Mark Terrill

  WAITING FOR THE VULGARIANS   The painter paints a poem in black & white. The poet paints a fist full of flowers, a cloud held...
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Francis Poole & Mark Terrill – Part 8

Tweed's junk need was about to totally overwhelm him so he didn’t bother boiling the works. Then a thought flashed into his squirming brain: "I’ll mix the Djinn Oil with the Blue Messiah’s junk."

Francis Poole & Mark Terrill – Part 7

Black magic, extortion, sorcery, blackmail, trickery, seducing rich men and women in order to obtain money or favors were all areas in which Aicha displayed certain talents and natural-born abilities. But cooking and the preparation of food remained incomprehensible mysteries to her.

Francis Poole & Mark Terrill – Part 6

There in the darkness, sitting on the tomb of Sir Reginald Lister, was Paul Bowles, in the form of yet another spiritual entity, puffing on a black and gold cigarette holder from which protruded a Benson & Hedges cigarette in which the tobacco had been replaced by some high-grade kif.

Francis Poole & Mark Terrill – Part 5

Zodelia tipped the basket of potatoes into the sink to start washing and peeling them for the evening dinner. Out of the bottom of the basket there tumbled a slithering knot of huge black centipedes, spilling out of the sink and dropping onto the floor.

Francis Poole & Mark Terrill – Part 4

“So, Aicha,” Burroughs said, sighting along the tiny barrel of the pearl-handled derringer. “I assume you’re familiar with the story of William Tell?”

Francis Poole & Mark Terrill – Part 3

He unwrapped the parcel and Burroughs and Dean and Brunhilde saw the papier-mâché replicas of Dean’s two-piece tombstone. “What the fuck?” Burroughs said as the three of them watched.

Mark Terrill

In the blue-aired seaman’s mission/ the TV is hotwired and pulsing./ In the blaze of the marquee outside/ her fist opens slowly/ like a fleshy pink flower

Volker Sielaff

Language/ is not only made of words, it requires/ further presence or one of a white-/ blooming winter-head of snow.

Rolf Dieter Brinkmann

At ten someone calls and // talks about death, and you make a / joke about the film projectionist with cancer / who’s been with the company for 25 / years, and whoever else is in the room // laughs as well. Who goes through the rooms, / unfamiliar, and remembers the lines / from the song: Green leaves, how are / you alone? What sort of damned lonely // business letters are being written.

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