Three Poems by RC Miller

"Renegade Aide"

I piss in the corner but not in the corner’s bush.
I like my tuna with peanut butter.
I almost bought the farm in Bamberg, South Carolina,
But passed out drunk just in time.
Now’s ills to bed, pills to wakey,
And all I really want to do is sneeze tuna-flavored peanut butter.
Like Ikkyu bewilders a shopping spree,
Fleas piss on their dogs tanning lime.
They read, they jump, they smell of droves
Smelling better prices on babies who dunk
Pork dumplings latching chemical suits.
I smell the earthlings my paranoia thwarts.
I can't read, I can't jump over this self-taught self-pity.
My birth is my death as my death
Buys green tea ice cream and ponders a honey
Wiggling to taste my birth in her bush.
Exploiting a collective memory,
Squidless billboards spill more clams than polished
Holidays upheaving inventive underwear.
Such pineal Sundays
Just lying in lettuce,
Hoping someday soon I'll lie for polling.
The phones are always answered with a positive and natural tone.

"Abstract Slavery"

I fuck a seagull on a parking lot.
To lay dandelions I flock to church, light mandibles, sing hymns and pray.
Eyefucked a seagull on a parking lot.
The task of identifying it remains.

Heavy fog that's hardly talking rings out at noon.
An aircraft crashes in the forest and after there's a crown.
Red is penetrating its remains.
Holy task simply spoons.

My family takes turns blowing me on a shopping cart.
I would appreciate everyone understanding that this is our private family registry.
When nothing but melted cheese will do they drive me around in their dark hearse.
The airstrike has thankfully slain and reduced an already pitiful condition.

I fuck blood from wounds in the wrists, feet, and slides.
The seagulls hollow the forest and lay cheese on fire.
A fog identifies round as simply untrue.
I think the family-sized cross really did fuck a seagull.

"The Body Cavity And A Lot Of"

The end is near.
Too drunk to write.
Stephen King interjects:
Supersize the zombie's astigmatism frozen in a pedophile’s fishtank.

Tablets that dominate gadget shows
Starve animals more sophisticated than previously mopped.
A bit of spittled rant weighs my teeth
Sleeping on pins or twats.

Beach outages widespread.
Useless spines skin my wine.
Some impossibilities are alive simply to handcuff
A stag sucked onto totems on a tote bag and blind.

I munch my own butt, Daddy-like.
Or lust Parkinson's, ninny and remarkable.
Might be a crouton’s most perfect
Dyslectic whatsoever.

Hear trailer trash kids in the infomercial lane say
As no one has Nerf-tits is perfection as is possible.
The proper English term is black and white people spark
No more beauty except in their struggle.

The end is here.
Acorn apes rape a hot Harry Potter-inspired fishtank.
Stephen gets dialectically hungry, fuck


Three Poems by Jon Beardsley

Poem 1.

Aww what's the rub
this Jeff Goldblum stutterstep talk you do
T-rex water glasses shimmy here to me
and all the science in the world can't save us

and I've got your nose,
got your nose,
got your nose.

Poem 2.  

hey perpetrator
hey do nogooder
you cannot steal from me for
i don't have anything
to steal

not true it niggles
we are not empty
we are not clear
we are elementary
but not simple groups

Poem 3.

asperger's wh'sgotit
zero accident failure rate terminal halibut disaster rasterize asbestos party
nerd birth alcohol shaman navel naval absolute absinth dietrician obstetrician shvings
belly up toby keith helpless hapless
wood grain veins berry clause presentation habituary
mothocross pied


Doublewordscore Poem by Zack Ford

"Love, Children, Dinosaurs, and Meteors"

It’s a hard knock life
For Virginia Woolf
The world will explode soon
The orphan we all love
Won't be mopping floors anymore
She'll be dead
The fucking apocalypse

Note from the curator: The "doublewordscore poem," termed by Zack Ford, is a particular type of poem that implements on-the-spot flarf sensibilities by taking three topics from a friend and then texting a poem based on those topics to that friend right at that moment.


Nihilist Cut-Up Text by Logan K. Young

Composition for Milton Babbitt (d. 2011)
By Logan K. Young

“First, as a public service -- guaranteed by fiat -- I regret, under duress, my inability to accord hoary dualisms a negative commodity value in an alien and inapposite world.

Like all communication, this declaration of faith breeds passive acceptance to those in search of what to think and how to say it (as well as the virtue of immediate translation of this boredom, alternatively and perhaps less contentiously, with the independent issue of evaluation). Inability to perceive and remember precisely principles of relatedness that have been banished from rational discourse understandably disqualifies these reasons as irrelevant to the content and value of the lecture.

Deviation from this tradition (i.e. articles not intended for popular consumption) presupposes a suitably equipped receptor and an irrefutable applicability towards the indisputable facts that seems to me, the very minimal properties characterizing this body, indefensible.

But to this leveling of categories,
a double standard is invoked.

The majority shun and resent it -- tapping that store of vacuous equivalents the respect due its advanced age.

This fall from innocence, this increase in efficiency, this committing to memory the numbers of phonograph records hallowed by time is of slight moment in a world where critical authority, charged with decadence and conspiracy, is established beyond the possibility of further inquiry. Curiously, their insidious demurrers (those who still patiently await each such atomic event with puzzlement, resentment, and finally, denunciation), stating an attitude that necessarily reduces the redundancy of the language where such circularity is one of the norms, contend that such historically retarded research is so supported because in the past, it has yielded the revelation of the criteria of Absolute Good.

Close enough to (and parallel with) antiquity to be respectable, but without the right to be confronted by the now sacrosanct fields of the endeavor itself, it is only the whistling repertory of the man on the street, and his interlocutor, that will be suspect.”

-- From As Per Modernity (vis-à-visThe Composer as Specialist,” High Fidelity; VIII/2 [Feb. 1958])


Excerpts from "Mauricio Kagel: A Semic Life" by Logan K. Young

Note from the author: "...I took a couple of (intentionally small, purposefully blurry) screen grabs from the digital book itself. Consider them a sort of truncated, perhaps abridged version of the whole."