the ocean is like a pulse,
I have fallen…         but the music has not died for the instrument is now a bamboo flute,
               & a child…

My mother is near me, but she is dead now,
dissolving into the tuku tuku panels,

They are crying for what has been spilt,
& they will cry for me too…

Gentle hands, & the rocking chair, carved from the finest tree,
Crafted by the most gifted of makers…

I did not ask…         & you came…
“Opoutere”

I can see into…

1.        The song of a bird,
           rested in branches,
           laden with blossoms & his cleans words,

2.        The closet with broken doors,
           an oak groan,
           from the old man within the wood,

3.        the clouds,
           passing overheard on their way
           to what I imagine,

4.        Your thoughts,
           guiding your hand through
           the prickly bush to the clay,

5.        The grimace,
           rubbing rusted nails between the
           palms of my hands…

6.        love,
           the silence inside the apple,
           still swelling on the tree,

7.        the guitar,
           sitting in the corner,
           a landscape waiting to get out,

8.        tears,
           the tributaries leading to the sea,
           godliness & a newborn baby,

9.        gaps between concrete constructs,
           brothers on either side,
           embalmed in caskets of man-made stone,

10.      the crossing,
           onward into the sun,
           birds on my back,

           & all this space…            that listens to me.

I need not build a bridge,

High over tree tops, heads & eyes looking upward,
The wind swift through the branches,
Cascading molecules, impatient & bitter,

I need not dig this tunnel,

Connecting light to light,
Through solid darkness with knuckles like dead men,
           So sweet is death I hope,
           The earth is my saviour, my mama I know,
The shovel, your angry words I now realise are mine,

I need not light the match,

All the iridescence I need is amongst the pines, the hills,
the tongues of those that wag like dogs tails,
           the words that tender my…     soul, the heels beneath my ankles,
           the love that ‘cotton wools’ our sleep together,

I need not hammer nails,

Because the walls were fashioned by lovers, saints, grandfather,
Maori’s, rugby players, golfers, painters, fishermen, piano player & a missionary,
           The hammer is not mine,
           & nails are foreign to me, rusting in seawater,
           in the presence of love,

I need not carry river stones from the river,

For there they belong,
Sleek blades of grass in my hand,
taken from the rivers edge, over hung banks & eels beneath,
River stones, river stone, a grey heart in a cradle of green,

I need not squint toward clouds,
If I lay down,
the peripheries may join,
the influx of white,
swallowed up by the waterfall, feet in the warmer fringes,

I need not stare, the palms of my hands,

The grained flesh from my ancestors,
my rounded shoulders & the way my voice inflects,
the tail at the end of my thoughts,

I need…
I need…
I need…

I need a temple to dwell,
One monk,
A bird that sings,
A blanket of many colours,     & a wider conscience of pure air.

Ben Kemp is a published poet. He was invited to read at New Zealand
Poetry Day as one of two emerging poets.

He first went to Japan as a 23 year old, having completed a degree in
Marketing and Computer Science at Otago University. Living for two and
a half years in Tokyo, Ben spent much time absorbing traditional art
and culture, and discovering his passion for kabuki theatre and
Japanese literature. On return to the North Island, Ben discovered a
special mentor-student relationship with Rowley Habib, one of New
Zealand’s pre-eminent Maori writers, all the while maintaining his
connections with Japan. It was at this point that Ben’s creative work
anchored itself. Responding to a magnetic pull back to Japan, Ben
returned to Tokyo in 2002.

With no music contacts in Japan, Ben played on the street in Shimo
Kitazawa, one of the more Bohemian areas of Tokyo well known for its
vibrant music scene. He soon met up with talented musician Koyu Suzuki
and the duo began performing around Tokyo. In just over one year, Ben
and Koyu have played at some of Tokyo’s most prestigious live venues,
including The Cerulean Tower’s JZ Brat and Kichijioji’s Mandala2.

Ben Kemp's debut album A River’s Mouth was released in March 2005, and
was launched in New Zealand with a two-week tour. He backed this up in
February 2006 with the creation of Papatu Road, an album that
beautifully represents Ben’s concept of creating a unique Polyn-Asian
sound. The result is a breathtaking blend of tunes that will soothe and
haunt you, thanks to Ben’s ethereal voice and poetic lyrics.

