Olchar Lindsann

                                ORAcLe

                    ~^~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“is mouth, stuffed with belladonna leaves, let it sli”

         –Lautréamont, opening to Canto II of Maldoror

                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<~

laws of venom-flamed

   face and pelt-mottle

make mealy

   by nightshade

venison-fated, sautéed, he does not

   dance deathroes merrily, even when reason

disperses the blasphemic pulses

   veining there on stage,

has incurred an anthroprophetic tongue, proclaims

   thru belladonna-gag: mankind that had

thought itself impervious, by gadget-prayers nestled,

   extinction nuzzles, guiling charms it with absurd philanthropic

tirades; these, like grains of failsafe sift, abraze,

   in breezes toxic breathing throughout his books, books,

whose comedy (when my unholy gob in poison, poison

   in ecstatic logorrhea abandons me) I nearly periodic

consider so droll – though each contagious savage vaudevillian

   anticipated it. Engraving the wrath of icecap impassive

image of lead-taps

   wire-taps documents stored

in libraries tremble a future hiding

   naked as a still new born

worm faced leaf maw

   is no word safe

           Friendly Fumes

      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~#~

“leste à nos claviers humains”
       – Rességuier, “A Lamartine”, 1838

                            ~~~~~

“es parfumes d’amitié!”

       – Lamartine, “Réponse à Rességuier”, 1838

      ~#~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

              enclave steep-delved flettrant

       filtered avec honeytalk

fuming flutterbyes we aim our fetters

       harpsichord in th’ironsnaps

                     ô friend ô

ne’ermind les hummingbird befit-battalions

       icecap nose evaporizes

miséricorde the atomists humaine

                 ô chum ô pal ô

       heaving-scent wh’ere plastic eyes

proboscis monitor dis’tended un-

tuned th’aspect so lightly lest a hammerstring prick

       ô buddy ô copain ô confidante

       bleary here we meerschaum shudder

braced en brass bask under lô the oilslick

       brustling par les lightbeams lest

       the clavier paves our mercy lever

       ô homie ô ami ô my mate

                   Scandal of Spasm

            ~/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    “is breosten scullen æten    athele scopes;

scullen of his bloode    beornes beon drunke.

Of his eyen scullen fleon    furene gleden;

ælc finger an his hond    scarp stelene br”

                        –Layamon, Brut (c.1210)

                              ~~~~~

            “ut, Oh, the helmet! the helmet!”

                        –Horace Walpole, The Castle

                                    of Otranto (1765)

            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\~

aye scullen the helmiron ,darkly fleong en frothant

aye sunk dirt in subterfuge ,cursive ælc in amethyst

nether to the battlement, bolt , i wist , the helmet

wh'ere graive-lisp loam goes slinting 'ere

scarpy through tunnel-hoardes

meekly of magic   ô helmet of tendons –

ô helmet of ink-hasp these wormy   past digits

w'ring reflex of incest cast   volleys scope of caning

the helmet stone helmet w'rack helmet

basking   in the beornes' bubbling –

scullen grist of infiliatration ,vaast a goat

of heredity melted dram helmet   tack bosom

sling of subterranean , hemet lack slaketh

ô meat of the helmet flesh   spasm your slumber.

                       Throes o’f Horsing

                                   –for Mr. Thursday

                      ~~~’~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

o made glove fingers from inflatable bladders.

          –Carlemyll, The Drama on the Rue d’Anglais.

ion; her dainty hand rested on her lover’s knotty club; her p

          –Théophile Gautier, Omphale: A Rococo Tale

                       ~~~’~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

lation-sifting est un knotty glaize tip

rafting, in la table improv f,lamme f,bamako

calendrical fin lasp, horsing este ladder f,lip

quoth lipping flat its love-club:

“tipsy ale mixed a’miss, bl Goudeau!

trans all iberian in Blaze Cinders f cubistro,

train adders ion in throes of misty Cros–

tears ain’t not f,l,ingers, torries lub the beast go!”

and wrested w,h’ere we rue et rub

s ,laps handy lapdog licking beardsleys bladder flue

grunts coco drama hale, passing flat machismo f

hog tab tour hand knot b rutabega clue;

lo, frothful to et liber, tineth fro, silt distro over –

slip shooter lad the rest; re’main,dereds’kin Rops rover?

              For en Sick Missal

       ~~~&~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                     “ft encanto polis leads the

singular entonces reading of the thin”

              – Sheila E. Murphy, A Younger

                     Presence in the House (2005)

       “sts, for their limbs are covered with

long, deep scratches. The same is the case

with the corpse of a white-bearded old m”

              – Victor Hugo, Han of Iceland (1821)

       ~~~&~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

              serum, song of cross-hatch

              isle of leprosy ringing hatrack

              stretched to match the longing fjords

lycanthropic vistas of the city's cream

                     ;volumes of ferment;–

vast ye, thinker, wet with spray of rheostat

fervent pleather where the blood the ferule splays

       nor greeting rasps nor wounds intime nor

gasket really praying to the tomes of rat

                     ;sienna folds of license;–

              winking greet the manic shoehorns

slavering with conjugated woe, the flow

       where dryads dance at long-arm staplers laugh

in doubling over dactyls swoop depuis the shaft

                     ;plastic in the Spladgest;–

       yea o nonce signifiance ,or spend

fat corpi rancid plaster on the slab of lice

       normal chancre proud as shims in print

complacent waxen juniper ,mask of rheumy mist.

                     @ Coeur’t

~>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“ave them to me. I fancy I know them. If I can

on . . . ow, harsh, grating so”

              –Edgar A. Poe, Hop-Frog (1849)

                            ~@~@~@~

“ne. I said EA EH EH. But the dead body w”

              –Blaster Al Ackerman, Hah! (1999)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<~

                                          I left it slapped

upon the placid tarmac monitor

                            lashed and licked by salting

              woundes windes editor

              poignant as a pancake caulk ô

            tangle of cheese cubes & limbs, EH

           :said “club of rose-crush spheroid net

            gristled full of leakage” – yet

            it had a tiny pole of flagging

                        redwhiteblue a phallus

                        famished waving lactoid

            jutting corpsely from the cage of

                                                            ribs

            preening flapjack bonedust pearl

            ô patriot of rapish gavel

            swung-rasp eyeball blarney, hung

flaxen as deforestation drone

I left it there meat vote contagion fork

            EH EH the windswept jackal blinders

thirteenth circuit tentacle incision

mylar as a tooth-clutch EA, IA

            state of canthar magic twigs

            normative as jelly-genocide

:lo the nether shams suck skulljuice

:lo the bigotropic maw absconds

              with imperial fingers

:lo the bloodbag in its shag of ice

              crisping-curdled seethed aflame

                            atop tort rape of kegger

              supreme , supreme     ô patriot

              I left it on the pavement smacked

                                                        & it oozed

                                                                         on

Olchar Lindsann is a co-founder of the Post-NeoAbsurdist network, has published around forty books of poetry, translations, critical theory, and avant-garde history, and has performed sound poetry across the US and UK. He is the editor of mOnocle-Lash Anti-Press and the journals in-Appropriated Press (contemporary avant-garde poetry, theory, and performance documentation) and Rêvenance: Hauntings from Underground Histories (translations and studies in 19th Century progressive counterculture). He recently published the third volume of the ongoing avant-epic poem Arthur Dies on Luna Bisonte Prods. He lives in Roanoke, Virginia where he teaches at a progressive alternative high school and co-organizes the AfterMAF Festival, and maintains several archives dedicated to various aspects of the contemporary and historical avant-garde.
 
 
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