Brilliant duel them corset her penis.
A million toxic duds dangle. Get a
Night rise or day rites—merge, mend.
Withstand dull grip or soir.
We saw murder in it. Verto kept
Slough for wine—a ten cent ring.
Dried, brittle. Few fillies that
Murmur homage on Ruben’s trees disperse
Clowns! What death sheer torpor paid to a waif on
The run. What neon cadet lit nine gone gifts? None.
An anathema of need, our offer lacked
Stamina, snarl. Deadening, the unseen music dug
Instead. Her brine-randy nukes were arched (whack!)
And look guilty. Who’s she on? Et tu, commie?
It’s a night friend, a washed mare, said e.
E might tow on the wed old air-wand
I tread. Nigh in ten and no one fights worth much.
Such great clout. What a hoot! Water arcs, hewn
From this bout of thin youth sans runs. Bob,
He’s a wooly sort of noun. Go on, you Yank.
Magic bracken tears us. He abets us hop anew.
Send the RV on the loch. Seek life, dread ice. Teeter,
One fold day thre was no loud Troy,
No woken thunder’s redress hit hard C
Or redid work. Thin came the sound of she.
Wilting candy for thou, friend: ether. How lissome. I’m
Gone. If stars turn on you, I’d turn. Wag my hind orb.
Fill in your sudden Iowa awash until off
O, Hymen. Cave a fist. Youth is a gray gear
They chill. That iced hymen. Real.
Tactile. Rome began a feather, waged hymen.
Our tiny new land—sacked. Her, truly warm. Oh, if you
Say yes. I clean mail with soft dander. Peek
In. Dig in. Knead what gone noir
There dances. Love. Oh, oh—King of nine little gilt t.
Dun deer lead so mere.
Damascus so sofa it envoy or lariat.
Them never bless cold dada ham.
The nine bone town is woe. Art-whisk soup?
What a picked shark hears as cow fed dice.
Phone a druid; record a snail. I throw one’s icy
Theory as trash. Please, eerie stew? Look,
A bell! Hey, don’t shade the locks for a rein
Says the lad of tuition.
Heh…what sheer investment we hilt a tree
Tire his dear crone’s hand yet heed me and chant:
Kiss me hibiscus, eschew an albino, nick
the high arrow.
Bid choirs do infinite monad dots. Wife,
Heat me new. Fan better hardy had hag.
Nearing grown pie, ecoded leak, roof slip,
And/or rank equity (IOU these). You fee me.
I’m shy. The e felt horror. Sing, belle. Cop
A colt nosty refuses (me). Behead us.
Witness Antonin Artaud climb a beanstalk and eat his lover’s foot as his most torrid affair is revealed in letters; fear the Spy Cam’s omniscient eye; test your paranoiac tendencies as an alien abductee; watch as “The Waste Land” and “The River Merchant’s Wife” hit the blender; rejoice in poems without people, poems without authors and poems with no audience. CURIO is quirky and sly—an ironic mixture simultaneously engaged with formal innovation and a retro avant-garde that heralded the arrival of a brave new poet.
"…a versatile, skilled poet unafraid to shake things up…her work can straddle both sides: formal and experimental, personal and mathematical, with a keen ear for the erotically ridiculous."—Zoe Whittall, The Globe and Mail
"Bachinsky writes for us, the inheritors of a debased estate in which the last elegiac strains are heard chiefly as canned schmaltz piped into the corridors… The entire field of signification becomes, if you will, a perpetually excited surface of semiotic erectile tissue, productive of pornographic delirium."—K. Silem Mohammad, Lemon Hound
"The range of diction in these poems is wild, the diversity of influence deliciously idiosyncratic. How often have we seen John Milton and Lisa Robertson acknowledged between the same covers? Bachinsky’s willingness to range fearlessly through history sets her writing apart—or, at least places it in the company of equally daring poets like Robertson, Maine’s Jennifer Moxley, and Eliot himself."—Jeanette Lynes, Fieldstone Review