without further ado, D5 Chapbook II

RUELA PINHO

We are not allowed to leave the compound, so class field trips tend to be localized; for instance, this week we visited the bathroom. As each stall offers homage to a different deity, the students were segregated and left to autonomous explorations of the toilet, which is also a well, so with string spun from fine-knotted hair and hooks built from braces each team went sewer fishing while Annabelle and I read letters from the home office written backwards in the mirror. The walls decorated with dyes squeezed from hand soap and urinal blocks and flags flown from toilet paper, soon enough each stall became its own nation, and the flourishing of under-divider com-merce taught truer lessons than any of the gibberish textbooks the temporary government sends us in dump trucks every other Monday. I felt a sense of purpose swelling as the miniature cretins learned to haggle and barter, and I told Annabelle we should never return to the learning center, we should spend the remainder of the semester in our bathroom classroom, but she was pleasur-ing herself with the hand dryer and paid me no mind. DB.

MURMURISTS

how do you wash your hands before Genocide?in a sense. the same way you wash them before god.in the rain. as you ride the wings of insanity. as you fold the wings of insanity. are you not as religious?painting dreams. is your song not as filled with hopedespair and the grasping of general confusion. asyou confront the future. this is what i hear. but to find only part one of a song. but in a songthat is everything.

likebirthing lightin astring of water. JASE

LAZARE

..a hologram aching with adoration and a vague hope of recovering fifteen billion sweaty ballads from the colour of opium. one could blast off into theoretical nights, or freely choose to squander the new Eve on remixed whorls of metaphor. the scarab's initial relation to superior fingers, it was all a harbinger of the sweet, unresolved fifth that augmented gravity, the codes revealed by your bare shoulder minus the lattice of smiling numbers. I ran through the flickering conspiracy, baritone impulses splashing at my exposed knees and thighs. the logic of evisceration drank prophecies from the fluourescent green foliage, a satellite was given enough answers to question. on the cusp of a digitized sunrise with blank eyes and a frightening message from the automatic, I mourned what was ironic in you, the equations that drifted without purpose yet were capable of dividing the bluest sky into the syntax of my upturned palms. ROBERT CHRYSLER

I fell down this hole in a spiral of mewling cats.A cacophony of stars, blinking, blind and brilliantThat spun a druid curse of vapour trail cloud.Violence dressed in flowers.My marvels unhinged as one, a desire of kitchen utensils that passed the hair lip stair trip flash and crash of metal objects. Of tin and bronze, chrome and steel. Boxes of charnel ruin that scooped debris on the hoof. The passengers of lost fell upon the glade day as fresh parts in a bad leg hovel.Scattergun and furious they toast the limp horn crust with saliva from a mule. Its television eye switch from frequency patter can to the high minded ethos of advert.For on and on galvanise the frontiers of lose chain that assemble like rich tramps in a poor mans Harrods, that fester full broth and crème fresh, tampon satin snivelling groin lust. Her hard hat wears a thin cord to strangle the cries of the amorous and mad. Insane laughter like the beseech-ing of Grace Poole whose madness silver smith picked the locked sanity of the barman general whilst his foot sore foot soldiers grieved their aching web feet like the scrotum of malachite. A fistful of time floating down a mist of memory while tied to the harbinger of puddle rack and guilt. CJ DUFFY

CHM

Burp, what else I winked files,jigged joy on bun loops,Pit Toe for bandit.

