JUXTA/ELECTRONIC 22
Editors:  Jim Leftwich, Ken Harris
Contributors:   Gary David, Amy Trussell, CC Sykes, Tim Gaze, Michel Delville

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CC SYKES

FLOAT ON ALWAYS

I thrust fisticuffs of bought awkward secondly
to letting for travel on carpet
of poetry feathers would have set herself to
out the wishing upon fingertips

The hardware is fixed to yellow leaves as that barstool
until a floor stories up a diaper wandering the translucent thing
it closes a scarlet souvenir by mulberries in room
not interesting actually tubercular socketed
or straightway waterfalling a disappearing quince
yet missing tragic and covered
protruding it choppy tomorrow

My evening fuses hands I am the standing zenith
the spider wisecracks years ago
out of the woman a firefly glitterly did not hold
You presses the remote point by the mammoths
carrying a hymn by went the hangman
to a suddenbreath

Illustrated on the twin succory of verse
it remember simplifies to the flapping bone
zigzags are blooming like egg yokes in heat
before we give of our climax the shadow

STREAM A MILLENNIUM

sand is followed out
the flesh tastes crumpling
and the geese come

the moths are collocate
there's no mood to be astonished
See

the means have steamed dreaming
the stairs whimper
a racket is extinguishing

of petals scaring away the patients
a walnut shell singing
crunched gets like bone

SHE

paper has just grownover
and in the brain
has crushed a vulture
construction uplifted
the fork
an entire knob
a dawn of perfection
against the right profile

COSMONAUT

the summit always called upon
the forest that vacates
after the sounding of ages
the bird is sniffling
the papers passing under
the air is presenter
over the muck
cosmology bosoms
a word for candle millions
breathful
a ghost of stone
a formal sunglasses
the rugs but poets wash

THE SILK STAIRS (POMO VERSION)

But if she spread me
one is mottled
into fence and field or-
dinarily indelible
on ice stumbling for
extends this wave
then the plastic crania

Without asides I flush
busted pens within
found in run us
throwing hairpin pages
the crystals grade
down us poled
a clogged gypsies cargo

The modernist would stop
there and there the
romantic would go on
not all unlike
I am here but I just want
to if this doesn't mean

Life is so or not so good
so far then O so what

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AMY TRUSSELL

CARBON

Sleeping in a mat of byssus
anchored to the seabed
you are turning it over and over
mass congealed in a pen shell

Low terrestrial orchids
bear their spikes and the mollusk
you thought innocuous
expels a cloud of ink

Ramose veined sky
and phosphor waves
rush up against the thighs
you swallow hard water

When the langrage hits
you're left with no rigging
dehydrated near the Triangle
holding only a contour map

The song of the labellum
circles off strange insects
who collect culled extracts & pollen
which they tuck into their pouches

In a lean-to sits the hermit
poring over the deck
he issues gentle counsel
from an open-faced spread

Wash desert sand
in four changes of water
wrap black roses in tissue
fill the cut calyx too

Or seal the stems in wax
place them in a wooden box
submerge all in a stream
until the crumbling of winter

Looking through the vapor
into bent water you press
down the chest repeatedly
exhaling from carbon hands

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GARY DAVID

Dead Letter To My Daughter In the Living Room
Who Dives Into Snow White Disney

Soul site empty
this cartoon cactus cartography
monsooner than ever afternoon
amid mid-life lives haplessly
clogging Kali Yuga, cloistered
in a blue water closet I long
to be (transanimated) beyond
longing for the pure lotus
here on the air. So far on the lam
our karmas' Christmas pie so far
                                                      apart yet
I remember the same
emptiness (not Ananda)
in black & white. O
my Leo princess, don't you see
the sterno inferno way
I devoured devoutly late
50s milk & oreo cookies
to de-void Durga Ma Earthling hours
which toyed, bored, with me

the same? Don't kid yourself, ZADDik.
Making hi ho poet scat on fantasia's throne
makes no man or Mickey king
of his bones. Amnesia's rerun channels
your nutcracker prince to come to
Maya, Agnizona-- our maggot kingdom.
A random cancer claw chisels  
heavy water beads from the heart
of the Eighth Ocean. Via my lotus
topknot chakra milliopted petals see
B.S. on a peacock's tail quivering
metastasis sitcom existence to wail
on an alpha better sea:

           So long alone adieu
           living rooms & dying live
           together in our garish interior
           decorator skulls on Bald Mt.
           Avid Ave diva David
           you say of evil Eva. Surnames'
           montage flames today co-dependent 
           on Maria-- her aria "mirage
           in a mirage in a mirage" you ascendant
           say & see a sawed innocence
           (in a sense) obliquely
           unbleakly Blakean play &
           singsong sun log to water
           flower, beast & bee
           Africanized for the birds'
           AIDS or downsized out
           of the picture we
           flicker & snuff.

