junkmail oracle

i s s u e


stories & essays


andrew lundwall
andrew lundwall, a 19-year-old poet & writer from wisconsin, is enamored of the beats, boschian paintings, the study of the psychic-automatism conjured forth by the surrealist movement & gertrude stein. he currently works a pessimistic, agonizing afterhours job in quality-assessment for the telemarketing scam-trade.


Immaculata mvmts. #1

i obtained a yearning drunkenness to walk each step... all my soiled
pages with these non-descript accents as if something's about to die
off.. the winding of words leads me to this presence... it is the
presence passed out on my couch.... you lead me away tho i may be back
again.... this feeling of my feet on the trip to the edge of black it
tears conflicting histories apart... my jaw's displaced deciding what
next for my some kinda mind conquered by complex mazes.... i need the
quake of juices buzzes and eternal emotional revs for sake of my
circulation... in this directionless afternoon lit in a way that pins me
on the crooked ledge.... it's all-out void that makes my situation
strange and non-descript.... leave redd notebook to decide that the
bedazzlement what the orgasm of words bring .. let thesises and words
move step by leaden concrete step.... some kinda mind time left to kill
....this makes me very turbulent very to and fro.... in other words the
silent is calm its filled with little spectacles of big desolate empty
corners... wandering and wondering back and forth from wall to wall and
then pages of mad poems each drifting away.... where to now vladimir?
A: to get back to the numbers that from here to there and back again on
must define and refine very acutely... i must sustain my history loosely
defined ..all numbers and breath and promises and ratios that one must
continue and uphold...


Immaculata mvmts. #2

of the mind:
it becomes all too real... becomes all too, all too apparent..., new
curiosities crawl and linger with each flat step... the dusk is a map
sprawled out like the revelation of a pinprick soothing and godly....
could dusk mean my insomniac nightmaric corner to corner to corner
history.... one kiss and im all bedazzled i'm sprawled out with the joy
of new masks.... alarming restlessness of insane curiosity.... insanity
crawls with shame a point to reflect.... this creature of flesh pulls
the burden of your corrosive caresses... im all bedazzled with
contrariness... this is where the edge of your barren wall closes in and
in an instant decked out with shame corner to corner... i'm dangling on
a history leash that clings to my flesh.... this alarming restlessness
blows me a kiss from an angle.... tourist takes photos of pagan
portraits from the edge of a mind drugged on heartbreak.. i want to
bust out of papier and make magic.. oh all those young revelations....
please dust me down at the point of destination... i represent this
creature of contrariness... this is where like a map your kisses
teeter on the edge of surreal closeness makes magic out of all that
paperic propaganda and begins anew... reincarnates again and again to
capture new stillness and the statues of the shell i've become...look!
at my drunken facade and the chains that devour this photo....
look at my new spells and perspectives, i wield what it is i cannot
have...in mystery as in life...


Immaculata mvmts. #3

I looked out amongst the unravelling mystery of the tides... the winds
swirling waters crimson red... I looked at the sad gloomy trees up
above ghosts and apparitions adorn them like ornaments on deadly
christmas trees... the tide rolled back the moon yawns and rests in
tumult of decisions and points of clarity..... I lay my head down on the
thick sand waiting for the waves to take the acute pain and navigate it
away from me as i count the minutes.... my heart beating like the soul
of those who were talleyed and tethered the sighs roll out of my mouth
like words best when well-defined..... out there the sea is
the definitive end.... I look into the eyes of the saints.... look
beyond and there in the stellar land channeling hope for more.... i
stop to moisten my lips in the shrunken and stilled land... and tug at
my all-too close heartstrings...lay my body down and await the gilded
train for wandering far out past the tide to the teetering edge of the
earth and the isolation of nightmares like birds torn out of the page of
the sky...


Immaculata mvmts. #4

Today when the tide rolls in on Venusian platform shoes on the beach to
leave footprints on the sand, my heartshot eyes will be bewildered by
the sacred sight.... My lifeboat is coughing and weezing asking me if
I'll take it out for a spin where the goddesses of the soothing ocean
breathe sovereign favors..... I look out of my good eye to weave my view
of creation, me the raggedy soldier braving the sunken sea so
tumultuous....The soldier whose significant presence is hooked up to a
machine and has a purple heart and only appears when daylight sings....
The frothy ocean roars like lions and each crest lit up with the smiles
of the cackling of beasts.... I was kneeling before this monstrosity
cuddled in cold... I wish to be washed to away to infinite lengths,
there'll be no more prayer cards, no more hideous green avocadoes,
there'll be no more life no death just the endless murmurs of some sort
of strange astronomy that one reads road maps by, that one would light a
sopping wet cigarette to... the painted inner-communion that spreads
across this drab and tainted and sweating wasteland...


Immaculata mvmts. #5

my heart unfolded liks a musical wind-up box, so obliviously
delighted..... my eyes stretch out to you the signals very sharp and
stinging to observe those pouting lips.... the lips that plate
tectonics seem to shift apart and the space in between feeding my fiery
introspection... pain like jail door cells... in our bottled air we
laugh in peals of thunder... our whole night muted except for the
argument of stars and the constant quiver of hallowed ground... we two
portraits left clinging for the inner space that frames refine.... all
my words are networks of things left unsaid built by a claustrophobic
music of my mind... an entanglement weaving a philosophical process a
physical replca of excitements fears stigmata isolation dreams... im
waiting for the exit sign the slow motion footage of awaking in a
half-bed.... the closing in the caging of and halting crawl of kisses at
dawn and the slow fade to a most certain pt A to pt B a final delusion
to ease my soul....


art & photos & stuff

home page


copyright deep cleveland publishing, all rights reserved
comments: deepcleveland@hotmail.com