I door,non juice if I was a horse house,rigor joy was on a nixed nose,

Butterfly hissed bell wind;quote box unisonwas the sun due a big gig?door of keywe were difficult cumour self dusk sat.Old JFK emulationwe role clayware; ear the way. AARON HELD

INCONSEQUENTIAL

UNDRESS BETON

it's just this perpetual whining in the ears, a common drone that appears to exude from that cabi-net in which the head of the last landlord is stored. despite my insatiable cleaning habits, the stain proceeded to seep and discolor the lace hanky that took me years to complete, being woven from the garments of mine enemies that befell sudden deaths. the persnickety stain threatens the pile of furbelow embellished petticoats that i carefully crafted from the skins of discarded chil-dren. (it's hard to convince grieving women to hand over remnants ) but there it is, shining in the sunlight and cradling that pesky box. this sound of ochre afternoons soiled now and that obfus-cating damn noise that will not stop despite my valiant efforts at self treppaning. DORIANDRA

JASE

scarred trunks waver, glottal. soft spoors, dew-starred, unfurl in the still. the stolid barrows fal-low silent. the breathsroilacross the fibrous stalks of fungus-furred moors. that were once of oldgrowthscar left of old; the trunks gasp hardstop. chitinfeet drum soft belts of tracks; the web-vomit up—silk grappling hooks to drawthe hornshells lapse to soil. the cornhusk poppet drools her saccharine sap upon the scars

thunder rushes insubstantial tides againstthe great lead sheet earth sleeps

beneath the stolid barrows fallow silent. the cornhusk scrapes the sap. wolf cubs and old crows circle closed with magnetic amber eyes, drawing the bloodsap back to earth. they accrue, metas-tasize, rippling fur and bloodsquirm

the soil’s peristaltic shudder looses mewls and ululations from starvelings on the prowl. the pop-pet draws her silk across the dully shining scar. the lesions shiver loose and the tree begins to fledge. now the scar begins again to feel the breaths JOHN MOORE WILLIAMS

ELLIOT WISDOM

TIC TAC

Delivered into an heightened state / a mantra repeating / naked trees in mud / opaque sky / skinny limbed / starved / pale / ribs rush under skin / corrugated / broken now / a buttock apron / anus / he lies animated / her blade slides under the skin / makes a cut as though passing through taut plastic / things shiny and wet spill out / I separate from myself and feel that sensation in my head / not quite right / she is naked and daubed / and painted in mud / I imagine a chair for her to sit in / it is wooden / bare / worn and hard / planted in the mud of the field / bad thunk lifts off my head / I lay it in her lap / feel her fur on the back of my neck / looking up at myself sightless // my heightened self collapses in the HMV / I follow a lost opportunity and balk at a chance / slum-bering into ennui / into petite historical routs and a retrieval of instances / puking into an ill-formed beard / carrying a broken bike I’d fucked into the curb / where rats run and her hair is scraped back / powerful and tarnished / conjuring spittle in her mouth / witch baptism / I have name and wash in shiny and wet things / and reattach to something of me / seeing stars twinkle along the membranes of a hollowed torso / echoes / a voice limbers within the container / and from behind / and from her mouth / summons me to lay down within / to curl up / to be sewn into my old form… D.ROOD

UNDRESS BETON

there are dirty stains upon the sheetsand dead flowers on the floor

there is a king upon a godly throneand lions in his den

there are dragonflys with wide wing spansand horses that are lame

there are men and some are equalwhile others just pretend

there is a song that froze upon the lipsof an aged irish maid

but she wrote down all the words for meand they are with me till this day.i haven't seen the marbled stairs

nor ate the fruits of godsbut i am just another man

and fuck all those who say i am notso be wary all you little snots

when you consort with meremember who the hell i am

and curse me silently. CJ DUFFY

INCONSEQUENTIAL

I asked her why she thought it was going to happen again, and she said if something happens once it's a miracle, but if it happens twice it's an everyday occurrence, and since she didn't be-lieve in miracles it *had* to happen again. That's what the Enlightenment gets you. DB

