Asemic Writing by Michael Jacobson

Asemic Writing by Christof Becu

Text by Volodymyr Bilyk

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Two POMES by Billy Bob Beamer

[these POMES originally appeared at http://ex-ex-lit.blogspot.com]

 

POME

plugstic bottlessssrehpent  supersluuuice

ergottree fin ite  fan  slob      berdownn

m I a t h tress regina coke waves bcerius

 slat fallpants turning inwarsh-ed bluoi

greeat ingsings porschibly farmished plot

yet to come. fur therepie dentsplate ovao

looktoth rust east flood hup   toavay   crean

by wonder pond helt winds ad varn-ish  tope

e at tohard to sen seit know it balke until staem

 

rags odorian flanes not quite firemun choutre ad  figthik

wenat momen tthink hangout tta Bflatto ye street fladebelow

 

[POME si cal abt.

      .fragile       og/\tin E

  [[“trememem  surbatia fune

        ebb ast cotttter.n

                                  {{di r u oi.red|

 none nictte  sua.vit  si shyssss

asnibtuse n utor obture.  less ness

     not un

    blunt

                torque;[]l;’’’.’   

 

[

 

Excerpts from "Tragedie of Marks" by Volodymyr Bilyk

qweqweqweqwe - drama of going down into the ground. Cool and Blue.

asdasdsad - COmmentary on being there. Sitting desks from the birds point of view. But the bird is the plane.

asdasdasdww - Shock and Awe. Fingered. Marked in the shade.

asdasdasdsad - Homage to Roman Polanski and "What"

wqeqwe222 - There is a secret. But it lies in those dots. They're not.

An Experimental Comic by Florence B.

http://scribbledart.tumblr.com

Three Poems by Adam Trawick

"brooding"

i,

by blood reading,

try drums and buy into its fabulous generation.

gunslingers only give

the mans' down beloved wrong idea,

running till clicks.

fingerprints and debris are tools.

hardly wooden stanzas

                                        , what at breath

for a think-skull

from which other pretty children keep nothing

                                        ; maybe a poem.

---

"Raven"

untouched is the black

within night

                         , splashing

to a nostalgic floor

                         on you

, if to it the latest mind knew convection. 

---

"love is where a blue chainsaw shit"

documenting hours' accidental teardrops

& going off to binge on a

fuck-load of fog cigarettes in hopes that

one might be a hiding collage

seeing where page pieces got uncovered

with victorian apathy;

deleted before someone sleeps in glass chaos.

these times that comment on blue-minded waistlines thank warhol.

breathe vermouth.

edit hard intention.

long were the pieces in that fraud month

of televised illusion.

riff the wild whole.

everything whole is a burden.

hours.

classes.

worship.

what this be is a heavy thing.

the thread moving these things splashes

pop-rendition. further juxtaposing importance.

have pride in kind sleep

where stars did tough the red hours

in an embrace of knuckles.

& now the blossoms buckle for

a poetry dream gone checkerboard.

where a vase is just hours of

babble-talk with no schemata

& sleep usually is a whisper.

spinning.

running.

abandoned.

tired as a vintage idea.

& not a teardrop falls when love nestles

tonight under a joy-blanket

where a blue chainsaw shit.