Allie Moreno writes, "Secretly, I want to brush my teeth with sorrowtoothpaste. Doesn’t seem like it’d be overly minty. And if I used mirrorcream, I’d wonder if I’d see myself as others see me."
Read her other 24 points about Kim Hyesoon’s book [here]
I had an incredible conversation with Ed Steck about The Garden: Synthetic Environment for Analysis and Simulation (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2013), a suffocating book of holograms, hauntings, and tunnels of code.
PC: “Exploration is a language of progression.” I open this book. I start at the beginning. By page 11, I am referred to the Appendix at the back of the book. I have to read the fine print if I want to advance, right? (Advancement is key, said someone important once and probably on TV.) The beginning of this book—this Garden—seems to also be the end. At this point I feel like I’m following instructions. I feel like a far less subversive reader than when I began (like when I was trying to decipher the censored text). I’m definitely following instructions now. Why? Because I desire something? Why do I want to go exploring? I want to advance because advancement leads to answers, right? Why am I persisting, Ed?
ES: You are persisting because being mechanical is natural. Naturalism is a mechanism. As I mentioned earlier, The Garden, at times, is a translation of perception, and in this instance, it is a translation of form. The Garden, the book, is a map, a directory. I wanted it to be read as a manual. Or, to appear to be able to be read as a manual, rather. And, to advance through a manual, the reader has to follow the rules of the system created by that document. It marches you through the confinement of that reading experience. It’s weird, because I realized that later on in the process of writing it – the inclusion of the appendix was something to contain the narrative of the text, to contain the landscape within it. It’s evil to be lead through your own mind, to have direction decided for you. And, I think this is where desire fits in, to break out of that mode of instruction.
[Click] to continue reading the interview over at The Fanzine
"More than just the same story of the tragic hybrid positioned against a rigid world of binaries, in POP Corpse everyone is a sicko, which makes sickness the norm. In the underwater kingdoms of the sea, all our freaky thoughts find a utopian enclave. We can say whatever we want, whenever we want; the lewd mess in Internet comment streams is brought to the theater; and we’re invited to ‘cannibalize ourselves into art.’ Glenum’s is an appropriative aesthetic actively combating the vintage look, as her work refuses to sanitize history as well as refusing the world of homemade soap. Other practitioners of the abject find themselves at a similar crossroads between nostalgia and a need to violate any dressing-up of that nostalgia.”
-from Will Vincent’s “Vile Tide: Abject Art and Lara Glenum’s POP Corpse”
"Fingered in the gunshot wound. / Bore me a new one. / I can’t seem to bullet together. / One of those long legged nights, / on a gun, off again. / I get down on my needlings / and pray to god love you."
Deluge No. 3 will feature the art and writing of Kim Vodicka!! And what exactly does that mean? It means this magazine cover definitely isn’t what it seems. It means this issue of Deluge might be one of our most NSFW issues ever. It means, as Kim might say, “My apocalypse are sealed.” (At least until September.)
"I’m not one for buying books these days, not as much as back when I had to own everything I read. But this is a book that you should buy, and own, and leave lying around so you can open it at random and read passages aloud to people." -from Dennis James Sweeney’s review of Rain of the Future
[Click] to continue reading
James Pate writes, "A few years ago, I remember reading a book review — I can’t remember of what book — but the reviewer said it was a children’s book written for adults. It was meant as a compliment, and it could apply to Green Lights as well. It’s filled with lines like ‘E was looking at a flower. Then she held it up to the sun for a second, until it caught on fire.’ It’s a book that tries to lure us to some fresher, less hidebound, less ‘adult’ ways of thinking, perceiving. It’s a book of radical, subversive innocence.”
[Click] for the full review
I utilized both Swedish and English to compose these five poems. They come from a longer work-in-progress called The House of the Tree of Sores. And a huge thank you to Steve Halle for publishing this work in Seven Corners.
Michael Martin Shea writes, "Like my dad always says, ‘There’s more than one way to necropastoral.’ And if we can think of the necropastoral as a mode of reading, (Joyelle calls it a ‘reframing’), then it follows that, like any critical praxis, there are theoretical underpinnings, forerunners, sleeper-ideas that prefigure and inform the current moment. The ones who furnished the war-room with all these fancy snacks. The most obvious, of course, is Raymond Williams’ The Country and The City, but I’m more interested in the work of Giorgio Agamben and his theorization on the state of exception.”
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Michael Martin Shea is a poet and 2014 Fulbright Fellow to Argentina. His research interests include ecopoetics, political theory, Latin American poetry, and contemporary American avant-gardes. This essay is part of a larger project that attempts to historicize the Necropastoral, both philosophically and aesthetically. He lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.
I discuss my translation of a long Sara Tuss Efrik poem over at Montevidayo.
Paul Cunningham writes, “Johannes asked me to talk about my translation of Sara Tuss Efrik’s ‘The Night’s Belly’ (Nattens Mage), a hellish three-part fairy tale of wombs and charred rooms that draws on Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, the story of Sleeping Beauty (or Thorn Rose; Little Briar Rose), Little Red Riding Hood, and possibly even Polanksi’s Rosemary’s Baby (1968). ‘There are plots against people, aren’t there?’ This is the question a frantic, phone booth-encased Rosemary desperately asked after being cruelly deceived by her husband. In ‘The Night’s Belly,’ Efrik’s female protagonist similarly carries a child of unknown origin. A swelling devil-red child—sometimes described as having pincers, or flapping wings. A throbbingly painful monstrosity. Possibly the child of her husband’s ‘red mistress’ (who later evolves into more of a Macbeth-style witch-mistress), Efrik’s protagonist continuously obsesses over the unfaithful husband’s activities.”
The nipples smarted, the pubic hair frizzed up. Paranoia melts and is redistributed, transformed into small graftings of screaming creatures. Girl dolls, logs. Everything gets mixed together. The heat pushes moisture out of the skin, surfaces glow teasingly. The husband finds himself on the African continent, in a city of solidified lava. White jeeps cross paths with starving dogs, gospel music flows out of Pentecostal churches, overcrowded hopsitals have locked their gates. The suicidal husband drives around with a sweet slut. They are going to climb Nyiaragongo. I expand the image, a widening circle, it whirls, a treasonous ring dance around that which burns. More and more sluts. A mass of eggs, explosions, a burning sky, a spray of shrapnel across our bodies.
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Laura Carter writes, "Raúl Zurita introduces Valerie Mejer’s poetry with the following words: ‘only through radical vulnerability can the urgency of love arise.’ He calls her work a series of photographs, allowing us to claim what we find in her verse as hemorrhage, weakeness even. Mejer, a Mexican poet with roots in Germany, Britain, and Spain, is a unique voice writing in a postmodern state where things don’t always seem so whole. She beautifully weaves a breakdown of narrative by carrying us through family stories, photographs of her loved ones, and love’s outcries and declarations.
The book is set up in four parts. The first, from the way, the way, begins as if on a journey. Mejer interrogates our animal bodies, the things that make failure inevitable (and beautiful) in a world where bad things happen, as we all know too well. She weaves a story of sleeping and waking, always perpetually coming out of a dream but then finding that this ‘aliveness’ can’t quite last. Here’s a sample from the section’s title poem:
Waking up, we are swallowed in wakefulness.
The house swallows us in its terrible thirst. The routine of taking our children
to school swallows us
and so does the if only I could.
[Click] to read the full review via The Fanzine