David Felix… Last Word – Held Together

 
 
The Last Word by David Felix

The Last Word

 
 
 
Held Together by David Felix

Held Together

 
 

David Felix is an English visual poet who comes from a family of artists, magicians and tailors.

Born in Wales, UK, sometime during the last century, he was raised on oil paint, sleight of hand and Singer sewing machines.

For over fifty years David has been working with language in a visual way – a long history in paint and collage, in three dimensions, in galleries and festivals, publications, performances and video.

He now lives on the island of Funen, in southern Denmark.

 

Copyright © 2016 by David Felix

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Timaeus Lavrov… Thomas Zinniger, “things I’ll never say.”

 
 

Thomas Zinniger

seedless Kyotonian flagellum Novergrove Trinidad horosceticism stullar blithe myelin Arkansas ascertizing the manscaper brainless pube on Draka rovering the antithesis zenith sempiternal cena that pixelated in tusk mex and swine flu apricot cheeky red wines oooing electrohanukkah to gabriel hemoglobin surpleen pool fountains of Bastillian Masma
 
and abelian GNU Zumbas ignoramus its signifying temporicity chronesthesia perfect clockwork mechanism Descartian vertical motion casts of zaichik shigella
entirely
filled with
ellipsimical gedankensteine allo
 
seedless Kyotonian flagellum Novergrove Trinidad horosceticism stullar blithe sea shells are in Campbellors Chakai of 990 brochure tribadlist-monocolor desolent italiano
cannan palooza thresholds heteromony
 
snuggie wympeariewo Camillo
embargoed vials sigma-sext-chiksenmihai Gedanken Melrosing: “HOLY MATRIMONY — kano baccalaureate Laudat —”
 
seedless Kyotonian flagellum Novergrove Trinidad horosceticism stullar blithe for Abu egg shells are beginning to huggle-singularizing midst camoozling Ershwing dimorphism a heteromorphous pin swollen with Agrippan spieler
 
plasticized Kandinskian-Leningrad abacuses corea Jacksoul turbulence dialecticism: pan-realism
any конечно medium of Anglesteinian swollen microunanimous gibberish particularized astericism copicularartar morphoeic-hylomorphetical zookini.
 
 

“things I’ll never say.”

“smitter solidaridad: tamperkapangasquard, Horatiomatique altoBenetarian, anthropoorientalism”
lex necessitam: Occam’s parsimōnia; enigma
Hoodian-Academio-cankersource bruxisim-missiers-pathetique
defile bar-coded Norwood Pier — agnosognosia-synaptic-discernible
regularity pattern: universal set
predominant general tone(s) устала-question:metaacquiser-ECCLESIASTICUS-Deus’s
Weltanschauung-silo-hungaro
cold-stone: mechanical erections, TeX zimaobjekto parmessan olaffle-infantilism renegado
wasteland:
desolate “Allegro s. Camille unbiased, innatist —”
creamery sub-markup nonlinear multiple realizability TABULA RASA queer red
pipe Quagshire Livingstone magnolia linguining femur Samper-unsequencable-wimminpreforma
Agalite clandestine, ombre ritualized katiki SPIRITUAL DEATH; heraclus globe-trotterZeller’s-
Samperperson
 

Timaeus Lavrov, is an up-and-coming, previously unpublished, seventeen year old writer from British Columbia, Canada with an interest in digital parts-to-whole philosophical musical instruments. Other interests also include bias detox, unspeakable languages, and self-sufficient living.

Copyright © 2016 by Timaeus Lavrov

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tamara Lakomy… Calvary (in the) Fields of Waste

 

Calvary

I held you in the brilliance of my tear
Nothing could assuage the radiance of your soul
But you burned my touch as I drew near
You opened all the scars that held me whole
 
You whipped my flesh with words in barbs
And watched of the furrows of streaming blood
For you came to me in the guise of angels in all garbs
Just to trample my spark in conquest into the mud
 
I held you in the palm of my hand, as a nail against a cross
Watched your loving hatred perforate my tender care
For in the desecration of my heart you see no loss
And you see an illuminated spectacle of my despair
 
You anointed the altars of my devotion with my entrails
And laughed as the dismal cry of the abyss as I wept
As the sunlight drowns beneath the horizon, my life fails
In a bloodbath of forsaken hopes as mercy slept
 
You are nothing but the razor that I both love and despise
Brilliant as those stars that are cold yet a glory to our eyes
For in the sundering of my existence there is nothing but your lies
Always waiting to be held again in my hand to nail me to my demise
 
I am a relinquished sacrifice, denied the resurrection of hope
Till my bones dry and bleach and the garments rags fluttering free
I remain a prisoner of your Calvary, dangling by a silken rope
Woven of the dreams I once conceived, prey to your murderous spree
 
So in the brilliance of my tear, I augur the omens of your abhorrent spite
And hold in abeyance the beating of my heart lest you stalk my will
And in every denuding of my soul, and in the venom of your poisonous bite
I fade into oblivion with the confines of the world to haunt and fill….
 
