3.15: bleeding backwards | Heath Brougher — new poetry, visual art, & poetics [aesthetics]

introduction to bleeding backwards —Krysia Jopek [November 2019]

Feast your eyes and brains on diaphanous micro 3.15: Heath Brougher’s bleeding backwards, the most mammoth diaphanous micro to date! This issue will actually be printed as a physical book by a different publisher in 2020. I’ll let the poetry, visual art, and statement of poetics [aesthetics] speak for itself. Enjoy!

> > >

pliant verse: new poetry

Flac-Id-I-ty

 St(upid)ate sponsored stale bread  ,,

death-de-fin(e)alellà

striven d0wntowne d®own wa-

ters  ,,  shuttered streets

of youth  ,,     ß~~~~~~~~~à     sca(rry)rs

of an (Om) eternal ethno-oracle

fugal(ism)ist  ;;  bombdust  ,,

[howdy horn heisGordon]

suey slop(ed) surgical(ogical)ly orn(amaste)amental ;;

a manna his wor(l)d  ;;

proof pops out(whorled!!)ward

polar(bear)oid snappen

snatchery drownt in wat(tons)er soupà

the naked thighs of Janeà

fully tempted Kierga moon

lusty 99 thousand y(onder)ears

br(right-here!!)ought for a(n) Apex [WHOOOOO!]à

ash W(ittnessing)ednesday [trash     =     this]  ;;

bottom of the 9^th

for a broken oriole—

            otrawise  =

                              finite;;.

 

[[[[[———-DO NOT USE IN POEM!!————]]]]]]

[[[[[[dopers worship Uranus, strung o(ooooohhhh!)ut a(ha)tta ho(we)me plate!—

h(ipster)it me a gr(h)and sala[om?]i]

[a haircut in the 8^th inning [(?????)]

[dopers like baseball but baseball likes to fuck with the doper’s head with infield fly rules and what(ever!)not]]]]]

 

Confidence of the Many

 Accidents—happen–

(faux)stance

of   a   hid-

e(i)n

haph(ologram)azard

we(eek)akness ;;.

 

Stir

Fr(om out)eak coleslaw frisk  ,,  om high down

Apis quopom of tin  ,,  of tin(n)y~~~~~à  ,,

,, ;; ,, !! .. • ;; € ,, [%~& = +] ,, :: ,, ^^ {*****}  ,,

plaintiffs Walpole  ,,  Oakland vapor

doorknob Wicklow  ,,  weeblow lapidary

 

—we’re gonna g(oogle)obble up the mustard seeds the i(diots)ngrates spit out—!;.

 

Orb

Monroestopsis  ”  Montreal

 

Bloodpoisoning  ”  BloodFlint

 

Op(youless)ence  “  Omnibus

 

Thrombosis  “  Thumb(at)tack

 

Nearing Asparagus

Original ingre(e)d(y)ients à[0Oo oO0]ß

rhutabeggar rutaugular  ,,  rheu(barb)my  ,,  r(hoo!)ooms ,, 

nearing asparagus says a road sign  ,,

typo-tato  ,,  sq(i)sh soon ripe enough

to sizzledance with olive’s oil(spilt)y veggies rife with Vitamin Z (vitamin z)

cooking up what was dug upà     (0à[om]ß0)

from s(z)ounds of b(lowingup!!)ursting seeds planted in dirt months before; ;.

 

[—-DO NOT USE IN POEM!!—–]

 [[[[[Wel(l that’s about it, folks!!)come signs direct brief inhabitant(sentience-full)

straight to the Ex(ist for a short amount of time)it sign before

the li(v)fe-forms barely catch one of those breaths of Oxygen

this p(eculiar)articular planet is famous for!!]]]]]

[[[[[“’Nearing Asparagus” is honestly a sign my dad once saw while driving down some old country road around Lancaster County. He even had a plastic reprint of the sign made that I own to this day. Apparently, story goes: He was driving down some backroad and saw a sign that read “Fresh Fruit and Vegetables Ahead.” After a few more miles the sign reappeared, this time with an even closer mileage attached. THEN, apparently, a sign appeared that read simply “Asparagus in 5 miles.” Then “Asparagus in 2.5 miles.” And, finally, the fixer: a sign that simply read “Nearing Asparagus.” If you ask my dad he will tell you to this very day how much he regrets not stopping right then and there and “borrowing” that final sign. It’s a regret he’ll have to take to his grave. He DID remember exactly the color, shape, and size of that Billboard so he could have replicas made and this explains why I’ve had a “Nearing Asparagus” sign hanging somewhere in my bedroom since my mid-teens. It was a diamond-shaped sign, all in white, with the words, in big bright green font, spelling out “Nearing Asparagus.” And let us not forget that the sign had a green, curvy outline at its edges. In fact, IF the publisher lets me show you this sign in this book, I WILL show you the sign. True story.]]]]]

