Four Poems

by Fahad Baseer

A boombox hangs from the ceiling
of a tunnel. Behind Rob’s house
I walked through it once on a run
I don’t remember his cat’s name
It was one of many found dead
We all knew, but kept out mouths
shut. Didn’t talk about cat related
nouns. Boombox. Painted using
stolen paint marker. It was gold
or silver. Through the static shined
emerged. Arrived Rob. Still.
Stiller than voices with bodies
could ever aim to achieve. Still
Still searching for that cat. He
emerged. Arrived with all knowledge
of what went on in his house without
him. The house in which someone
carved on the plaster. where 666
used to be. The rants are now
broken pieces of a house. Some
framed. Some kept and forgotten.
There were also drawings there.
The plaster could cover up the punch
but not the idea behind it
so I carved. Eat this house.
Not while I was there
and sometime before the emergence
The house ate itself
The golf course dried up
Hanging from the ceiling
painted haphazardly.
before ranting/scratching/drawing on the wall
before having no self left to paint
you painted yourself on Casio Canvas
Hanging from the only thing left
from the youth of many
emitting slices of the idea of
a dead friend. There are perhaps
Bird feeders for even the most complicated




Blindfolded Ballerinas
Crash and then change
Composer watches carefully
Changing as well
With each crash
The sonification of
The choreographer
A ghost of one perhaps
Men and women
Left in a room
Set in motion
Set to generate
Set to crash

Slingshot of Oldmanburg
Insert human brain
Aim towards the fence
The one in front
Of the experience tree
Release and repeat
With your mind
Every time it grows back
Visit the Slingshot of

This sentence is so pregnant with meaning
Inflate sentence until it pops
Pump reads "sperm"
Sperm reads random quote from Billy Madison




Hand-cranks turned by broken hands
broken gradually
by specific gestures
specific tasks.
The same gesture applied
elsewhere could call a cab.
Whether you
are in the city
Or far from any architecture whether it be
physical, musical, actual, or astral or. or. or.
There are no hands broken, by things better
done. consumed by. better spoken with things
other than
So we find that hands can only be broken
by other hands and we need to better
equip ourselves with a better understanding
of hands

The signer signs my poems
To the new kid in the class.
An older lady actually.
A professional of some sort.
With owl eyes




8 amps encircling an audience
Preferably members of NASA
I orbit around them
I stop at each amp
Changing the loop
Adding a layer
Cheap looper made
Specifically for each amp
Amp-specific loopers
Made specifically for me
Specifically by
Members of the NASA

Intonarumori houses
Inhabited by cellists
Neighborhood walk
When you stand in
That specific spot
Between her house
And the fourth dot
You hear something
The sonification of
The end of houses

NASA designed a new type of
Places NASA Nachos in
Empty closet
Along with Noise Embryo
Along with a student
Along with red
Jesus lights
Lights made specifically
For Jesus
Jesus-specific luminosity
Along with collaging materials
Release for bathroom break
Enter closet and wai
Attack student with
More NASA Nachos
Brought to you by NASA

Egg shaped room called
An installation designed
Carpet, wallpaper, candles
From Walmart


Check out more from Fahad here

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by Michael Prihoda 


A word from the author:

"Fences is a piece of microfiction told through individual blips of visual poetry, where each paint sample builds on the rest in the series to create an atmosphere above the words. The story and feel of the piece is generated from the colors and the original names of the paint samples, which ultimately operate as a foundation for layering the text to create a narrative."

Check out more from Michael here

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by Keith Landrum 







self portrait

Check out more from Keith here

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by Harrison Parks 

your face is like the author in Happiness:

only yours is rounder and prettier--
you are an improvement upon my favorite movies:
you are real and breathing and beating--

so i will scour for things:
things that you might want to devour
or perhaps imbibe--from tamales to dirty chai.
not just any tamales--

the kind of tamales one finds sold in coolers:
when drinking at just the right moment--
tamales that cost less than a dollar each:
tamales that are BBQ tamales, food of the gods--

and i run through the rain
of my imaginary world
where i deliver to you every
tamale you've ever wanted to eat.

plato's tamales. every ideal tamale
can be yours in my imaginary world:
the place where you and i exist
as more than a facade.

Read this poem and more in Harrison's ongoing project The Banter Ship

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Collage & Photography

by Chris Bird

Moment 1


Colourcockroach Resize 2

Surreal 1



Find more from this artist here, and look for their art in the upcoming issue of Rasasvada

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