CACHORRO RABUGENTO MORTO EM NOITE CHUVOSA

I AM NOT KEK-W

CARMEN RACOVITZA

Imagine starting a car. ok, nowturning on the windshield wipers: Two serpentswilding| You drive out + absorb the city; You are facelessnameless: The perfect criminal: The enemy. A doctor. Handssnatching at your thoughts. Sirens; Solid steel rope being draggedon the pavement - more agile: Frequencies...Microwave, radio,mobile create an umbrella of prophecy:) A black boyruns into the middle of the road, barley avoidingNooses and stands over his dead mother: It's her fault,you are embarressed. Now your mind is empty. Mercuryrain. The supermarket rots:) The neon light [is] swollen,Everywhere clairvoyance: The [black] boy is whispering tohis mother, 'wake up'. Cars are crashing into him buthe is not dying) each time they hit him is likejackpot at a slot machine. Silver coins magnetic toher corpse: An inconvienient grave: You get out your carand forget how to walk. Who you are, where you are,what coffee tastes like. You lay there: In the heavenof your amnesia: chased by colours further into yourmind where you don't know what any of them mean;newspapers are shrieking. A woman covers her ears.It is raining mercury + grass is growing around the silver coins,

through the concrete. A guy is checking his watch; startschocking: suddenly you can walk again and theground shakes.*The boy is turning the city into a forest filled with so many dead thingsso many numbers and addresses - inside his mother's heart it is a pantheona dragon is asleep, dirty in both your ears. You are throwing up- no oneeveryone. Everyone knows your name, knows you are on the way to seeyour mother<.> this makes you smile: Chased by a paradigm of 5 minutesago you make your way to the boy and his mother, stronger than ever.You are chasing the city. Naming things: Remembering ciggarettes.One thousand facist arms,Syncronized: ChoreographedMurder) The boy is completlyBlack.And more the texture of glass. You are filled with so much with compassionyou betray your every step - People speak to you, everyone you knownow they are hiding from the rain: confused in the forest, at homein the city. Still in their suits. Your car is dead. You realized youdown have anything that is alive: The boy starts speaking. The cityhas seen enough. You are back on the floor, the time you forgot how towalk. You couldn't make your mind up and rolled onto your front. Yousaw it all. Now you are ready to dance.In your car, you start the engine and drive[out] to where you saw the black boy run [into] the road. Just parkacross the street. He is shy. A lady in a uniform is banging on yourwindow telling you to move your car: It's still raining, she is showingyou a serpent. Sharpening it: Your tooth nearly falls out: You open thedoor for the boy to jump in)) You tell him his mother can:// still makeit: now there are three ladies, one of them chases a boydoing graffitti. One of them is getting ready to hammer a nailinto your window so you drive forward.the sky is a floodand the month isa permenant blue-gray.A bag of coal costs$270.

You start watering a cigarette but in the middle of an argument.nothing happens: It catches fire: A small puddle of fire...A small rose of fire. You take it home JASE

DODO SPIESSERT

JUNIOR

Although the words just just get more truculent above the broken flagstone, the monkey grinders funeral must march on until this life becomes a tilt, a lugubrious slide into the art of seeing noth-ing, doing nothing, injustice ticking away, until someday, you are horribly content.

DORIANDRA

discharge came about after cocaine jesus had visited a site called Vespertyn, the creation of the girl child genius who was once known as transience. together with doriandra smith (another di-vinity), cocaine jesus set about perverting this concept to a dark vision of his and doriandra's creation. the dark angels of discharge were born. after awhile others came (and went). discharge finished and was replaced by discharge 2 and then discharge 3. and the story continues...

This is the second Chapbook, Edited by Doriandra. It has no name, only the contents which shriek loudly enough. Contributors, unwilling or not, include-

Cocaine JesusDoriandraRuela PinhoLazareMurmuristsDB RoodDBJaseRobert ChryslerInconsequentialCHMUndress BetonI Am Not Kek-wTic TacDodo SpiessertJunior Elliot WisdomCarmen RacovitzaCachorro Rabugento Morto Em Noite ChuvosaAaron Held

A solemn nod of the head to all of you listed above and anyone i may have horribly omitted due to space and time restrictions. A dip into the inkwell of lust about what our collective madness will continue to unfold. Yes, indeed.

August 2009 DS

RUELA PINHO