In my first blog entry I published a sample of writing that was to be part of a book length poem, a forthcoming Winterling Press publication. This publication is still coming. I have not, until very recently, continued to work on these sequences. I guess this is due to the fact I have been extremely busy, having little time to work on any writing (unrelated to university) and when I have been doing writing unrelated to university I have been preoccupied with other projects.
I have made some progress - established a working title, Anathema, and not deflagrations or associations with length and completed the first three sequences for the publication which I have posted below. (However I think this will be subject to future alteration and change, and to what extent I cannot say at this stage - so if you find what I write in the chapbook radically different to what I have posted here you will know why).
Anathema, and not deflagrations or associations with length
1.
The influence of eaves, and from, movements of – and sounded in my bedroom. Alight and this kind of becoming, uttering like word, between swollen seeds from grasses that numb your lashes – though not, we.
At the bowl’s lip.
I write, “Welcome home”, this, contained to and looking up from low pictures, are seen in light, a light, in front.
From the side. You – and it is cardboard, and down from, stretched.
Pacing kitted bone and on the boardeon, lying flat on your stomach and on your back.
We stayed in there for some time and no one wanted to come in, too, though this could never be inisolable, like bending a leaf.
Extending far beyond the captions to not a picture, so connected at once suspended and moving, like the clutter of day, around.
It could be pointed out anywhere, a row of sounds, like scales.
2.
Bodies and not parts or them, is lifted and not to be a face. More simply oblique enabling such, we drift through the front.
Wrist on window tactility, I write, “On your lip”, although constructions do not produce. Something spoken of, semi-solidity nothing meant glass or flesh.
Unveiled by the movement of fluids, water is where you collected various fluids. The place, but water is not the substance.
This is unveiled by water.
It is where you collected various fluids.
You found a deepening, an assimilated inurement.
Boned skies, a weighted throat.
Cephalic programming becomes the task of weighing up and relating the difference between what is imagined as seeing, and what is said to be seen.
Salts on paper edge along watery, the place, but water is not the substance.
This is unveiled, is where you collected various fluids, now opening.
Scoring membrane is invasion. In real-time, but water is not cut over, you should, closer up. And come back – so that down at the sides, come away from.
Without the flexing side, come away from the side.
3.
Not everything seen, where every sky is produced singly, and thought.
Could, and no cutting, not a passage through.
Without warning, it is gone. Withheld to the base of the spine, there are some spaces that enclose borders.
Losing stability, this interpretation extends away from the sound, come away from the side. I saw staying flatness, spilt out on the floor.
A voice’s resin, columnar. Traveling toward,
toward the miser trading materials ( ) for another’s thought. Boned skies, where every sky is produced singly, and they thought they could, turnings, not excitable or turning into, not of a floating. I write, “Play a game with me”, though I fail to see it is where you collected the meanings of glass or flesh.
1.
The influence of eaves, and from, movements of – and sounded in my bedroom. Alight and this kind of becoming, uttering like word, between swollen seeds from grasses that numb your lashes – though not, we.
At the bowl’s lip.
I write, “Welcome home”, this, contained to and looking up from low pictures, are seen in light, a light, in front.
From the side. You – and it is cardboard, and down from, stretched.
Pacing kitted bone and on the boardeon, lying flat on your stomach and on your back.
We stayed in there for some time and no one wanted to come in, too, though this could never be inisolable, like bending a leaf.
Extending far beyond the captions to not a picture, so connected at once suspended and moving, like the clutter of day, around.
It could be pointed out anywhere, a row of sounds, like scales.
2.
Bodies and not parts or them, is lifted and not to be a face. More simply oblique enabling such, we drift through the front.
Wrist on window tactility, I write, “On your lip”, although constructions do not produce. Something spoken of, semi-solidity nothing meant glass or flesh.
Unveiled by the movement of fluids, water is where you collected various fluids. The place, but water is not the substance.
This is unveiled by water.
It is where you collected various fluids.
You found a deepening, an assimilated inurement.
Boned skies, a weighted throat.
Cephalic programming becomes the task of weighing up and relating the difference between what is imagined as seeing, and what is said to be seen.
Salts on paper edge along watery, the place, but water is not the substance.
This is unveiled, is where you collected various fluids, now opening.
Scoring membrane is invasion. In real-time, but water is not cut over, you should, closer up. And come back – so that down at the sides, come away from.
Without the flexing side, come away from the side.
3.
Not everything seen, where every sky is produced singly, and thought.
Could, and no cutting, not a passage through.
Without warning, it is gone. Withheld to the base of the spine, there are some spaces that enclose borders.
Losing stability, this interpretation extends away from the sound, come away from the side. I saw staying flatness, spilt out on the floor.
A voice’s resin, columnar. Traveling toward,
toward the miser trading materials ( ) for another’s thought. Boned skies, where every sky is produced singly, and they thought they could, turnings, not excitable or turning into, not of a floating. I write, “Play a game with me”, though I fail to see it is where you collected the meanings of glass or flesh.
Plans for Winterling Press
I am concurrently working on my first two Winterling Press chapbook series - each series will be made up of three chapbooks. Eventually (yes eventually, press activity is not an easy solo gig when you are attempting to do all the writing and publishing - and yes, eventually I hope to expand and get other writers on board), I hope to make these chapbooks available (for trade with other artwork, chapbooks, writing & or interesting collected/found materials or alternatively for a very small cost, but hope to make the exchanges mostly trade based). I will give more detail of this soon. X
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