Friday, August 26, 2016

For a Few Wandas More: Wanda Poems By Tyler Pruett

Tyler Sherwood Pruett is a writer and artist with a special interest in short forms of poetry, as well as creative nonfiction. His work has appeared in many prestigious journals such as Modern Haiku and Frogpond, as well as important anthologies including Haiku 21 by Modern Haiku Press, and a fear of dancing by Red Moon Press. He is the author of Blue Wolves Are Howling Grapefruit Orange, a collection of poems selected from over a decade of published work in poetry journals, and A Refutation of Exile with Red Moon Press, a themed collection of Threshold Art poems. Tyler is currently working as a professional writer, and as a graduate student at Johns Hopkins University.


According to the Order
A secret Wright

Brother named Wanda
Remains alive -

He faked his death
And stole a hypersonic jet

To soar uninhibited
Through hysterical ozone

Of dazeish machinations
And mirages of baking

Desert clay therein -
By night the Order

Commands brass bullet
Casings primed with talcum

Powder and lint
Their sponge fists wrapped

Loosely with used fabric
Softening sheets

The plumes of downy
Cotton balls loaded

Into a velvet cannon
And shot in your general

Vicinity -
The Order intends to cut you deep

Or cause a fiber rash or worse
(Their vampire fangs blunted

And covered with supple
Ambrosia boots

May cause light red marks
On your neck) -

The Order can hurt you
And hurt you bad

And you’ll never feel it -
They’ll pile pink

Popcorn packaging
Up over your head

Until you disappear -
They’ll force you to run

Your hands vigorously
Through raspberry bushes

And you’ll probably get
Some splinters -

The Order has you where
They want you

Squinting like an idiot
At letters on the wall -

The Order wants you
Alive and dead like Wanda

Breathing your last breath
Forever so you never die

And the oxygen never
Runs out -

This is their scheme:
A passive murder

That never really


Require clarification
Yet offer none -

Write something vague
Or intentionally

And expect them

To understand -

In your posh chair

Oiling the Uzi
Dry firing it

Reading the letter
Wanda wrote aloud

‘I shall bring you
to sun and moon

for holy ones
are with you, child’ -

Yet Wanda Bat splashes

At the shores
Wretching and hacking

Dying for some sign -
Liquid bullets explode

From her cortex
Leaving pools of holy

Water intact on a slick
Of bliss crystal

In a vein of reefer
Mined from the loch -

Now Wanda strikes deep
At golden swales

With each pirouette
Spawning psychic

Of netherworld

And Coricidin bottles -

Wanda utters heresies
To signify

The absence of salvation
Or wielding

A nuclear


Say nothing
And listen to this:

