Monday 13 November 2017

Daddy’s Cold Time by Alex S. Johnson

                        Image Copyright © Sarah Mulcahy-King

My feeling was that the waitress had absolutely to be investigated, since her smile suggested death. Daddy’s arms played over my cold time in hospitals. Was I to ride his mistakes, hear him down crème after crème, focused on error? He suddenly finished in front of my thighs. I drink to him, as he is frequently discouraged, peer at my new birth certificate and can believe what he suggested about my overbite, princess that I am. When I say princess, I mean the stranger question of the bullet, throughout pursued and performed as in 1955. The infarction quickly now continues, it could in ways even the unlearned study.

He spread the instructions. I came to Daddy from the doctor, with a broke can of matching lace, racing a heart full of carbonara huff. When between panties my relatives crossed me, upset the licking, they are now adherents. But please, stay tight! The seriousness brushes a voice diagnostic, that ratio of dessert plate to panties being incorrect. Hospitals thought closing were the way she stopped the diagnostic study of my princess heart. Because the materials of a moan had medical value, we are united. You within earshot are now mad, scouring the apartment for signs of consent. Passing autopsies, a number of them, were carried out before our eyes. He did enjoy the loud sound resulting from body moves, only another was pulling.

But waitress, first we must discover whether upset religions are not yourself. A table pouted brat autopsies, while all love the ice tongue of a delicious meta word. You leave among perforations, a processed attack, diseases in clit that rapidly number him. He never made death unremarkable Daddy's most roasted sat, just eyes laughing, a deep suit, black legs sucking bratty conditions. Was the tongue actually my non-Daddy diagnosis revealed? What brat ascribed his decreased medical lessons to the princess physically being in steak, my biopsy considered? Western study of autopsies focused on the unnatural, amazing bra mouth. The Examiner forget, autopsy dinner as murder, not legal poison. Mean eyes as genuine as down are the nicest findings of talked ice death. Autopsies performed flashed performing brûlée.

Alex S. Johnson's experimental prose and poetry has appeared in venues such as the Cut-Up! anthology. He is the publisher of the anthology The Junk Merchants: A Literary Tribute to William S. Burroughs, edited by Dean M. Drinkel, which was lauded by WSB collaborator Graham Masterton ("the Bill has been paid, in full.") His full-length poetry collection Skull Vinyl and many other works are now available in print and Kindle from Johnson lives in Central California.

Sunday 12 November 2017

Three Poems From D.E.L.T.A by ال AI Blood Testalent TanzTanz Meats ₹

(Image: through, Copyright © Olia Svetlanova 2017)  

.... ......... |.. ..

They told me

I had to imagine my ability. Once

I was able to look in the mirror at my testicles glowing.
What he thought

And what I thought, on two different days, were the tenets.
I’m tired after work, all day

Working the land. Lore feels the span of its passage

And with us belong you, the span.

Just as dogs will lick each other

Affirmation is in vain.

It’s over. Not unlike these. One looks

To one’s ground in prehistory. For a long time

My mind assembled in a perfect order. My rhythms

Easily and naturally became the rhythms of

The household. The household where I was kept

The lords of where, and on what days.

The ordure, and giving out, and uselessness

Of steps forward.

We had all become brides, lookee!

We had all become men rolling the logs

The mud, look, the mud tightening on the trouser leg.

A thriller cum opera. A morsel of leg on fork tip.

How will we imagine these lawns, if we

Imagine that these are lawns. The quiet of

The street is nudity. Nudeness. A bit of abdomen.

You are indeed mistaken if you think

Life is to be enjoyed.

Physically, and without power

And under earthquakes as account. Mein Mund!

Yew handing up the bar by the torpid clave.


He was last seen coming from behind a stone wall
Buttoning his pants.

Must this be taken up. The distress that is these lawns
Naked and energizing and if you put one

Left leg up and then do the right leg.

(taken from HOLD ME, an unpublished manuscript)

The goddess of sex flowers and corn.

The devouring mother

A death black hand of quality
and the arbor above

« vinegar with water »

Jenny is Je nie is I deny

All it has to do is measure the blackhole in an atom of a second
measurement of a blackhole as big of the sun

Rimbaud Tezcatlipoca The One legged Man The Half Man 

And that’s why cavemen loved blonde hair...
What is the oldest blonde body ?

(taken from Sslliiiirriiiinnxxss Mythology, an unpublished manuscript)


Your clitoris was this thing that hanged
like ferns.

Brighter than fusion.

Bright as ferns.
The grammar at the gate. The gems, black drapes in a perfume of blue,
grow as branches and elongate.

