Saturday, November 27, 2021

post-pop desolation

 by Shaun Lawton






As the tides from space 
  ineluctably draw in and out 
 of our atmosphere
We are licked and caressed 
 by languorous exhumations 
from the void

If we could tune in on that distillation 
  of disconsolate wavelengths
 Ushered into the breathtaking inhalation 
of the yawning gulfs
Our focus would sharpen 

into a lucid high contrast revelation
As the pores of our skin opened 
  and shut in eyeless observation
 Sensing the crack and tolling 
of thunder in a woeful intimate proximity
Realizing the sudden lightning flash 
  equated to the bright days of our life

Not seeing the fulmination 
  for the electromagnetic spectrum 
In blind recognition of the moment 
 being the body of the beast
Its tensed musculature comprised 
 of the neural pathways in our brains
Ready to pounce in an instant 
on the cusp of the riptides of eternity

Each sip of our morning coffee 
  a conflagration of silent turbulence
To mirror and be echoed by 
 the tempest from our coronal solar wind
For a few short moments 
  with eyes lowered shut 
 in ecstatic concession
We breathe in the turmoil 
  captured inside the center 
of the eye of peace










Tuesday, June 1, 2021

Plasma Tales: Plasma Press's Prose Poetry Series

 Click here or on image below to purchase Plasma Tales # 1




   So there we have it,  the latest proof edition finally arrived today - (after 20 days being shipped and re-routed through our complicated mailing system) - and it looks good enough for me to approve for global distribution.    Click.

   I like the squared off retail price tag of ten dollars.  It's the next iteration of the "hotcakes for a dollar" scheme, you know: sell a million of those, make a million dollars. Okay so that only worked with pet rocks.  See all I gotta do is sell a hundred thousand of these. Never mind me. Likely I'll quickly streamline into subscription services, that's the reading wave of the present moment (we'll go ahead and call it: also thought of as "the future").    

   So you don't follow. So what.  Words are the new pet rocks.  You don't even have to paint eyes on them.  And they appear veritably, virtually, visibly on all  of our dVices.  I'm going fishing in the real world now. My words and poems are just the shiny bait. Just you wait. Set your iWatch on it. I'm a hook and reel y'all in.   Readers of the world, take note.  

   The lure's been triggering me into reacting as of late. Things are balancing out for me. I can't wait. I have to just keep on hanging in there. Working already on the Plasma Tales # 2 manuscript. Need to meet the deadlines to go to press by August. 

   The back of this 1st issue states: 

The first volume in a series of forthcoming books
exploring the electromagnetic dynamics between prose
and poetry. Begin your collection with Plasma Tales # 1.
Featuring a full color illustration on the front cover by 
the author. Dive into fantastic realms conjured by 
words that flow into adjoining stories which cast their
flickering illumination upon haunted passages further
down the torrential output of time. Stay tuned for 
Plasma Tales # 2 coming later in the summer of 2021.


   This has become my publishing imprint Plasma Press's next objective.  To put out the subsequent installation in the Plasma Tales "comic book without pictures" series of perfectbound chapbooks. People never ask me, "So what's Plasma Tales all about?"  but if they did, I'd tell them "Think of a comic book, but without any pictures on the inside. Just words. But every cover has a wicked full page painting or illustration (that serves as that issue's sole frame). In time, as more issues pile up, the series of images the various covers produce will continue to support and help accentuate the underlying themes being addressed by the poems and stories inside. It's like, each cover is the frame in a meta graphic novel, and the page count of each book represents the number of words accompanying that frame.   

   It doesn't have to makes sense to anyone or be explained, really. I only need to determine the frequency of this prose poetry series: how many issues will be published per year? Quarterly's more realistic but I'd hope I could shoot for ten.  Nine months of the year I could plan on putting out one a month, roughly. Under the heat of this constant pressure, they'd be hewn into a sort of corroborative shape and feel.  And the remaining three months of the year I could work on the tenth issue.  The special one that really re-draws all the interconnective lines running through the series. That way for every ten issues you at least get one where you might pretend it was worth buying.  Okay so I'm joking and getting a bit ahead of myself, here. 

   Of course each and every one of these issues should contain enough wild and interesting poetry and flashes of micro fiction for a whole new generation of super busy multi tasking shorter attention span geniuses to readily absorb in between their own steady upstream excursions making it out there in this rapidly evolving new world. As much as I myself remain addicted to the collection of print books, I have to admit the future of reading ripe for the reaping seems to me to take place from the eyes of a legion of growing young minds eager to devour by the hour whatever enticing stories they can see flashing by on their stream.  That is why Plasma Press will devote itself to producing its line of titles in the three most readily available formats: print, eBook, and Audiobook.   

   It's just about making reading fun again and by that yes I do mean being led down a twisting corridor of passages to send the mind reading them reeling on a dimensional trip beyond the stars to a realm even realer than the one we already imagined ourselves to be in.  Of course its the same one, but what are the chances. Exactly. 



BUY ISSUE # 1 of PLASMA TALES HERE:


Friday, March 26, 2021

Stars

 Like waves crashing on a beach 
faces sinking into the murk 
amid shafts of sunlight below
thriving green stagnant ponds

phantoms of angler fish merging
into fading profiles of Maya kings
legion drown into the scintillating murk
overseen by the eye of a cephalopod 

or is that a spider exactly the wind
hisses over diamantine droplets 
you're just conjuring a host of names
the human heart a polished mineral 

making contact along the circuit
breakers sinking like a rosary 
dropped from the deck of the Titanic
the demonic wreaths of coral gardens await

O, green whale, eagle of the depths 
spilling incense taking turbulent shapes
of faces mirrored along the crown of eyes
shredding into angels of birds 

the Ancient of Days reflected in stellar parallax 
within a quadrant of time reaching out 
for the heart of a burial into rebirth staring 
back from the well fed wide open hole