Ben Kemp and his band have just returned from a National tour of New
Zealand, during which Papatu Road received critical acclaim from New
Zealand National Radio, Radio Australia, Radio Pacific and NZ Musician
magazine.

Christopher Kelen Ben Kemp Christopher Barnes Kenji Siratori

Christopher Barnes

Separation

In blue-grey dapples
stripped to raffish lines
your eyes stretch like snails.

You sit heavily,
monosyllables of rain
mapping skin.

Each jounce of petticoat
ruffles at your arm
outstretched,
upturned into a star
restyling our understandings.

Every parting
drowned in the now, the here,
should sink like this.

The Baldy Bittern

She’s reflective, is rippleforms
in the well. Itchmites
are intimately disenchanted
at that crick-point neck
but her back
curves back
into the world.

Christopher Barnes: In 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbain and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.

Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I am about to make a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, he entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. He has made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords. The film is going into an archive at The Discovery Museum in Newcastle and contains his poem The Old Heave-Ho. He is working on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which will exhibit at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University before touring the country and it is expected to go abroad, this will be funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life.

Christopher Kelen Ben Kemp Christopher Barnes Kenji Siratori

Kenji Siratori

nonexistence


The reptilian=HUB_modem that crashed a chemical=anthropoid=
paradise apparatus of the human body pill cruel emulator that
covered cardiac and compressed the acidHUMANIX infectious
disease of the soul/gram made of retro-ADAM to that mass of
flesh-module murder game****I turn on the feeling replicant living
body junk of her digital=vamp cold-blooded disease animals to
the super-genomewarable to the DNA=channels of the
biocapturism nerve cells corpse feti=streaming of a clone boy ill-
treatment abolition world-codemaniacs of the terror fear=
cytoplasm pluged-in the insanity medium of the hyperreal HIV=
scanners gene-dub of the corpse city technojunkies' is debugged
to non-resettable genomics strategy circuit that was processed to
the paradise apparatus of the human body pill cruel emulator
murder-gimmick of the soul/gram made of retro-ADAM data=
mutant of her abolition world-codemaniacs feeling replicant to a
hybrid corpse mechanism FUCKNAMLOAD****the brain
universe of the ultra=machinary tragedy-ROM creature system
technojunkies' reptilian=HUB to the acidHUMANIX infectious
disease archive of the biocapturism nerve cells nightmare-script
of a clone boy DNA=channel surrender-site of the terror fear=
cytoplasm@tera of dogs were send back out to the mass of flesh-
module of the hyperreal HIV =scanner form that was debugged the
era respiration-byte of a chemical=anthropoid is installed the terror
fear=cytoplasm gene-dub of the drug fetus of the trash sense to
the corpse feti=streaming circuit DNA=channels of her digital=
vamp cold-blooded disease animals mass of flesh-module
insanity medium of the hyperreal HIV=scanners that was send
back out to the murder-protocol of the biocapturism nerve cells
reptilian=HUB@clone boy era respiration-byte of the corpse city
plug-in....the abolition world-codemaniacs of the living body junk
feeling replicant that chemical=anthropoid was debugged to the
modem=heart of the hybrid corpse mechanism that turned on
technojunkies' ill-treatment hacking.




Kenji Siratori is a Japanese cyberpunk writer who is currently
bombarding the internet with wave upon wave of highly
experimental, uncompromising, progressive, intense prose.
His is a writing style that not only breaks  with tradition, it
severs all cords, and can only really be compared to the
kind of experimental writing techniques employed by the
Surrealists, William Burroughs and Antonin Artaud.
Embracing the image mayhem of the digital age, his
relentless prose is nonsensical and extreme, avant-garde
and  confused, with precedence given to twisted imagery,
pace and experimentation over linear narrative and character
development. With unparalleled stylistic terrorism, he
unleashes his literary attack. An unprovoked assault on
the senses. Blood Electric (Creation Books) was
acclaimed by David Bowie.

http://www.kenjisiratori.com

Christopher Kelen Ben Kemp Christopher Barnes Kenji Siratori