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SurVision Magazine

An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.

Issue Ten



His Sculptures

The secret shrank and then exploded like a wagonload of life. This history in turn splintered, driving jaggedly across craft-dependent institutions, flowers, throats, and genealogies. Pinpoint strikes are so minor they don't even need a collective noun. There are no frogs now, no creatures at all, not even screens. He is merely hungry and is eating His sculptures.

The Guillotine National Monument rises immense against the coming light, invited upward and naively praised by the mineral-blind. Indifference weaves its page wheels, and brutality is hot and whole, a kind of happiness ditch seeking power. Lately, stars adhere to everything as collective death, a large-seeming finale. Yet people keep referring to the womb of creation.

I've gotten interested in Haven't Literature, which is both blending and hardened, coating itself with fear and belief, traveling through our land recruiting loss, building palaces.

The Imperial Noise Sector

Where it is now is anybody's guess. The refugee school used to be located in the eastern edge of the Imperial Noise Sector. Then the battlefield shifted and everything proceeded out of the latest floating "classified" playbook. Does true failure glow? Through secondary-target algorithms, yes, flames where rooftops and hair used to be.

Force struggled forward with a tactical plan to upgrade the language using earth movers. The plan itself was gold standard. We massacred then blanched then transfixed. Thousands were held in unsecured late rail hells while the bombs told stories all night long, thousands over thousands of nights. Meanwhile the cosmetic industrialists found their spokesperson, barbaric and babied up for her tasks of conscience. Even the most fundamentally earthy smoke was actually composed of cameras: blind unaffected seeing. They eat and don't blink. It's snug and produces a not truly very kind but urgent, sincere, and well-intentioned deployment of the tat-a-tat system, but that's how protection works, even in Paris.

The report from the following week called in the inferno chairs and relabeled them fictional, then created secret funnels to . . . we can't say where but places hospitable to warm thickening agents. Contextual analysis has revealed the missing as alluding to Emancipation! That muscle-bound thing generated in the south has died through normal chemical processes brought about by open-door vocabularies. Today, adverbs are scheduled to be rolled and hanged from various Forms, while the public does what it does best, rejoices deliriously.


Steve Gilmartin, from Berkeley, California, is the author of a chapbook of mistranslations of Emily Dickinson from the German, Comes Up to Face the Skies (Little Red Leaves Textile Series). His fiction and poetry have appeared in Big Bridge, BlazeVOX Magazine, Café Irreal, Eleven Eleven, Otoliths, Rivet, Sein und Werden, Terror House Magazine, The Collidescope, and Unlikely Stories.

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