Olchar Lindsann

“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.

                     @ Coeurt
“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
            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

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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