The Work of My Guests

 

Diagonal Fiction    new.gif (111 bytes)

The last of the scarecrow empires These degenerates of Eden Craving cowboy deformities Easter clinics and aerosol flesh Libido knifes for Christian vice The dormant weapons of canine incest Slashing photographs of punk revolutions Of lunatic babies hooked on lipstick warfare Of soldier killers and retribution brats Swaying beneath autumn crowns Dark noise glimpsed from the edge of the motherland As Martian romances span sleeping civilisations Diagonal fiction re-interpreted as deliverance

Martin Rutley   kerouacx@aol.com

 

Hunger cult  

The cardboard citizens of nostalgia The paradise implant junkies Slaves to the yellow noise of locust music A symphony for the disney faith Songs of analysts programming defeat As kid astronauts snatch at the golden serpent High above the offices of the hunger cult Heroes of national slum fashion Pawns to lifestyle design Exchanging global fantasies of animal fiction Theories for the caramel war A television voyage through antique scams For born-again virgins in the second escape Under the solar masters of rebel luxury The temporary histories of the super-elite Media version seventy-three considered

Martin Rutley   kerouacx@aol.com

 

The Absentee

I forward this to you and I hope you receive,

All the things I wanted to say yet couldn’t conceive.

Giant like you stood against the cool lit light,

Never informed me that it would be all right.

Looking in the mirror and smugly you shrugged your shoulders,

Whilst I childlike ran and hid, and began my perpetual smoulder.

I wanted to hear you call out my name,

And see yours eyes glisten with a subterranean flame.

To ask questions of what I would do,

To tell me you would be there always and see me through.

Why didn’t you proceed the way the guides say you should.

Absent for days although you said you would,

Come for me and treat me like no other.

But you would soon forget, lets face it you couldn’t care to bother.

She didn’t want me to soar, to take your passageway and leave

She wanted me to stay and told me not to feed

Your ego.

She told me this would happen

She said she knew you well

She was the one that held me in the night

And qualified me not to dwell.

You talked of family and of pride

Yet again soon elapsed you softly denied,

All awareness of what you had said.

So I formed these few words I hope they’re easily read!

-kerry ward  ziggy@thelabrinth.fsnet.co.uk

 

 

Hinted Trophies 

(“I will wait for the Lord, who is hiding His face…; indeed, I will hope in Him.” Isaiah 8:17)

How long till the web is unwound,
how far till sticky shadows are dispelled,
how wounded till the victim wriggles consumed,
how loudly till attic eaves shake their tangled nets free
of dust,
of clouds,
of phantom corners only hinting at trophies stored
beneath the shelves of disillusionment.

When will the voices that call for right,
right themselves before the call?
When will the men who lock arms
unlock themselves in dust?
When will the critics who prophesize,
proffer their own hearts for rending?

When will the secret cries be heard?
When will the silent sins be crushed?
When will the better and better cry for the
Capture of their puffing hearts
And offer warm breath to those they called

~ mark p. lamppoet@minot.com

 

Untitled  

One day a young man was standing in the middle of  the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful  heart in the whole valley.  A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and  boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart.

Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said, "Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine." The crowd and the young man looked at the old man's  heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars,  it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn't fit quite right  and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in  some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing.

The people stared -- how can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought? The young man looked at the old man's heart and saw its state and laughed.  "You must be joking," he said. "Compare your heart with mine, mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears." "Yes," said the old man, "yours is perfect looking  but I would never trade with you. You see, every   scar represents a person to whom I have given my love - I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to  them, and often they give me a piece of their heart  which fits into the empty place in my heart, but  because the pieces aren't exact, I have some rough  edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of  the love we shared.  Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away, and the other person hasn't returned a piece of his heart to me. These are the empty gouges -- giving love is taking a chance. Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for these people too, and I hope someday they may return and fill the space I have waiting. So now do you see what true beauty is?"

The young man stood silently with tears running down  his cheeks. He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart, and  ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man  with trembling hands. The old man took his offering, placed it in his  heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man's   heart. It fit, but not perfectly, as there were some  jagged edges. The young man looked at his heart, not perfect anymore but more beautiful than ever, since love from the old man's heart flowed into his.  They embraced and walked away side by side.

~E.A.B

Your Choice

I woke up early today, excited over all I get to do
before the clock strikes midnight.  I have responsibilities
to fulfill today.  I am important. My job is to choose
what kind of day I am going to have.

Today I can complain because the weather is rainy or ...
I can be thankful that the grass is getting watered for free.

Today I can feel sad that I don't have more money or ...
I can be glad that my finances encourage me to plan my
purchases wisely and guide me away from waste.

