I Site

By Mike Cannell

Front cover image is the visual poem “trench foot3” from the trench foot series on my blog http://visoundtextpoem.blogspot.com/

Africa in her eyes. She could see the spread of it. The growing danger in her eyes. As she looked into the silver water mirror’s glass (repelling werewolves, or so she thought), she saw eternity in such tiny cups. Flowing, flooding fire. Sahara heat and the chatter of hyenas. The buzzing of the flies reached her ears and made them burn with their cadence. Blood dripped down her neck and into the grassy dip between her collar and her hair. Africa was in her eyes, in her head. She really needed to stop reading that book.

Parataxis Black vinyl slide. Screeching voice defects, bludgeoning sound into echoes. Silliman writes on his head. Turn behind, show beneath. Balls roll and beacons bleach out detail. Slit bake barbeque fork. My poetic formed through lattice leaf brain cells. She keeps missing letters out. A tray mop causes an accident. Peeling the skin away, the surgeon begins the operation. A cheetah eats a banana. The sunglasses reflected the rainbow. Tears reap better results. ? mark and the. Fall through for the.


I could not believe my eyes. My ears must have been tricking me too. There was a giant “y” standing on the road, branding the landscape with a question that screamed almost to the point of interrogation. It was all straight lines. Rodchenko would have been proud. It questioned the very hills and trees it overshadowed, marking out territory. A y for all seasons you might say.

Untitled no. 2 Guns and bombs spatter the walls.

The sound poet

He sweats glass beads. They run down his cheeks like pearls from a broken necklace. His teeth are laced with diamonds and glitter on a tongue made of tarmac. His eyes are like disco balls, shining refracted light around the room. He shouts and whispers, stutters and bawls. Sound batters the walls. Sound rips our ears open. He jumps and pogos, flapping his lips and letting out a staccato rattle of r’s and l’s, e’s a b’s. Cheeks vibrate with noise and flesh turns red as the effort dyes them as red as a communist’s sock-draw. The quick-draw chorus sweeps through the space and drowns us in aural language.

Untitled no. 3 Feet tread on a road made of broke absinthe bottles.

Friction tong Texture breeds text. It creates friction in the eye. Frottage for the language centres. While listening to Howlin’ wolf, I hallucinate a line of wooden planks with spinning tops. Max Ernst is sitting supplicated on each (wearing bird masks so that we know it’s him), rubbing the wood with the point of the tops. Frottage sings anarchist love songs in surrealist verse. I bleed onto the text to give it some gravitas and the go to bed to dram about pocket watches with ladies legs.

One last poem

One last poem before the ideas run out. Out last poem before the ideas run one. Run last poem before the ideas one. Before last one ideas poem the.

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