 

W(r)ench-eater

Noonish grindle

girth obituary  ,,

 

elder aura time pressure /—à

unwrapped Ea(terofacid)ster/

Mendoza line Freakfest/ {Freedomfest}

ripe lice/

liquorish blood  //—àà

 

San Antonio guit-tar–(0)-feedbac(rack)k(wards)  ;;

Pavlovian response to hummmmmmm(anesque)mmmm  ,,

humm(om)mmmnmmm(mmmmm)mmmmm(um! um! um! um! um!) of motors  ;;

indent(ured)ed interstate/demonstraight~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~> [ode to odd uncles!]

frail white sneakers   //|\\   tenn–is shoeless Exist(ential)ence

revels in the real re(V)eal of a Multiverse of black sox and white holes  /

apply pressureà

gaseous drainà

land of rotten spicketsà

 

we are     n o t   (t) h e r e     anymore  ,,

we are (un)officially among the Elsewheres

of Sentient Existence—death of course always

a very(muchquiteso) possibility of a wormhole

into another dimension of perception of creation

of such heavy Suchness in this current realm of 8 sensations

are more than likely rendered useless to the fathomlessness

of a denseness of Multiversal fullness which likely feeds us

a continuation of its Continuum of an Eternal Essence

founded in Endlessness of various senses ;;.

 

[———DO NOT USE IN POEM!!——–]

[[[[[I’m talking E.D.s! Extra-Dimensional-being type-Elsewhere, motherfucker!!]]]]]

[[[[[when a Human, with their 5 of 8 senses known of on this planet, all tuned to just the proper setting, looks out onto the sunrise/set we do not see the magnetic field—this is accepted and usually shaken off with a sort of cavalier ignorance that has become the hallmark of human arrogance as we gaze with perfections made of purest personification, instead of meekly dismissing the EGO, we actually argue whether or not the Dimension stacked atop ours even exists to begin with  !  We were fine to dismiss the fact that we  were eyeless to the magnetic field but DID NOT go so far as to dismiss, or call into question, its very Existence, since Science has assured us of this with an such endless recurrence that we wrestle not with its Thusness but have formed a nearly latent acceptance of its presence. YET… when that idea holds heavy ignorance or flat out unknowingness of Existence, humanity will hold out a resistance, and, at a usually dangerous insistence, ask as to why it was never completely informed of this during its usual indulgence of useless information so oft eaten of to find their spot among the weak obeisance they’ve come to call Existence only to find out that their own weakness and lack of curiosity when matters turn to all subjects concerning Science, that this information, once relentless, was muted and hushed due to the dull and dim and dumb observance that Science and Scientific arrogance that human perception usually finds boring as if its Multiversal acceptance is more of a nuisance—thus it becomes unwanted, careless and obsequious in these all-too-human perceptions that thrive on the convenience of their utterly false Manmade obsessions and, instead of removing these horrid repressions, would rather gather comfortably in the warm, deceitful pockets of obvious  IGNORANCE  instead of embracing the utter Truthfulness of Human Existence and instead sit facing the wrong direction simply because it’s tilted to a more Truthless spot of convenience concerning their ULTIMATE duty of embracing the Truthfulness abound that is not nearly as easily accessed but is, at the end of the day, the   only    direction for the human mind, its perceptions and proclivities and unperspicuous tendencies, to sway among this multitudinous Multidimensional Mulitiverse;…]]]]]

 

Another Orb

 

diiiiiiiiiippin dots  €€  iiiiiiiiicecreeeeeeeeam  ,,

 

diiiiiiiiiiiimpling dots  **   iiiiiiiiicecreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam  ,,

 

dumpling dots  ¥¥  I scream!—;

 

Summer Murder

S h (r) i n e s er(adicated)ected/ / / / /

in a glitt(t)er-I mutt(ttttt)ering murmur–

            ing moment-0(mori)

of fa(t)ede(a)d memori(a)es ([(memory-YAH!)])  ;;.