Today I can grumble about my health or ...
I can rejoice that I am alive.

Today I can lament over all that my parents didn't give me
when  I  was growing up or ...I can feel grateful that they
allowed me to be born.

Today I can cry because roses have thorns or ...
I can celebrate that thorns have roses.

Today I can mourn my lack of friends or ...
I can excitedly embark upon a quest to discover new relationships.

Today I can whine because I have to go to work or ...
I can shout for joy because I have a job to do.

Today I can complain because I have to go to school or ...
eagerly open my mind and fill it with rich new tidbits of knowledge.

Today I can murmur dejectedly because I have to do housework
or I can feel honored because the Lord has provided shelter for
my mind, body and soul.

Today stretches ahead of me, waiting to be shaped.
And here I am, the sculptor who gets to do the shaping

What today will be like is up to me. I get to choose
what kind of day I will have!

Have a GREAT DAY ... unless you have other plans

                                                                                                                   - Michel Dubois

 

You Are

The experience of experience occurs deep within your skull.
Which part of it is outside? Which part of it is in?
A solid dream
inside itself
changing for you
with your own ever shifting perception.
Merge your inside and outside.
This is called being in the flow.
One adamantine moment in endless procession.
Be there now - 360 degrees. Remember who you are...who you are...

- Larry Plesent

 Heidegger influenced

solitude, land of evening, declines and departs. the abyss of solitude's absence is its advent, its arrival..solitude's claim to presence is not a form or outer appearance but a persistence, an insistence-on. solitude is a realm, a domain that shelters, secures, conceals. solitude is self-revealing and self-concealing. Picasso remarked he had made himself an "unsuspected solitude". its continuance is not tied to usage, need, or custom. to brook solitude is to think. solitude is for thinking, not singing. solitude is expressly to collect unique disclosure along the lines of Being, of Appropriation. the dawn of solitude comes to pass in events of order/disorder,of jointure/disjunction. solitude joins but never conjoins. its expanse is calls and gestures, belongings, hearings, attunements, something spoken,conversation. a historiography of solitude is absurd except in relation to destiny, destining, Fate. solitude is an aspect of the destining of Being. the ground of solitude is a brilliant abyss in which what lingers for a while, can stay for the time being or emerge much later. it is not for protection. its gathering is the one that clears and shelters. one's standard of solitude is one's proximity to it, one's place in it. for those whose abode is solitude,it is a riddle and enigma, an enigmatic keyword, a right, a justice, a wrong, an injustice. it is reckless and considerate. to dispatch oneself toward solitude is never fitting. there are no vocational skills to acquire in solitude. solitude, the fateful itself, is a dispensation to beings to be Being.solitude is the Same in beings, language, sayings. to translate solitude is to cross over, to go down, to set the never-setting of un-concealment/concealment.solitude is the surmounting of the oblivion of Being, the perception of something at hand which appears to be not representational thought but Being coming to the fore, coming into view. to preserve solitude is to hold sway,reign, rule, dominate. solitude occurs essentially in a belonging together,an apportionment or allotment, of Being and beings, in the unfolding of this two fold

- John Jometzg77@aol.com

psychedelia  a true story                        

black teat sitting on my father's death                             a return to diesel fuel and Jesus                                    connatured of  Greyhound bus breasts                                  greeting cards, a cadillac care of how you doings                      earrings on ears an automatic tongue touches even while it sits and wishes to be inhaled               her action is a wonderment of love and tongues      lips preconscious of art and thighs too strong to cover               a kite carries them aloft outside libraries heaves a standing notion of couplehood into mammoth caves of relief and answering music                                              Nietzsche forfeited this smile for purple socks and impossible  poetry                                                          keep your shirt on or the noise will show                                     get into it, send it to anyone                                                                go up the hill, roll down with the wind beauty limps its lack across dancing armies and horrible do nots Onan would not understand at twilight                               noses are wiped and a dream of Kim begins                               live the word, throw the pot                                                        make yourself reversible, be embarassed                                         empty the ashtrays of fasting  you are now nowhere, Birth looks to you for the two toned sealed cave a rachet polar rhythm misread as I and You reject the tons of webs             treat any state of shouting with calm translucid circles            kiss Kim as she comes by barefooted languaging a backdoor prayer strategically to saint Seton                              the dream holds her in its pocket                                                 the saint refines beauty and fills jokes with speeches of good sharks which include everything                                           scenes of cliff dwelling                                                                   exhaust of exhausted humans                                                       swarms of white squirrels   crushed Nashville flesh              sublimation fever                            Southern catalpas

-John Jometzg77@aol.com

 

 

 

 

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