Archive for February, 2009

From Zombie 58 The blood does not taste any longer only this resounding colour ill tempered all over town drunk on sweat and nails and the aftertaste of past cheap tricks and so pink-lucid in the city-bone yet the porcelain-eyes keep theirs rolling the rim of a glass and the hand jerks and wassails anew to exalted nylon-legs and whatever falling might fall our way and this wink see the... »

Couple of things: I have opened a poetry portal. If you have suggestions for streams to be incorporated, please write. Thanks go out to Jón Örn Loðmfjörð for boundless help. It’s still a bit slow, but convenient despite the slowness. I had some stuff over at Other Cl/utter the other day, recommend whole site for browsing. Also... »

Angela Rawlings did an awe(andthen)some reading at the Olive Reading Series in Edmonton. Click here for the podcast. »

. Reading in Malmö on the 26th of March along with Cia Rinne, Bengt Emil Johnson and 3 Advokater (including Pär Thorn). The reading is held at Inkonst, Bergsgatan 29, Malmö and is a part of the Stanza reading series, it starts at 20.00 (eight in the evening) and the entrance fee is 40 swedish... »

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Push aside the thick, dark curtain, step across the cables on the floor and you’ll find yourself standing on a white floor with white screens in front of you and to each of your sides. Above you are projectors and speakers. You’re given a pair of goggles and a glove. You put them on... »

This is what poetry commercials should look like. Coach House rules! »

Kitties with cooties cum in your eye. Dolphins on dildos derelict smile. Puffin-on-puffin polaroid action. Rectified rabbits rapacious and nice. Anal mild-mannered manmice of Dover. The hips on the hippos haphazard thighs. Spermwhales in Speedos spa’d to the death. Grinding with grizzlies of graphic descriptions. Hardcore hyenas hunky & dory. Muff-diving magpies married to steroids. Hitlerite hamsters humming your bird. Ill-fated oysters, Azkaban’s snatch. Skunks and squirrels skinny-dip wrath. Titties on tigers in topless jungles. Cockerel cocks kiting their assets. Ponys in pear-trees please us... »

I woke up! I am alone, I am sad … I explode. I thought so. I am evil. I don’t understand. I fall. I fly. I fly. I fly higher. I fly. I don’t understand. What am I? That’s what I heard!! Why me? Am I anyone? I am stuck. Who am I? I am afraid, I cry. The poem is written by copy-pasting 1.000 pages worth of poetry from the Icelandic poetry-site ljod.is,... »

Icelandic National Poem This is my room, we call it Iceland. It’s chained to Europe with a marine cable and to and from here airplanes fly with their ink-cartridges full of people. Here I dwell in a matchbox that I care for so dearly since I painted the inner walls last winter. Life goes on as usual. In the store everyone meets and laughs and pats... »