 

[[[[[————DO NOT USE IN POEM!:———–]]]]]

[[[[[[“cut your nose upon the spansule”]]]]]

[[[[[[“impressionario Gn(om)es  =  GiANT  laWN shamE”]]]]]

[[[[“tacky {though I’ve always thought in a good kind of way = like something you’d see in a music video for an alternative band from the early-mid 1990s}”]]]]

[[[[[“eighteenth inning grass”]]]]]

[[[[[“it is twenty-nineteen-84!!”]]]]];;,

 

Technocracy

Radio legs

lay the television’s eggs

all warped… (wh)rip-

ed ed ed(en) e(n)dà

w h o r l e dà      /     whooshed     /

[back in b(l)ack singing sugary songs of surgery]

 

Aleece             al(l)live  Phifee ;;;;; FeeFee

tonal vibratory soundt(r)ack

 

bite      bit        biting               offa(l)  ,  a little

…………………………..atta boy!à

,,,,,second

circle   of   a   stitch

on road(t)/rip(t)

ricknamed       “what/what?”~~~~~~à

every;;

prod of gray thumbp(rint)ick

or appeal~~~~à~~~~~~à

dust in one’s grieving

cha cha grrrrrupt

&                                                         explode into erupt

& then(n)

NON-EX–IS(?)-TENCE!!.

 

Off-White Autumn

Iscariot sparrow  =

wildamounts of melted waxwings   |

lunged through aisles of orch(id)ards  ,,

cr(u)ashed crisp

into fold of dishevel,..;

     .            ;         .         ,

&/or

litmus test————à

mucus penetrated, perturbed—à

……….de–flated……….

 

a human in wolf’s clothing

@ aisle #8

instead of cloud #9  ,,

#9 #9 #9 #9 #9 #9 #9 #9 #9… ((et-cet-era))  ;;.

 

Protocol(d)

Re(re)c(h)ord the grapefruit juice

in its midair tan(TrulyTantamount)trum ;;à invi(nc)sible

 

Hear ye! Hea(he speak so wrongly)r ye! Hea(d spun so crookedly)r ye!

 

Parliamentary      P-r-o-c-l-a-m-a-t-I-o-n-s     State     a (@)

means to an end

of Humanity

is officially

with(in)ered visibility;.;.

 

Primarily Draining

Crushed crimson;

flowers drink

from the sky

until their heads turn to dust;

a blood-red powder

rides the tail of the wind;

infecting; this is not blood;

blood of years; of yore;

of crisp age; taken on

more pallid and dry formations

shaped as crooked-looking wizened wizards;

 

remember it! ;

it wafts through post-postindustrial air;

as; you; read these very; words;

 

Spark

Longface; Harvard bomb;

not hungry; saddletoes; pick

your shape; scrape the sky;

atomic Yale; infectious mediocrity;

joker card; bent secret; missiles

take out menstruating teenagers;

this is thus—the thusness is this;

slow diver; flawless dream; copacetic

cotton candy; blink; blunk; bloonk; faded paint

gets a second coat; wolverines

and snapdragons giggle; chaos

rises and erupts; babies strung out

on Gerber; the Earth rolls out of its cage;

 

All Eyes Elsewhere

Your many mopey ideas

at least I failed every time you asked

at least we still have eyesockets where our eyes used to be;

to go; to fit;     all connected just like a computer’s visceral wires;

veinlike; red/purple strings singing swinging in the wind;

we feel around; but don’t find;           our eyes; that is;

maybe just plywood for no reason;

notthatitwouldmatteranyway;            how in the whorled would we reconnect them?;

how’d; we; implement them in a fashion befitting of usefulness;

re-implant them

to bring forth a lost and gone sensation  that it’s tantamount to BEYOND FUCKED UP

in how we took it for granted; grunted; gradual grudge; grunge

is what; we will eventually find ourselves; neckdeep in;

whatever hazard          there will be   waiting for us;

like all the fairytail books say; an ending is inevitable;

though YOU knew this from the get-go; right?;

of course you did!;— which is funny;— since you don’t

even exist and never have in among these endless existential

that run so Multiversinally amuck!;

 

The Churning Of

Rainy whispers stab through fog;

tumble of seasons; humid; inhuman;

difficulty drawing air;

overflow; noise of rasp;

the destruction of all—

ceaseless; distortion persists;

the burden of unseen things;

unbreathable air thrives—

hangs as if stapled to the sky;

 

slouching hominoids everywhere;

 

Hollyward

These vain I watch

talking through thrust jewel;

they lay on their personal island;

secret tropical privacy; flashing;

the mental patients—; they want us to know;

“I’m angry that you see me

on the island where I wave”;

lies through thick air; diamond air;

sparkles flick chaotic luminosity among starry daylight;

the hollow and their conformity—

their contest of and for popularity;

you eat the baby salmon eggs on the noon porch

next to the street with all the busy camera shops;

through the years it will of course

collapse and bloom the true monster of You

turned headward toward the light— now your enemy—

Nature’s redemption; hollow cracks undeniable; waves of wrinkles;

pristine tablecloth acned with stains of bright karmic mustard seeds;

