without further ado, D5 Chapbook II

RUELA PINHO We are not allowed to leave the compound, so class field trips tend to be localized; for instance, this week we visited the bathroom. As each stall offers homage to a different deity, the students were segregated and left to autonomous explorations of the toilet, which is also a well, so with string spun from fine-knotted hair and hooks built from braces each team went sewer fishing while Annabelle and I read letters from the home office written backwards in the mirror. The walls decorated with dyes squeezed from hand soap and urinal blocks and flags flown from toilet paper, soon enough each stall became its own nation, and the flourishing of under-divider commerce taught truer lessons than any of the gibberish textbooks the temporary government sends us in dump trucks every other Monday. I felt a sense of purpose swelling as the miniature cretins learned to haggle and barter, and I told Annabelle we should never return to the learning center, we should spend the remainder of the semester in our bathroom classroom, but she was pleasuring herself with the hand dryer and paid me no mind. DB.

MURMURISTS how do you wash your hands before Genocide? in a sense. the same way you wash them before god. in the rain. as you ride the wings of insanity. as you fold the wings of insanity. are you not as religious? painting dreams. is your song not as filled with hope despair and the grasping of general confusion. as you confront the future. this is what i hear. but to find only part one of a song. but in a song that is everything. like birthing light in a string of water.



..a hologram aching with adoration and a vague hope of recovering fifteen billion sweaty ballads from the colour of opium. one could blast off into theoretical nights, or freely choose to squander the new Eve on remixed whorls of metaphor. the scarab's initial relation to superior fingers, it was all a harbinger of the sweet, unresolved fifth that augmented gravity, the codes revealed by your bare shoulder minus the lattice of smiling numbers. I ran through the flickering conspiracy, baritone impulses splashing at my exposed knees and thighs. the logic of evisceration drank prophecies from the fluourescent green foliage, a satellite was given enough answers to question. on the cusp of a digitized sunrise with blank eyes and a frightening message from the automatic, I mourned what was ironic in you, the equations that drifted without purpose yet were capable of dividing the bluest sky into the syntax of my upturned palms. ROBERT CHRYSLER

I fell down this hole in a spiral of mewling cats. A cacophony of stars, blinking, blind and brilliant That spun a druid curse of vapour trail cloud. Violence dressed in flowers. My marvels unhinged as one, a desire of kitchen utensils that passed the hair lip stair trip flash and crash of metal objects. Of tin and bronze, chrome and steel. Boxes of charnel ruin that scooped debris on the hoof. The passengers of lost fell upon the glade day as fresh parts in a bad leg hovel. Scattergun and furious they toast the limp horn crust with saliva from a mule. Its television eye switch from frequency patter can to the high minded ethos of advert. For on and on galvanise the frontiers of lose chain that assemble like rich tramps in a poor mans Harrods, that fester full broth and crème fresh, tampon satin snivelling groin lust. Her hard hat wears a thin cord to strangle the cries of the amorous and mad. Insane laughter like the beseeching of Grace Poole whose madness silver smith picked the locked sanity of the barman general whilst his foot sore foot soldiers grieved their aching web feet like the scrotum of malachite. A fistful of time floating down a mist of memory while tied to the harbinger of puddle rack and guilt. CJ DUFFY

CHM Burp, what else I winked files, jigged joy on bun loops, Pit Toe for bandit. I door, non juice if I was a horse house, rigor joy was on a nixed nose, Butterfly hissed bell wind; quote box unison was the sun due a big gig? door of key we were difficult cum our self dusk sat. Old JFK emulation we role clayware; ear the way.




it's just this perpetual whining in the ears, a common drone that appears to exude from that cabinet in which the head of the last landlord is stored. despite my insatiable cleaning habits, the stain proceeded to seep and discolor the lace hanky that took me years to complete, being woven from the garments of mine enemies that befell sudden deaths. the persnickety stain threatens the pile of furbelow embellished petticoats that i carefully crafted from the skins of discarded children. (it's hard to convince grieving women to hand over remnants ) but there it is, shining in the sunlight and cradling that pesky box. this sound of ochre afternoons soiled now and that obfuscating damn noise that will not stop despite my valiant efforts at self treppaning. DORIANDRA


scarred trunks waver, glottal. soft spoors, dew-starred, unfurl in the still. the stolid barrows fallow silent. the breaths roil across the fibrous stalks of fungus-furred moors. that were once of old growthscar left of old; the trunks gasp hardstop. chitinfeet drum soft belts of tracks; the webvomit up—silk grappling hooks to draw the hornshells lapse to soil. the cornhusk poppet drools her saccharine sap upon the scars thunder rushes insubstantial tides against the great lead sheet earth sleeps beneath the stolid barrows fallow silent. the cornhusk scrapes the sap. wolf cubs and old crows circle closed with magnetic amber eyes, drawing the bloodsap back to earth. they accrue, metastasize, rippling fur and bloodsquirm the soil’s peristaltic shudder looses mewls and ululations from starvelings on the prowl. the poppet draws her silk across the dully shining scar. the lesions shiver loose and the tree begins to fledge. now the scar begins again to feel the breaths JOHN MOORE WILLIAMS


