Micro-fiction, Poetry
published by Retort Magazine, on May 12th, 2012
Into ‘the thoughts’ we project bias at all moments, while we forge our word-trances, electric in a dense world of colored noise. Metaphors are for phoring, and jousting at semantics at full charge. Sustaining vision after the original shot of noticing ‘new spectacle’ and ‘new fodder’, is the key. It’s in the sustaining of vision (and) in the follow through. It’s in the ‘holding it’ just long enough so as to corral the flowing gaze at thoughts and give them agrammatical justice. Whereas the past and future are of equal magnitude, the self at present sits at the very focal point of the conundrum. Complexity infinitum passes through the self at volumes and speeds that cannot be registered or ‘dealt with’ satisfactorily. To remain in a strong state of physical sanity (remember the orchids), the humanimal must settle with reaching out into the semantic storm, and plucking at only bits of the puzzle to hold close for observation and further wondering.
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© Dan Hedges
Continue reading Electric in a Dense World by Dan Hedges →
Poetry
published by Retort Magazine, on May 11th, 2012
We won’t come out of this alive
The sole of my life is shedding its skin,
Layer by layer, I watch it peel off.
All penises in the world have shrunk by two inches,
it’s an epidemic- that’s what they said on the radio.
A female monkey on the sidewalk
is suckling a human baby with her flabby breasts.
This shit is good, the baby screams.
Monkeys love this type of appreciation
- or so I’ve been told.
Two large testicles from space fall on New York City.
Everyone dies- it is all over the news.
Attention! The military officer yells.
We are being recruited for the war.
Droplets of urine fall from the immaculate sky,
the earth is slippery and salty.
A red-lipped vulture flaps
her featherless wings above my battalion.
We take shelter under a sperm sack made of leather
and slabs of semen splatter on our heads.
The vulture pecks ferociously, her beak sticks.
It is white glue- a trap.
We crawl through trenches beneath twisted turfs,
our feet cut open by prehistoric stone blades.
Lashed by land storms, we are bent double
carrying bags of human skulls and fresh faeces.
We won’t come out of this alive, I told my comrades.
We won’t come out of this alive.
Continue reading Four Poems by Nahum Welang →
Art, Writers
published by Retort Magazine, on May 6th, 2012
Photography
published by Retort Magazine, on May 4th, 2012