 

Downrose

I am a peripatetic [not the bad kind]

in the adjective form of the noun—

that is, I pace while in deep thought;

I’ve burnt trails in my livingroom carpet

during times when the headpressure hits

and all thoughts aflutter;

I’ve been to plains of thought with my own perceptions

no one else has ever been to;

[should I thank my slight epilepsy?];

seen the world; reality just a word

from such a boiled-down standpoint

of strippedback horror and

and how nobody really knows anything

and there is no such thing as real intelligence

that people fake and flaunt every day—

and living in this everpresent Manmade reality

even those who are fact-filled

and those who are philosophy-filled are left wondering;

 

every doctor should take down their degrees

from the walls of their office;

sit back and say;

“Yes, I don’t know”;

 

Those Vegas

Humble air not here

—only the squalid dry

and the monotonous plantlife it breeds;

sucked so deeply dull into boredom

that we wager for amusement;

trading snakes for cherries;

building and building over the years;

bright row after row; See to shining See;

eyes rapidly jumping; scattering here and there;

 

observe the electric colors we have wrought—

 

we dot a wicked luminescence among these meadows;

bright and hollow; steeped in the belly

of our parched moneyfade streets;

sins invented to control the herd;

the seeds of sin afoul the plasticlife;

planted by the drunken rapist preachers who harvested this town;

 

Tin Foil Wings

Time flies on tin foil wings

into the not-so-married face of a mirror fracture;

old lady weepen in the garden big teardrop rain

feeds the flowers, birthing only bugs from the dirt—

 

so many children and not one removed from her womb—

 

the foggy house no one visits;

juice orange swallow lonesome morning

reverberates only echoes and shadows as fiends

are scraped from the walls where they bounce

the rapid cuss through the air;

 

days turned non-tepid—the bitter rush of bonechill comes,

regular as newspaper; the eyes flood

smearing ink—a frail blurry life

never lets a focus peek through;

daisies are dull flowers on the cracked linoleum bathroom floor;

she full well knowing, reflected in many-faceted mirror,

that hope can’t fly far on tin foil wings.

 

Sick; Overly Soft

Foodstove unused; no need—

fastfood reign supremely high;

foodstave infected; calorie and trans;

tired bodies; arms reach for

the apple; its purity;

 

unattainable;

 

the gelatinous generation— laying stagnantly

in the chair; the weight of the world;

even blubberbones searching for health

can find none; no oasis; just chemical greasedrippings;

bodyfails; no movement; soured malnutrition;

human interference; trapped here

in this toxic cage; softerskin;

arms are still reaching

for that apple;

 

unattainable;

 

Languish

Stuck; I’m;

now; nowhere

to move; to

think; the random society

has forced this on me;

 

I feel I’ve nothing left to give;

nothing left to offer of

my own broken

insides; battered;

drained, I’m;

 

also;

fuck you;

I’m standing up;

might even spread wings;

 

Catching Cancer

Their highest love-meeting fool

by fool-their cackling laughs mingle

<with the content><candles blow out>

electric stoves (l)amps and razors go on

~someone lives again~  #s are given

to decipher the dead from the alive

[on a metaphysical level],

all coated [in the glistenings]

of a blood{bath} ripe with tumors

[timorous fruit><tumescent fruit]

festering in dense cancer: fun with the monkey

[take the mind off]

——-keeps wiping snot on your shirt——-

as you catch the sickness

in the palm of your lungs.

 

FUBAR

My God!; my gash!; I’ve

never seen a wound of such syphilitic

magnitude than the one you carry in your mind!;—

a truly poisoned person, not by

 

the toxic flowers and air; instead mangled

so deeply by society, hearsay, propaganda—

the confusion machine perplexing the confounded masses—

 

humans shackled and caged by technocracy’s easy essence;

building their Insane Army founded in delusional states of manic static;

amassing; spreading through infection to infection misinformation—

a play upon emotion and any/all rationale is wiped clearly off

 

for most people; hence this personified cauldron is stirred,

and the disease effects the great populace—

similar to mercury-poisoning, thought-poisoning

swims in phantasmagoric waters; the waves

 

soon breaching the land, dark wakings

and black eyes and minds asleep in permanent limbo;

simple robotic slaves of the talking moving picturescreen—

 

the greatest slave empire Mankind has ever known;

 

Sarin Gas for the Soul

Human flesh and burning ventriloquists

are as human as human and what it is to be alive

among the Oxytocin addicts constantly

popping out more life for the death by natural selection;

