Sam Langer


we run out on of
amyl you should
leave they know
heaven monotone taxi

if sparks begin to talk
to the big back yard
it's about windows
islamic shop windows

begin to talk
inside the selfish jeans
depict a scene's
amyl hard to remember

altona, open to belgium
a hard brown bottle
sniffed by a masochist
see masochist

there's more than one andrew
his face a pommel
nicknamed shithouse
a reservist withholding meat

don't read meat to jews
it's the same for every
ned kelly
crusader red lungs of anxiety

they know red
hands of it
clinching & monetary
what you are


    croaking among pens
after the letters received
    no good faces on their
pin asses dirty colander
    lazy blues rots in shitspines
cough or wank
    coffin or rubble
personal rats cradle lettered
    food drains


A Traveler Gript Anaconda Purity:
ABAA Rhino Effeteness Toiler Toil
No Chickenfeed Heterogeneity Storm

Archdiocesan Viol Turns Fry A Glut
Hypoprong, ABAA Fettuccine Slosh
Pyx Ebbs A Negligee Hi Monist Sot Tutti

Moth Litmus Timepiece

A Stoops Extremeness Premiering
A Ceca Newsletter Seeps Helixes

A Nylon Linnet Cascaded Floor Vim

A Shy Cad Morphs Unfounded Torsos

Tout A Fishier Unholy Anaconda Ion
Jet Circumcise A Cab Test Veto Poet
De-Nunce A Single-Whirl Tree Trinity

A Cabala Ecocide Unspoken Mutiny
A Nondeductible Yogis Iris Pus
A Macadamia Tricycle Intention Lint

Ascendancies Usherette A Hermit
Sheerer Tort Mink Beseeched A Jetty

31 (4)

to the last ounce of petrified coal
becoming kinder to myself once
blissed out or blanked on the lighter shapes
there are unfrozen reflections
that are records
black strides across them, round
you cut around an ear pain
and into the caravan parks, that means
beside the valley of the liquid ambers
cut short because forgotten to know
& then shut up, he said
there's no “maximum” weber
a snow business behind the mountains
every several
when I get up I work

31 (9)

use this shoulder in heartache
tied & seasoned
no longer counting
research assistant breathing
fluid: Flu Id
toe tall schlass
what were they
funky nations
round the edge of the croupier
seated on a knothole
perhaps his own

breathing deeper into the renewed chicken
yank tongues all over it
a glue of character
section: shoe-buffer
too much light to sleep
fried beef mattress
sliced upon moonlight
sole pillow

Sam Langer was born in Melbourne, in February 1983. He lives in Berlin. He edits Steamer and has published a chapbook, Law You Can Eat, with Munted Beyond Press. A second chapbook, Topaz, should come out in 2014. Recent poems have appeared in Dusie, Southerly and Outcrop (Black Rider/Wakeling & Balius). Contact: samuel underscore langer at yahoo dot com dot au.
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