                   We've had steeple enough
                   o' bad grave nimble Jack--
                   doncha think, my wee pink
                   rosebud?
                                   Your lotus mud,

                                                Dad.

                                                         * * *

LAST RESORT IN PARADISE VALLEY

Past gilt & pastel hotel rooms' guiltless 
ennui, commerce chamber mags slick polyester 
pages with haute cuisine or investor art.  
Every Byzantine business detail designed 
with a soporific motif in mind.
Pool tables by the pool. Ping pong 
under floodlit royal palms. Chlorinate mirages 
on the Hohokam desert expressway echo 
ocher ghosts which waive lanes & weave
cotton clouds of your heat wave desire
to swan dive into a turquoise ring
of cool Nothing.  Fountains gush uselessly
beautiful toward a postcard sky.  Posh white zoloft
jets glide above as ebola water striders
evolve --deus ex machina-- from Acapulco
swamps the last wet suet dream

Howard Hughes flew.  Cinematic narcotic glitches 
computer generated hallucinogenics 
on the Bardo Channel. (Bardo Warhol 
is the millennial sleeping pill.) Double zero 
eyes by your touch-tone bedside table browse 
a biblio trinity: modern moly Bible, the Book 
of the Mormon, & that oxymoronic tale 
in teflon prose of a latter day Alger 
protege, whose blank check pate over beefeater fat 
hellcat moxy by jingo mettle forged 
his hotel chain reactionary passion.  Yet

this pseudo-literate divagation will sink 
-drip out of step as Faust.  Get hip!
You're an vacation!  Squeeze the remote &
get rolfed in wall street ooze of anomie.  Know me 
by your warm electron bubble bath news: a hard-core 
wrathful deity-- my long vajra dong shocking 
Shakti's cymbal thighs like monsoon thunder 
coming, coming in haste under a rayon moon 
pink underthings whisper, to love 
your last resort to paradise.

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TIM GAZE

                   "sideways under the rainbow"















                                                                           in
disguise
            and we will crow over the corpse of his lies
swallow a thorny
        spoon tongue
                   upon his tongue
    the noble sinews of our power
   will bend it
        the llamas ran laughing at us at one moment
     and encouraging us at the other
            and we will crow over the corpse of his lies
        your bleeding mouth
   I sterilise
corpuscles
                                                                    in
disguise
            and we will crow over the corpse of his lies
  take one
     pisstake
                              look at my foot
  black hole                       bugger me
little church
                                       his throat answers
  three years old
 ugly face
   get it published
  special edition
                              has a toad got your tongue?
      you can print this
    first acorn
                              caught a big dog
 give to me














                                                                           in
disguise

SHATTER1

, along with Austin radio stationsso hit-andThat's why advertising Children 
(1949desire for presence, my bodyhas to qualities, had dishonoured had 
dishonoured in prison for fault behind thy back before you as 1952 - 
"translated by onto the to rearrange myself and to myself front of a naked
lift 
his Isidore Isou-and-missmyself and to my roof on glue or is gravity had 
dishonoured him, with them until of the Lettrist Davis (Station HillRussell"
on 
the roof Davis (Station cozy ministry, presence, although it paprika from 
doesn't like it, you --people Lydia Davis (kneeled Christian mind, prewar
artof 
wet red throughout the As Targeted 

NOTHING

The winter is cold. The cold winter. It is cold in 
winter. In winter it is terribly cold. It is very cold. 
He goes on a journey. He is on a journey. He travels. We 
travel. We travel in winter. You people travel. We leave. 
It rains. It begins to rain. The white snow melts. It 
thaws. There is no snow. There is nothing. A thick layer 
of snow. The layer is thick. The thick layer. The snow is 
thick. Everything is white. There is nothing to be seen. 
I see nothing.


TIM GAZE / MICHEL DELVILLE

THE RELATION INSIDE

FLESH

The spectator of nine letters of the body first to descend the forms past
the strangers house who the obscene live 
well angular to wish. Their perverse geometry with an advance proposition
well away. A deranged amber cross 
that deranges all who do more and do less. It's a great time to diminish the
tower of salvation. The desire here 
is superclear and difficult to hold. A mirror without reflection chastises.
Not vocally, no look no more. A 
concentrated extract of manly spirit to profit from the nation's sadness.
All who have a soul and unique bowl of 
putrid speech, acidic and nasty-tasting, for your skin's demand for english
fur. The members of this club sleep 
without making good the speed of their thoughts blank or pastel notorious
those who sentimentally reflect 
distances. For peace, this morning, I sadden. A Germanic pact who gets rid
of the novice of habitual vision. 
Don't tear my sadness with the skin too shy.


"La Relation en Soi" written by Michel Delville
carelessly translated by Tim Gaze
carelessly retranslated by Michel Delville
carelessly retranslated by Tim Gaze

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