 

smug glob and hungry for heroin you bite

into not flesh [not human flesh, at least] of the Mayapple,

and I just let you know that you’ll always be in my hurt;

throat thrush talkinghush and drink

the rubies in the Robitussin, the not-healing flush

of shiny toy landmines or the sowers of lemons,

but of the jar of immortality sitting right next to

the machinegun, and as you fall asleep you wonder,

“are there guns in heaven?” and wake to

a farewell, the cleft, the cliff—    two diverse

energies flowing at a simultaneous constant;

 

human flesh spouts its patriotism

sprouting patriotism [war’s main catalyst]

not seeing the filth of the future, instead

I yelled let’s make this the Rulemaker’s Reckoning

in which we swim through oceans of teeth

and mansions of whores to pry the dagger

from their cold dead hands; we eat not

of terror pie but of mint julep

in the fiery nights while the rest of the populace

are forever spun by the spin doctors;

not a true thought to be had; mangled mumblings;

their arrogant smashmouthed words; for we

know that life is rain or shine;

 

all’s strangely quiet at the bustling marketplace;

the professional bridgeburners down the road;

rigging explosives so the bridge will tumble inward; downward;

like falling elevators and flaming lemmingdrops;

vile cakes of human flesh; bullets and babies;

big bloodclouds on the horizon;

tomorrow tickets go on sale for the extinction; smackdab

in america, where everything is never enough;

insatiably always reining supreme; the rug never fully wrung dry;

more always wanted; more always gotten; the scent of sound

conjuring umpires and apes to make the call;

thinking forward toward the present;

slouching toward ataxia day by day

as the clocksucker engulfs more time; slowly but surely

we will have our death guaranteed by american suffocation;

nine more years of winter; all the knives and molars in the world;

the entire heath!;— the vast wasteland!;

america run amuck with cakesuckers who waddle the streets

cracking the cement; did they brazen me out in high

school or did they devour me whole?; Truth be told I checked out

of my own volition and devoured them all!; simply by not playing their games

it turns out every last one ended up selling out except me!;

I am actually grateful for these yuppy idiots; I love every one of them;—

just as I love all the child molesters and rapists before them—

those scumbags made me fucking Invincible!!;

I don’t even “think” for now I KNOW that nothing can destroy me

and that I can destroy and overcome ANYTHING!…

I enter states of ecstatic transcendence when I think about how

no one has even begun to see what I’m going to do to this Human Race!;

I am grateful to each Genius whose eye I may have caught only to let them down;—

for now I have a clean slate for what I am Truly going to bring

and the gifts I have Truly been sent here to offer the world;

for I am the Ubermensch gone terribly misunderstood—

now, I will be able to show you a purer form of me—of Human—of Genius—

that sparkle that caught your eye but was never fully investigated;

my only mistake was in trying to be understood; after all that Plato and Emerson

said about that you’d think I’d have known!;— no more worries now;

no holding back; nothing but my purest Truth to share;

 

biting deeper into human flesh and thought;

incessantly incessant; pantomimes of pensiveness;

the reality of Postmodern Bleeding; humans are always bleeding—

we go suiciding as the suicidish tourguide shows us

the Kill-Yourself Collection deep into the overtone of night;

the scent of silence; of nothingness; black

as a hole; not even stoneflowers bloom in this kingdom of endless eclipse;

sickly jet-setters of the white trash are the ones out scalping tickets

to the extinction just hours, maybe minutes,

before our self-inflicted meteor hits;

feeds us our suicidal dose of starvation;

poisoning ourselves every day; what else can be done

when the Annual Apathy Awards become a daily occurrence?;

ghostshadows acned with acid scars scalp tickets to the extinction—;

 

ravenous masses wave huge handfuls of money in a panicked frenzy;

[an earlier version of this poem first appeared in To Burn in Torturous Algorithms]

 

A Zillion Miles Sublime 

Let there be light

so we can howl at the sun!

 

Let there be warm tendrilesque days

upon which to kiss the flowerpetals

 

strewn across the street

and yards like softpink snow!

 

Let there be bloodflowing and rejuvenation

and a rush of euphoria through the veins!

 

Let there be moons so bright

they cast shadows on midnight’s grass!