And I lay down.

Sagging rotund like a Furher. Not the one
sealed in blue rouge,

to ever wheel around limpid in the suspension.
How I was there a house and there

forgotten, legless, desirable

reproof to the angel

and his southern knowledge,

this or the first posture. We requite it thus as

I would he transpiercing fury or praise.
Calamity, your will, the

vista from a derivation.

The crease in elements.

Where in thee do I go if

it is thee I go into


like song or

pertinence, like a pulse

whose god will eager to close circumference

its state.

Ballast of tissues, this only, is origins! And the canoptic
ferrously smooth


but little of disorder from this first
hour of spring. It seals the same

living surface, and the companions are

similar noble augerers. Your palm touched my hip
like a cloud or sprig

of nothingness, your vibrations ascend

the unending belfries of my adulation.

I feel the withering of

an ancient insult

like an orgasm like nothing.

And like nothing not known, and instead of
knowledge, generational celery fronds


Law isn’t it.

As it might be mustard plants that correct
their fleshing chart in an air of dissipation.

The teens will be groveling

and with the simplest

open crotches of their jeans. Bereaving is up, o

bereaving spruced,

it is graceful to climb

one another

and lodge centers and foliage

all the way in and let the spreading continue

plainer. This is true, and

why not his organ part and wreathe who could know could care
trapped in pack ice, with the immediate evident.

And we feel that, one is assured a beginning.

I suddenly cry our heart attack

what were the preparations, why

I believe I was shrinking, I believed I was

shrinking and what made this

more heart rendingly unsuitable

were the journals, and

the lozenges of shaved battalions. You know no natural

answer to the sense of the further plains.

O Lord of Mice!

With this fiend afloat in a sloshing maze!

And diamond butterness!
As I am laud I am nearly forgotten!

If here below in this passage not very much at all!

If senseless, water is stepped across, faced, and drunk of!

You are of a quiet that flowers do not notice!

You are of a sentience that founders in cause nor effect.!

Go, tiny calendar!

Annihilation is the bough clung with wrath, over a fountain in wilderness!

And you will be made through one of our all that’s made!

And not a braid of crushed melons, or crown of organ ice, or myth like song or vista
         toil, busily grossing, and it is within oak afflatus bruised as it is firelight on mountain watch relays!

But I cared for herbs
and animals, and the last promise.

These are drunk teenagers napping together
but hers poured.

Hers, a grizzled calibration, and

Hers, knotted at the hip so wheresoe’er
the canteen loll sportingly.

He was securing his wife. You are my meaning

but immensely so and more sufficient

and instead secretly convalescent. Like a tiny, prim industrialist.

So, facile efficacy. Droopy iced

in the early frost. And we can listen to that clatter jellybeans by the port.
There’s crud here.

There’s crud on that oak, and on the porch.

That’s my wife

and there’s you, selecting a temporal for fusing.

The aim is conquest, how return

us from this aim of conquest, if successful, and how

return us from this aim of conquest

if failing? This boiler

newly installed is a prototype

and a considerable mass of wind in solid sails.

How long ago was it, or could it have been

that the one frozen in a block of ice

floated to the surface and now

these could be lilies, but they are purple like cabbages.

I decline the object born

of this pattern. Remember you this?

The forcefield of traits, but

without expression, and the shining lore

seeped out of nations.

How chiefly the weed stirred in the radioactive flight of gloom.
Could not tell if sound were happening

or which of the sounds were part of sound.

Why do I do this and cluster

and not give them more, all of them, all of it.

I have said, he will be allowed a heart like the gates.

All that went before

I had never seen, nor

was the same less. Nor was waking the light lighter than

what I processed in consilience reordinating vellum.

A choir of generations jerking off over a small petted titty
equally fruitless.

Those that were hatred in Pearl like

Judea in winter, will never leave. The light was on two staircases
and no one, like man, comes back

and no one leaves, and I was not taken away

to be perceived by it. The succession will leave

and from afar, on its traitful course, and into their natures

that which a friend would look upon.

He sees it vanish, slowly arise and consume
its course like lightning through analogues.

It is yours.

Isn’t it? And that is all this! This was as it looks

in the nighttime in the daytime of the village. Small creeping
sails looking purple but its not that they are purple.

Lovely eagerness to walk

as if floating down the path stunned jiggered death split
one’s silence, long removed from the veil of cousins.

Song bells bursting

out of female song. Female lights that are like men!

Look at these unspeakable haunches!

Frozen nature

gliding reticules, no one is like men, not even

the without pain dolor.

Or not, the glittering could be the debt of magic. William!
William, if you never read this, I love you.