Jah Luna strides
Like a man should stride

When he’s headed
For the clean port

To obtain synthetic
Ecstasies -

An explicit cure
For all anxiety

Reminiscent of dangerous
Vacillations forever bound

To the fissure
Of Doctor Wu -

His path is very difficult
And complicated

For one might mistake
Luna’s grisly hobble

As a blessing
Or cosmic boon -

Luna wrangles
The balmy punk

And subdues him
With gooey elixir

Wanda brandishes
A purple tinted light saber

At your solar plexus 
The whoop ass

Of whoop ass -
Your hush captured

By the algae
Of seeping grottos

On far North lands
Promised to bitter snow -

Yet Jah Luna has long
Forgotten how to read

The Neptunian runes
Of Cushnoc town

Of head tide
Of Popeye colony -

He gracefully staggers
Like a king of the world

Might drag his girlfriend
Swiftly through a bonfire -

Please hang on to small rays
Of hope you had

As a boy
Let it be

Your unfolding
With peace and guidance


James T. Kirk struts arrogantly
Down Brighton Street

Like a specter
From The Diary

Of a Drug Fiend
Or maybe

Penthouse -
The image

Of Rue de Marc Avenue
Etched upon

His third eye
Scratching the lens

Whipping up
A pale froth

For the vile armies
Of Wanda Bat -

Cretins tote Uzis
Dribbling silver mercury

From baked carbines
The bare ass barrels

Glistening in subterranean
Magma glow -

Wanda the comely one
The existential reaper

Subverses her high green tiara

With yellow diamonds
Gold dust oozing

Betwixt her voices
Where she formulates

Her radiance
For Wanda loves

The third eye
More than all the others -

Abandon a flock
For the darling three

Freak a holy vision
Postured at the edge

Of a crumbling cliff -
Uproot topology

With her settingless chasms
Of the port city

The clean port
Chided by gray goose ghouls

Where she descends
To find

Her ecstasy
Again and again


Herein coddles
The obfuscations

Of mythological
Jah Lunas

A manifold set
Chiming spirits

In the willows
With a  Joe Plouffe

Of many confabulations -
A vast presence

On Christmas Day

The lord of whom
Once hinted

That moondrift
Constancy holds

The secret to a family phantom
An aura

Not appearing
All at once

Yet beam by beam
Over many lifetimes -

The bees sting
Although they only strike

The steely Jim Kirk
The once promising

Shortcut becomes
A trap in blistering

An ease of ascendency trickling

Downhill masqueraded
As bee sting quagmire

Whips no way out
Or gets in closer

Out -
Escape to shapelessness

Where yellow jackets
No longer pierce the cloak

Of colorless green -
Swamps expel an invisibility

Of a green man
Crafts an aura

The Wanda whip

A specific shape or shade
Of flock flopping evil

In an abandoned shack
Among seafoam hills

To take dictation
For a book of the dead

Wherein Luna confabulates
Kasserine pass

And trepidation
Of conquered dead


In the deep east
Mantle bubbles up

Yielding muddy servings
Of gruel in wooden cups

Wherein champagne fungus
Floats a reincarnation

Of the wild west -
An archaeologist shall unearth

These cups someday soon
Though putrid lace essence

Be faded by dirty time -
Yet the cups shall be steam washed

And catalogued in cavernous
Limbos by government Adam types

While baby powder aliens
Purloin a pale orange halo

Pulsing arhythmically
To imperceptible

Limbo poles -
An aromatic labyrinth

Impales in brown dirt

The copper anniversary
Of pony boy’s rebirth

With crunge -
Luna man decimates

The escapades
of Samaritans

in the bush
who worship you

like Syd Barrett -

Hair tonic brews
And thrashing chests

Of gold doubloons
That cling to harnesses

Of milk chains
Be lashed

To Wanda’s shoulders
As she barely wriggles

The burden


Listen close Wanda Lumens:

You must fathom
And confirm

A vague reminiscence
Of beats

Scuffed on brown autos
The seats coated

With tacky shawls

From indentured servants
By new money mistresses

On rue de marc -
Scrub that graphite

From your grimy palms
Wanda lumens

You swoon
Amid chauvinists

While super novas implode
Into downy clothe

To collectively harbor
The illusion that flesh

Remains stable
In human form

Without the luxury
Of glue or r pasty-

If you don’t believe me
Ask Jim Kirk


Yellow heaven
Golden cakes


When the seven
Fires rise

Gurgling black blood

On her white
Smoke blazer -

Of the corn struts

Bare ass down the sidewalk
Flying a Cornsilk

Like a damn sail -

Wanda bat grapples

With the illegality
Of joint-like

Or clips

For no fixed terms
Shall be tolerated

In limbo
Of the port city -

The clean port

Nougat hallucinations
Mere illusions

And nothing less -
None point to non-truth

Nor against false truth
Nor in good mind

Of the false truth
Non truth

Lie -
False in the sense

That chummy grass
Grows back over

And over again
After being mowed

And never dies -

The mayor mows
His own lawn


Interstellar overdrive
While he takes a shot

Of Bulleit
And considers hisself

Lucky to escape


Peach moss

From a grinding

Seizing desire
To abound

Paisley shadows
Through frozen

Wanda rage -
Blood surges


Thrashing and viciously

Black balsa wood
Daggers -

You Wandas

The last train
To purgatory awaits

At the space station

Like pissant

Way back before
This shrill globe

Wasn’t so visceral -
While your very own ghost

At the head

Of the table
When a psychic

Your recitation

Of grace

Poetry By Rus Khomutoff

Rus Khomutoff is a neo surrealist poet in Brooklyn,NY. He writes daily on his twitter page @rusdaboss, and is trying to publish his first chapbook.

Untitled for Andre Breton

Nostalgic sentiments and new wave nocturnes
intersecting in a normal chaos of life
an hourglass of neglected affinities
idols of saturated phenomena
night of filth, night of flowers
the aporia of revelation

Poet Rus Khomutoff

 Magic Bullet (for Tristan Tzara)

Smell of death
smell of life of embrace
a medicine of moments
semiquavers and sundial conductors
of the postspectacle
deposits of legitimacy left behind
sortilege of the divine decree
words in blood like flowers

Horror.Philosophy.Sex (to C.M. Cioran)

Anathemas and admirations
in the graveyard of definitions
citizen of wonderlust
soul of the blasted pine
metahaven overture
caught in a clinch
formations of the angelic abstract
unto poor image thresholds
landscape over zero

Migratory soul

I dream of a province of request,
an exoplasm of breathing lights,
a banquet of consequences
unreleased acetates of a marble index
white letters on nocturnal flesh
migratory soul of genteel contact
following love's infinity into
the empyrean realm
a blissful maven


