DU WARST mein Tod you were my death i don't know the one that can delete my pain na hi prapasyami mama ‘panudyadyac chokam ucchosanam indriyanam… Viene da piangere, ma non posso i'ld like to cry but i cannot ---------------------------------------- paul celanbaghavad gitamarco ferrante
strange stars plucked the bones of her piano dying the same dream night after night if love might could be taught to be cellphone refugees’ genuflecting lips throw long o’s of sweeter life preservers lies to each glance foretold by eyelash tips mounts of sweat that creak of compromise forgetful togetherness crayoned on chest blacklisted alibis swallow to drain to fertilize hazel-eyed assassins disguised as buoys bobbing on a feather-filled lake in fishnets tread tongues along bottom learning disturbed a pixilated fantasy of horizon bloods up swells each shell confesses when crunched underfoot of delusions of grandeur fake a chain unscrew moon where pretend is promise it’s best not to get
Twelve long years, with the length
of all that time squeezed into a
universe that hovers between us,
as I knock back a third Jack and
Coke and you stir your Jameson,
as our eyes meet and I re-read in
my head what I wrote in a journal
twelve years ago: "two-faced,
mannish, and frigid." That's our
universe: words scrawled in the
heat of undecided passion, which
resolved in the submissive caresses
of another. Yet they hover there,
still undecided because I bet you
kept a journal too, and a good
one, and if you didn't well then
our universe isn't much, I don't give
a shit about the coyness that
can't be squeezed without stress,
and I'll find another mistress.
"The words are cutting deep inside my brain." --Budgie
The newest issue of Calliope Nerve is now available and featuring an interview with small press maverick Jason Behrends of What to Wear During An Orange Alert as well as works from an impressive line up of writers including J.D. Nelson, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Jim Benz, David McLean, Ariel Lee, Christian Ward, Felino Soriano, Puma Perl, Sergio Ortiz, and John Grey. Our thanks goes out to the contributors for this issue.
Due to recent finances, we are only offering free printed copies to contributors, if you are a contributor and would like a copy, please contact us. Otherwise printed copies are available for three dollars by check, money order, concealed cash, or for $3.30 per issue via pay pal. Email nobius (AT) gmail.com for details. Digital copies are always free of charge.
We'd like to kick off the site with Thirty Days of Calliope. In other words, thirty or more original pieces to be published over a month's time. And we have several major projects in the works that will run under the Calliope Nerve banner.
If you enjoy this issue, spread the word. Also we are always up for flyer/advertising/link trades and the likes.
Have a great week. Keep the faith, keeep poetry. God is ink.
Kindgston Is The Need To Bust Down The Doors And Eat Munich
1976 someone galvanic, the water problem is in millions of miles (reclaim the light: the one parable taught by the acid squelch: bald away their tiptoeing in puddles of schoolgirl)
+++to begin and end as tranced feet, everything piled rainbows, aeolian the paragraph I claim no vast lying there in a special x-ray, like apes and longer+++Music's zero. Cigarette smokes The shriek out of Christ and MAGNITUDE+++
Over neptune what isn't Jungle. My soul. The entangled GUN is not so red Your Heart Floats silly things. Method first as Oxygen City in walls of pink And drone. Its own phantom designed by galaxies of blonde hair. The first Truly Tribal Genitals Quiver, climbing the socket's was...
O150: an exercise in pure mentality-->Andromeda the ecstasy of 0150
(((...that speared you+rites by language...(((paradigm fur, where your carbon is, the fact absorbing your ribs...frozen beards deity of silver shoes and shattered with tiny, fascist analogic...melodies in glass/the desert is attached...there are months dissolved, but yes, my love...rhizomia 1922)))
Raining Schizophrenia, Towers of No More And Trilogy
We Are Jewelled Semen Logic
Don't 10th Our Fur...
Cursed and a sky, progress marched asleep. But convex, like every jolt of sin. A million eyes from Mars, transfigured howls with the possibility to incognito, therefore the difficult hours measure and clad wetness in memory.
Veins mirror your money, a fresh tongue or two away from genuine soul power. Thoughts instant the sunny cinema, where what is new lips and tresses icy waves of lazy afternoons spent giga-bitten. The Sphinx of complexity means only the interior monocle can be your father.
Time is intended, the bone conjured by winter's mingling of cracked nights and weeping tufts of Parisian hair, the arrogant music stored in one face. There, warbling gold as tomorrow, the nucleus is no longer warm.