 

Let there be wine-soaked life blooming

and yelling belligerence into the fullyalive last bit of pure Earthly air!

originally published as a Poems-for-All book

 

Im

Parasitic world;

hands of wombhoused preborn eat;

drink through the nuzzletube

the vicious fluids that nourish the fire;

so discordant yet discreet;

the heartbeating in repetition;

muffled; veinhead hears through the plasma;

steals the blood; will soon suck the milk—

yet ancient evolutionary birdbrain instinct rouses a tell of connection;

a soppy bellyhoused sponge;

the outgrowth in the bush—

mere and unsevered; stalwart existence;

head throbs;

eat, very eat; every angle a violent angle;

wolverine nights, wolverine days, wolverine skies—

yet still the flickering and taming—

[evolving beyond?; suppression of nature?;];

unborn ravenous glare; alienglare;

the slicing of tubes; inner makeshift plunder;

dehumanize the species; every angel a violent angel;

occupier of the wombhouse

ready to enter the violent circus of existence;

physical!; physical!; physical!; bite off the heads!;

plunder!; rob!; deplete!—

ready to rage and survive;

no longer a bodily parasite;

the Earth is the new victim;

a new wombhouse to so carelessly raze!;

 

[first ever “Spiralist” poem ever written back in 1997 when poet was seventeen years old: “I don’t know WHY but poem made me feel differently when I reread it—it reminded me of an Aura before a seizure—random bits and pieces of facts and emotion, all stringing together—although, I admit, there is WAY too much of a theme to this one” —HB]

 

Deliveries (Random Short Poems Written on Tip Recorder in 1998 or 99 while Delivering Pizzas for the Summer)

Delivery #1

Valley Acres Drive—

It was an Indian Summer

/felt like May again

/I latched the creaking gate

and stepped onto the street

near my Grandmother’s youth.

 

Delivery #2

Sweetgum Court—

Here is the stale cinnamon

for your daughter’s birthday.

 

Delivery #3

Shoehouse Road—

I knew you years ago

as a junkie

/now your voice is smooth

/without the rasp of narcotics

as you pretend to be a Total Stranger.

 

Delivery #4

Lincoln Highway Women’s Health Center—

You are

the thrice mistaken counter

and my name is not Hugh!—

 

I hate train tracks—

 

the Vague is alive.

 

Delivery #5

Marlow Drive—

You sooth

my ears

so soothingly—

your Russian voice

reminds me of Springtime.

 

Delivery #6

North Sherman Street—

I came so far

through clogged rainy streets

all the way to your blurry house—

it’s hard for me to see

past the dollar signs in your eyes.

 

Delivery #7

Bradley Academy for the Arts—

A roomful

of twentyfold applause

and I am

in the arms of the girls.

I will never know

what caused a spontaneous outpouring

of hugs and French [yes, FRENCH!] kissing,

to erupt as I walked in the door

although I’ve heard that “The customer

is always right” and I had the distinct feeling

that whatever this unsupervised roomful of girls

were doing to me, they were most definitely right!

 

You GOTTA love art school girls!!

 

A House Chaotic

Chaotic house;

negativity flowing, disrupting

newly opiate-parched nerves,

hollow heads open and shut

drawers and doors

day and night endlessly

 

up and down steps,

confusion seeping from the drill-hole

in the cranium; electric house,

through high voltage this house courses

electroshock and hyper hands

in a state of permanent fiddle—

 

these bodies that gather

shrouded by wall, have drunk

of this modern electric juice

and the thoughtlessness of noise

is its high hangover—

these are the bumps, the loud bruises,

the certainty and proof of a house chaotic.

 

Hole

I will once again claw

my way out of this hole

I have fallen into,

just as I have many times before.

It’s when those foggy February

eyelids descend, my Spirit seems

to dim a bit. But, as I said,

I will, by means of pushing outward

in a swirling smiley Spiral of mindset,

climb my way back out

and onto the land of the purest

primary colors known to the mind.

 

Hinge Ether Poems

 

Hinge Response to Heller’s Email

                          inspired by Heller Levinson’s Hinge Poetry

Tetra-hydraulic helium teaks homogenized tombstone homebone totem histrionically

correctly upsetly in room vroom dead motion of emoticon emotion

leapless thus far from the materiality of lied languageà

no cucumberian air sockets yet fill the womb

of a plastic garden’s unoriginationà

a therefore refrigeration of forwardable motion is held at bay

the automatonious populace still

not quite ready

to rise and roar

 

The Road to Regretful Road (Hinge Ether)

thinking

to words          sounds

ground down sounds

sound wound unbound round Worldverines

self-reliant Emersonian regret envelops         [gone unlicked]

for waiting so long

to sound          to send

mined words

out into the nounfound newfound land’s cape

of previous decades

seen                 verysimilar verisimilitudeinal             mined words

said by another                                                            and others

who didn’t flounder around

instead                                                             speaking them’s sounds unbound

undrowned by time                             them’s sounds

now abound                mounds and mounds

of other’s sounds

on paper

in book

onscreen

all around

 

hole most twenty years worth of seizure-esque despair

catalyst of stasis          to send mined words

instead swirled

downdrain

headpressure

stare at wall

downdrained of decadal timeframes               lost, found

the screechingclawed silence of inertia

 