 
 

Fields of Waste

The fields of waste are open, wide is my wound
Vaster than the horizon I drink with avid eyes
For there is nothing hollower than my chaos, my memory doomed
The grave beneath shall be the dome of my skies
 
There shall be no more sunshine, no more breath of air
As slowly the deconstructed mind errs as a shrieking fear
That haunts the shadows of the barrows, crouching in the devil’s lair
All is coming to an end, your untimely death is near
 
But what have you reaped of the wayward times, casting lots
What have you earned of your mortal sojourn, conquering the beast
The animal who resides in your subconscious, your sagacity blots
But still from the shorn veins, the agony is released
 
Do we prize the allotted time, as a remuneration for our insolence
Our beliefs in the poignancy of endeavours soon to greet the dust
But be wary of the signs of the horror of awakening from our indolence
For naught shall grant you immortality when your exploits end in rust
 
There is no glory in our sublime decline, moribund flesh and ribaldry
There is no irenic hell for our souls that burn like the conflagration of the stars
Caged in the immense cages of their own design, with an art surpassing sygaldry
We await our unravelling and decay, behind our prison’s gilded bars
 
I have tasted my spirit, from the gullet leaping high in its escape
For it seeks the winds, to be shredded as sea foam on broken waves
Into the chasms of the rim of the world, into the dismal awning agape
Of the pits of our torments that forever our dismal master craves
 
Sing for the skies that have no soul, eyeless auguring the fates of men
Forever looking down in spite at the vanity of the fruitless machinations
So descend from your throne creator, come walk the realms of creation again
For made in some erroneous image we live in delusions of dominations
 
 

I am an author, and a poet, but I have never sought to publish my poetry before as it was deemed too dark and heavy, laden with a melancholy and metaphysical twist that most people could not relate to. I grew up in North Africa, a tribal Amazigh feminist girl in a repressive regime, witnessing many dark things that have scarred my memory. I grew up around the mystical marabouts and the witch doctors that ruled over the souls, I was exposed to a wilderness of spirit and bare human cruelty that the West seldom comprehends; radicalisation, jihad, organ trafficking and the likes.

Copyright © 2016 by Tamara Lakomy

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Christopher Barnes… Box Kick 23 & 25

 

Box Kick 23

…Hooks to berthing crank

And tether frames…

Worker Ant No.18 bumps polyethylene.

…Hooks to berthing crank
Jamthread reH5)t maF!eS

 

 

Box Kick 25

…Junk and repellence kit

With offsetting…

Worker Ant No.20 impales the conveyor belt.

…Junk and repellence bleedhiccup
Hiw” foF4<s TT8\

 

Some bio details: 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 lesbian and gay writing festival and I partook in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
 
On Saturday 16Th August 2003 I read at the Edinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.
 
I also have a BBC web-page www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not work click on SECTION 28 on second site.
 
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I   made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I 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. I 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, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University, including a film piece by the artist Predrag Pajdic in which I read my poem On Brenkley St. The event was funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bio-science Centre at Newcastle’s Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children’s literature building. In May I had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People’s Theatre why not take a look at their website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gallery/recent_exhbitions.htm
 
The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem “The Holiday I Never Had”, I can be heard reading it on http://www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=18456

Copyright © 2016 by Christopher Barnes

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lana Bella… A Face In An Endless Sea

 

A Face In An Endless Sea

Into the waking sea of stirring succubi,
I walk through the cobblestone with
measured insolence. It is my life and
yet it is not. It is a known street yet
serpents edge the ground my feet have
not trodden upon. A revised life. While
it is endured on a rewritten script. Like
curious pages from an aged notebook,
flush of spell-casting recipes and archaic
theorems. Drafted in inked calligraphy
from my hand held within someone else’s.
I am thinking I ought to shake away the
cold fingertips that I cannot slake. And
what it would be like to will my private
thoughts, and travel without fragmented
memories. But my verbal bones are deep-
seated and buried, pack together to guard
the centermost. Leaving bare the external
skin. To which I persist on as a compressed
infection, neither growing smaller in mass
nor vanishing into a fictional poem. Yet,
I know not with certainty whether I am
the vast sky or its dispersed molecules.
Or just a face in an endless sea.

 

Lana Bella has a diverse work of poetry and flash fiction published and forthcoming with Anak Sastra, Atlas Poetica, Bareback Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Beyond Imagination, Buck-Off Magazine, Calliope Magazine, Cecile’s Writers’ Magazine, Dead Snakes Poetry, Deltona Howl, Earl of Plaid Lit, Eunoia Review, Eye On Life Magazine, Family Travel Haiku, First Literary Review-East, Five Willows Literary Review, Foliate Oak Literary, Garbanzo Literary Journal, Global Poetry, Ken*Again, Kind Of A Hurricane Press, Literary Orphans, Marco Polo Arts Literary, Mothers Always Write, Nature Writing, New Plains Review, Poetry Pacific, Snapping Twigs, Spank The Carp, The Camel Saloon, The Bangalore Review, The Bleeding Lion, The Commonline Journal, The Criterion Journal, The Higgs Weldon, The Screech Owl, The Voices Project, Thought Notebook Undertow Tanka Review, Wordpool Press, Beyond The Sea Anthology, War Anthology: We Go On, Wilderness House Literary Review, Featured Artist with Quail Bell Magazine. She lives bi-continents, in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a wife of a novelist, and a mom of two frolicsome imps.

Copyright © 2016 by Lana Bella