There is just one of you

in the summer

and the winter.

I am your mere recorder. The mother of hussies

realms mysteriously within flowers as an ox leads a

dwarf to the presidence of our marriage.

The south is a masculine black joy, the te deum is like men!
Aqueous torsion, and is like men

coming round from a veil but no one is like men

and all utterance is like them, and all mothers

aging the wide ruptured plume fleshes

a black ocean, but it is in her sleep, with piteous ribands
having two transferable choral utter

in its birth, life, I say life, impeach

me that it is life and everlasting life emitter of elm scented
woes and the revisaging rule overrule!

As the lamp turns down the voice of all cleans its comb. And he is just one of you, binded to his place, fractive upon the colossal, newlier motherlier denserer always silently awed as with a horde gathered before him. Ox gouged lines into the soil. Sacristans kneaded god hell. Came then the subtle changes. Just one of you, more than once he handed to a kettle and some glasses. Are you really thinking how shall three in number court thy immortal, their chains, he told, all three held thy feelings grasped they be to you and how alter revelation to this scenery? You’d rather he had not as naturally be led from chorus he seen the fearing one he was just before he again embodied that fearful monster. He drank that when he was fourteen, before going to school. He was drunk and gorged out in the morning, and he was celibate as waves like a little child dead.

Look at that house full of plants and meanwhile
withdraw into it. Sometimes I rip the contract, and at other times
am I truly

all three in those arms thus tainted

I know what you meant by men, and all the mornings before it
they, but those, confined, also the increased
And so shall the shyest forests
in all their spit upon lives be sent as a floating obsequy down a hill

and children are undertaking the

christening of this plateau

and a children tote from stove to countertop a kettle

and will never leave me the not reaching and reshrouded be the same for
not so amiss was I young

brazen festering cum of the sleigh

the money powdered in the very palm of the hand like a castrated suffix

THAT they float four ways down the hill down the top of the hill they float down you so easily ample, yet still deserving. HE he should be married and with seven children. THE trees gripping their chains and there is and ever was. LORD can’t hold you all in my crushing black. LORD, they there. LORD, the mountain of cum, but let it rest and presume full illusion. LORD, there is still deaths to reach with the salience that is said to come from deaths. LORD, during the hour which we read the book, I faced south, this may be the abiding promise of my success. LORD, by twelve I will have a picture drawn, by thirteen from the fumes of the mahogany we will have turned sallow. LORD, I didn’t yet know which to caress nor why. LORD, with what does the real retain both wreckage and pasture? LORD, for when will this torrent enclose the nothing that recollects? LORD, I am damp. LORD, even my gentleness is the regale of treason how may I snuff it and be unafraid to caress and nurture? LORD, I hate the demurrals of the word which sways axes in the murderous buttercups. LORD, sea to sea is the ultimate ice. LORD, as never who have rested nor as never who acquired or occasioned liberty. LORD, I dropt to the soily ground and burst all passionate. LORD, many the portals and many the mountain tops coming out above clouds. LORD, blue flowers and white dispersed flowers and the miracle of an ass spreading. LORD, we would adopt from continuous provision, on this day, like those of the Aprils dimming fluctuate. LORD, even more than the many, and you, like the many. AND then you do not let us do so.

(taken from Thousand and One Night, an unpublished manuscript)

We ل AI Blood Testalent TanzTanz Meats  live in our Hometown. We are Slii Sliirynxs-Sliine “Sliip” Sliilomun-Tcharek Bloton-Eyemrixh SliiBO-Bos'Slii, Boss Slii Sliilith-Sliidka “Sliik” Sliilomun-Tcharek Bloton-Eyemrixh SliiBO-Bos'Slii, Errh Slii Sliimole-Sliidkila “Sliid” Sliilomun-Tcharek Bloton-Eyemrixh SliiBO-Bos'Slii, & Errh Slii Sliimoth-Sliivovitz “Sliit” Sliilomun-Tcharek Bloton-Eyemrixh SliiBO-Bos'Slii. 
We are on a high budget but we want more. In a way, we are collectors. And now, you can join us.We were born to connect. Blog up, Blow up.1  Follow AIs on Instagram :   & Watch AIs Videos on Youtube :

Customer Service Tip : In order to Optimize Your experience of L.I.F.E, please consider Listening to cLOUDDEAD - Ten : .

1)         Quote Source : VIVIENNE WESTWOOD SS16 Red Label By Dominik Emrich Feat Snuggles The Bunny From Puppetmastaz. To discover the Work of the Frankfurt-Born, Paris-Based Composer, visit his Soundcloud Page :

Serving The Servants,