More Hinge Ether

How much of

 

Gaia

 

is

 

landscape

 

unveiled Vale

 

big pieces of oxygen

 

postpostpost-Jurassic winds blowing

 

personification of nature

 

since Cosmos is energetic vibration

 

is smelling eternal

 

is heavy with Pineal flow

 

Maya deflation

 

energy crackles up spine

 

bloated lotus blown up

 

Chromosomes wiggle

 

seashells and galaxies

 

all gathered

 

realclosetogether eyes

 

flow with multidimensional flipflap aura

 

Attempted Burroughsesque Cut-Up of a Hinge Module (written 4-25-17 on flight to London)

Bloodbath   omnidracual

Motherwell swells heart well , . ; —it jerks outward

black ‘n’ white seals boulders

unless piss is Rimbaud’s “black air”

errant grief tentacles

under the slippery bloomy roof

tadpole—>    Totalitarianism pole—>

bleached murmur of mirror shimmer grows crimson claws

f      u         n

merge—>   soak—>   seep—>

phantoma’s marry garlicking

whiteness emitting [form of color] black

rubescence grows

forth coils

dancing all over

out with the old

without the nothingness embroidered

I died as a young goat

yet still seeped my seep

my seepage

internal outposts

loop sideways

BLA(N)CK             BLACK

tenebrous cutting off esophaguses  juvenile self destruction protection

hope wish pray for      u-r-g-e’s

nuanced necessary mutation into

n-e-e-d for pressure upon the detonation button

the limpest kind of curiosity

is petty pretty affirmation in-fluence

freedomlessly falling into

o-b-s-e-s-s-i-o-n.

 

Toothless

Don’t snozzle your mask

don’t spangle your smile

don’t childrenly chuckle to yourself

 

birthed to bloom

now lost of blossom

to a muddiness

among a plethora of plumpness

 

rot sprouts ubiquitous sitcom

settles

as if                                         speckled on a blue spreckled sap sucker’s eggs

 

dross imagos   dross talk   dross teeth   dross existence dead  imagos

wire tired—     the guns out already

and of course not one of them            backfires

so very naïve to the abspestose  painting [the work of art — the weak of art]

upon the ceiling poisoning

the air from lobby to roof

 

at every turn of the maze a mirage suddenly springs up—

 

Ceasar knows best

the candyfloss from the candy tree

brings a reader exaggerated focus [say “sugar high!”]

confused imagos—     something tells me the apes will be back

but not immediately—         this poem painful as looking for a haystack

in a mountain of needles.

 

My Hands

My retriever hand burns golden holes

in the sheer sparkliness of Existence itself

when it reaches into other realms.

Not black and empty holes

but bright white holes brimming

with endless possibility, Truth,

the fathomlessness, The Great Spiral,

shining outward, replacing death with birth,

bats with birds—the beautiful ugliness;

of it all pouring out like a sieve

as my other hand pulls open the Tao

for all of creation to see.

 

The 14 of Diamonds

In the density of pitchy night you find yourself

scrubbing off the blood between your fingertips;

you are the riot star giving out riot scars to the people

you killed among the constructive vandalism

and oaken semen as you effortlessly pick a fight

with a man-eating orchid on the moon;

you’ve already killed the Joke-Man

in the Hawaiian Straightjacket; everyone is beseeching you

to screw off your thumb in order to stop this

endless war before they all lose their minds but you won’t;

you’d rather put your lips to the landmine

in the spoiled despair of your life that can only be seen

when the Karmascope peers deep into your skin and closely notices

how your sincere devotion to violence is caused mainly

by your broken suicide machine; stuck in this insidious

post-postindustrial world of rivers full of babyheads adorned with bullet holes;

you scream the infection straight down their throats

as you throw your intimidation around like a green elephant

wearing a top hat while walking upon a beachball

just as the banana split poker game is always split

right down the middle; an icicle prison cell is quite easily escapable;

what is most scary in life among these maniacs

is when the cancer won’t cancel and your shadow begins to detach

from your body; twigbones; itchy horses ask which way

to the broken sky and all you have to do is tell them to look

at the asteroid on the horizon burning down pipelines

and melting diamonds into liquified bathwater

as the eyes of the cello begin to speak of oceans ripe with shale

and toxified mush that was once water; a xylophone of so many fishbones;

 

Account of a Necessary Sonic Mutation

inspired by a short passage in Emerson’s Journals and Letters

Man’s central experiment is a tune—

attended to by other ears

in whole or Van Gogh-style—

either way, this is important—

complaint stretched over the central man

struck by sand and glass—a night owl with pneumonia—

attuned to my asymmetry—

this evolution will sing

as it Spirals asymmetrical discordance—

that thrown and crystallized will sing screeching sonics!—

and my animal will be born

to feast upon the earworthy pangs

still reverberating throughout the rooms of the world.