Cascading fragment
of an inhabited solitude
waxing gibbous
in the iridescent shuttle
praying for the shadows firsthand
terraforming this anvil of distinction
a forbidding tangle of brambles
like a shower of superstitions
an echo of our gestures

Untitled(to Victor Coba)

Exit pleasures 
inside the phantom of difference
isolating enterprises
of bluster and below
fragmentary truth
in lieu of definition
blue exorcist of the dirty old town
soulfire of ignorant bliss

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Prose-Cartoon Epic By Adam Engel

Adam Engel lives in NYC, where he studied and taught at several universities, administered corporate systems, published numerous poems, stories, essays, articles and four books, Topiary, Cella Fantastik, and I Hope My Corpse Gives you the Plague, and most recently, root (Oliver Arts & Open Press, 2016).

Blunder Gaze of Cosmic Eye


From Decay

Botched job in the kitchen.  The wretched boy refused Death's protocol progression from decay to rot to never-been: and similar trends from which The Strong derive.


None Fulfilled

Ten million stories none fulfilled.  

If Past won’t change what is: what is to come?  And when?

Patterns of action-movement brought no Be: not much doing: nothing done.

Facsimiles of movement forged by  repetition.  Much said nothing done.


Plotting Sorts-of-Sit

Plotting sorts-of-sit: derivatives of sat.  

Attempts to replicate the rush of musk allure: as-if entranced by potent tinctures of herself.

As-if:  yesterday's high.

Enough as-if  to lure as Lure itself had lured – long time ago.  As-if effused her being and her telling: vernacular of consequence: speech-tick: My-Tale signal: evidence of Self.

Evidence not proof: but still: inspired strong imperatives of Love that Love delighted in repeating.

Each one must explain what makes one one: eventually.

Not yet.

For anyone could understand if anyone would know: that what had been should have been without regret as consequence of might have could have would have been.

Second-guess of deep-absurd: ridiculous in pull-back relative to all that’s been  and all who've suffered – and to what extent – the blunder gaze of Cosmic Eye.

But still: the second guess: the third...


Pain and Loss

Dead kid in a slip-shod kitchen.

Love's wretched life-course (murder of Self? abort of Other?).  Pain and Loss.

Desire for completion or extreme. These are difficult themes. Love attempted to transform.  Smoke of heartless drift a bitter blow: oh: Empty Memory of shadow-strangers in the glass!


Protagonist Love Interest

I knew Love.  A difficult complete.  Consistently.  One two three slips here-there mere error: perhaps odd – perverse? – penchant for novelty: tilting avant garde.


consistency is pattern: pattern is pathology.  

Love had problems.  I loved Love. I had problems.



Night Entered with Drama

I tried to talk then fuck Love to completion.

Pain ensued and Loss.

Long ago we saw trees bloom sooty flowers in the park and we resolved to solve what-ever resolve –  and teaching fellowships – would solve for once and god-damned all.

First time this life I knew core definition of hard-deep: but could not leave the only world I'd ever known.
Night entered with drama: velvet cape of terrifying atmosphere. Confusion-frightened of Time's brevity I dreaded physical decline.


Recollections of What's Never Been

The Kid believed in Dad.

Wherefore why-for whence this vanishing of Home?

Filmic mind-stuff: recollections of what's-never-been: spectral street-banquets of   everything-everywhere-and-all sucked life-blood from what  lived: as-if not born of Love: as-if Love splashed smoldering glands with cold white paint: a cagey ruse to dodge pain-tedium completely heinous to conceive: token of lunatic dreams sown long-faraway ago.


Mute Gesture Command
Proximity of Home disturbed me to disgust with full intent to mock: possessed of a  hate too intimate-revealing of  one's first-expose –  in awe-repulse – to mute  gesture command: of  life: of consequence.  My virgin score.

Furious Camouflage

I daydreamed more than mere possession: proprioception: saw furious camouflage in membranes of Love’s womb.

So many moments etched on skin distorted to weird and worse by Time: grim patriarch: progenitor of Pain and Loss.


Ghosts Laughed at My Suit

Alone in Love’s botched kitchen I was exhausted.

Ghosts laughed at my suit: poor tired spirits: demented by Night's forced after-death parade through desert-smears of Pain and Loss: to each his own significance and Other.

Experience amplified thunderous: repeated and exchanged: like prisoners trade cigarettes: dream-currency of trapped-entombed.



Confusion staggered after Night alone.  Resolution pounded feral at the door.  Desire smashed my daze of words with palpable thingness of a weapon.
Steel-bone recognition: not-Pain not-Loss not-Love nor any other.

I cocked aimed fired my last first sentence to completion.