TIC TAC Delivered into an heightened state / a mantra repeating / naked trees in mud / opaque sky / skinny limbed / starved / pale / ribs rush under skin / corrugated / broken now / a buttock apron / anus / he lies animated / her blade slides under the skin / makes a cut as though passing through taut plastic / things shiny and wet spill out / I separate from myself and feel that sensation in my head / not quite right / she is naked and daubed / and painted in mud / I imagine a chair for her to sit in / it is wooden / bare / worn and hard / planted in the mud of the field / bad thunk lifts off my head / I lay it in her lap / feel her fur on the back of my neck / looking up at myself sightless // my heightened self collapses in the HMV / I follow a lost opportunity and balk at a chance / slumbering into ennui / into petite historical routs and a retrieval of instances / puking into an illformed beard / carrying a broken bike I’d fucked into the curb / where rats run and her hair is scraped back / powerful and tarnished / conjuring spittle in her mouth / witch baptism / I have name and wash in shiny and wet things / and reattach to something of me / seeing stars twinkle along the membranes of a hollowed torso / echoes / a voice limbers within the container / and from behind / and from her mouth / summons me to lay down within / to curl up / to be sewn into my old form… D.ROOD

UNDRESS BETON there are dirty stains upon the sheets and dead flowers on the floor there is a king upon a godly throne and lions in his den there are dragonflys with wide wing spans and horses that are lame there are men and some are equal while others just pretend there is a song that froze upon the lips of an aged irish maid but she wrote down all the words for me and they are with me till this day. i haven't seen the marbled stairs nor ate the fruits of gods but i am just another man and fuck all those who say i am not so be wary all you little snots when you consort with me remember who the hell i am and curse me silently. CJ DUFFY


I asked her why she thought it was going to happen again, and she said if something happens once it's a miracle, but if it happens twice it's an everyday occurrence, and since she didn't believe in miracles it *had* to happen again. That's what the Enlightenment gets you. DB



CARMEN RACOVITZA Imagine starting a car. ok, now turning on the windshield wipers: Two serpents wilding| You drive out + absorb the city; You are faceless nameless: The perfect criminal: The enemy. A doctor. Hands snatching at your thoughts. Sirens; Solid steel rope being dragged on the pavement - more agile: Frequencies...Microwave, radio, mobile create an umbrella of prophecy:) A black boy runs into the middle of the road, barley avoiding Nooses and stands over his dead mother: It's her fault, you are embarressed. Now your mind is empty. Mercury rain. The supermarket rots:) The neon light [is] swollen, Everywhere clairvoyance: The [black] boy is whispering to his mother, 'wake up'. Cars are crashing into him but he is not dying) each time they hit him is like jackpot at a slot machine. Silver coins magnetic to her corpse: An inconvienient grave: You get out your car and forget how to walk. Who you are, where you are, what coffee tastes like. You lay there: In the heaven of your amnesia: chased by colours further into your mind where you don't know what any of them mean; newspapers are shrieking. A woman covers her ears. It is raining mercury + grass is growing around the silver coins,

through the concrete. A guy is checking his watch; starts chocking: suddenly you can walk again and the ground shakes.* The boy is turning the city into a forest filled with so many dead things so many numbers and addresses - inside his mother's heart it is a pantheon a dragon is asleep, dirty in both your ears. You are throwing up- no one everyone. Everyone knows your name, knows you are on the way to see your mother<.> this makes you smile: Chased by a paradigm of 5 minutes ago you make your way to the boy and his mother, stronger than ever. You are chasing the city. Naming things: Remembering ciggarettes. One thousand facist arms, Syncronized: Choreographed Murder) The boy is completly Black. And more the texture of glass. You are filled with so much with compassion you betray your every step - People speak to you, everyone you know now they are hiding from the rain: confused in the forest, at home in the city. Still in their suits. Your car is dead. You realized you down have anything that is alive: The boy starts speaking. The city has seen enough. You are back on the floor, the time you forgot how to walk. You couldn't make your mind up and rolled onto your front. You saw it all. Now you are ready to dance. In your car, you start the engine and drive [out] to where you saw the black boy run [into] the road. Just park across the street. He is shy. A lady in a uniform is banging on your window telling you to move your car: It's still raining, she is showing you a serpent. Sharpening it: Your tooth nearly falls out: You open the door for the boy to jump in)) You tell him his mother can:// still make it: now there are three ladies, one of them chases a boy doing graffitti. One of them is getting ready to hammer a nail into your window so you drive forward. the sky is a flood and the month is a permenant blue-gray. A bag of coal costs $270. You start watering a cigarette but in the middle of an argument. nothing happens: It catches fire: A small puddle of fire... A small rose of fire. You take it home JASE



Although the words just just get more truculent above the broken flagstone, the monkey grinders funeral must march on until this life becomes a tilt, a lugubrious slide into the art of seeing nothing, doing nothing, injustice ticking away, until someday, you are horribly content.


discharge came about after cocaine jesus had visited a site called Vespertyn, the creation of the girl child genius who was once known as transience. together with doriandra smith (another divinity), cocaine jesus set about perverting this concept to a dark vision of his and doriandra's creation. the dark angels of discharge were born. after awhile others came (and went). discharge finished and was replaced by discharge 2 and then discharge 3. and the story continues... This is the second Chapbook, Edited by Doriandra. It has no name, only the contents which shriek loudly enough. Contributors, unwilling or not, includeCocaine Jesus Doriandra Ruela Pinho Lazare Murmurists DB Rood DB Jase Robert Chrysler Inconsequential CHM Undress Beton I Am Not Kek-w Tic Tac Dodo Spiessert Junior Elliot Wisdom Carmen Racovitza Cachorro Rabugento Morto Em Noite Chuvosa Aaron Held A solemn nod of the head to all of you listed above and anyone i may have horribly omitted due to space and time restrictions. A dip into the inkwell of lust about what our collective madness will continue to unfold. Yes, indeed. August 2009 DS