 

Cut Your Everything

[Cut-up of Minutes to Go done while on phone with Rob Schofield while he was drunk off his ass on bourbon—most words are Cut-Ups of Schofield’s drunken ramblings—only a few Burroughs cut ups ended up making it in]

Agent RE ACTIVE RE ACTIVE AGENT on farm turf

shift hatch of C had that anticipation/ participation of the dog/

police synthesized outside window sudden engagement/

there’s nothing paperwise on me though they knew 3 of people there had warrants

chok seven oclock on a Sunday morning drunk monkey on bourbon

no house without warrant    ///      after that point

I started pulling records on everybody

for all Louvre couldn’t do shit tied to Spain against me some saint’s razor

cha stance raise but they knew I had shit a decade of frozen soup

I had to go though I didn’t want to

So I grabbed my dog and left

but i LOVED THAT FUCKIN FARM!!

RE ACTIVE               FUCKIN”””””” SHERIFF!!/!! Mankind meet this Human!!/!!

I don’t like to give up ANYFUCKINGTHING!!/!! cripple badge

in this /case/ other than Mr. Shannon the Razor Jerk

though I didn’t even know half of the last names!! ß

THERE WAS A RAT IN THE HENHOUSE!!!!!

Election (appearing with the RAT a little bird did as well and told me of a rat—

said they were RESIDENTS!!

active agents in the house detour road and head—raise eyebrow!!//àà

the police knew EXACTLY who they were looking for

lived there, not rather in Africa, carrying out assignment—

it just didn’t make sense/ te see/ ripe toma- toes/ to me

then it did—

WAITING… A HAND POINTING… THE ROAD [made sense, make sense?]

I love my dog more than the farm though

so I HAD to go/xrays c surgery section/no release renewal

all sound eyes cultures essential

I was [in slick streets of cry] gone.

 

Muck

Snip snap

shot of spit

spitshop

angelican spitsoup

snotten spirit

and the foul

rush of cold wind

tearing at the mind.

all new poetry in pliant verse ©2019

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asemica: virtual art exhibit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Conglomeration of Spiralism, Hinge Ether and Asemic Art: Statement os Poetics [Aesthetics]

I like to hurt words. I like to twist, contort and bend them this way and that way. I like to cause them to mutate.

I like to make them writhe and transmogrify into something new. I like to wring Truth from out a collection of obscure words. I like to, as John Yamrus said, risk falling flat on my face in order to occasionally hit poetic pay dirt.

Most editors don’t like it when poets push the envelope of possibility. This is due to the fact that most people don’t have the faintest idea of what True poetry is, least of all professors. Even on the rare occasion a professor understands what True poetry is, the last thing they would do is admit it. They need to keep it caged since their job depends on it. Poetry is pure artistic freedom–something the Status Quo of the literary world will NEVER admit because the “establishment” needs poetry to be something that can be labeled and something you can “out your finger on” and say “this is what a poem supposed to be” when nothing could be further from the Truth.

This collection contains some of my Spiralist poems (a type of writing I began developing as early as age 17) along with a few poems I have termed “Hinge Ether” and which are heavily influenced by Heller Levinson’s Hinge Theory along with some of my Asemic art.

My approach to poetry is to “make it new.” To take the preconceived notion of what a poem is “supposed to be” and bash it to pieces–though not useless pieces. Pieces and fragments of what can be discovered and looked upon in a completely new and different way. Pieces, no matter how mangled, that a bit of Truth can be gleaned from glancing at it in its newfangled state. At the bottom of my experiments with words is a desire to nudge humanity, in whatever way I can, a bit further toward sanity since it is currently faced in the totally wrong direction.

Heath Brougher’s Books — Amazon

Heath’s Facebook page

The Ethnospheres Duality Facebook Page

Vagabond Ink — Interview on Spiralism with Heath Brougher

> > >

biographical note:

Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. He has published nine collections of poetry, the most recent of which are The Ethnosphere’s Duality (Cyberwit, 2018), Tangential Dithyrambs (Concrete Mist Press, 2019) and Change Your Mind (Alien Buddha Press, 2019). He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee as well as winner of the 2018 Poet of the Year Award from Taj Mahal Review.