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October 17, 2019 / barton smock

I, Caustic (excerpt) by Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine (trans. Jake Syersak)


from I, Caustic

Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine

such whatsoever-so-much ricocheting from I the martyrized stranglulationist along with the mongrel dog-faced Father
caustically forced out of its immune insect. We gorge ourselves tossing and
turning men and tables Go Fuck You in Your Face Here in this restaurant I strap
on some culottes and spectacles to reinforce my portrayal of lousy exuberance.
We lost no step. We saw so well through the luminosity…The city is gutboil.
Laughter and tears release a tiny bit more crocodile smiling inside a coffee
cup it promises anyone coming across it a new form of teething or quite simply
put the repeal of the articles of law conceived by His Adroit Majesty Awaits us
patiently in the stables where our counterfeit money deploys itself against the
agrarians’ gold virtually a show-off And he? Speaking to… Taunting who? Squashing.
Soiling. Poisoning. Aggravating the other. I’ve killed him…

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October 16, 2019 / barton smock

{ un, above }


recent available work:

‘Animal Masks On The Floor Of The Ocean’



(for 10$ and 4$, respectively)…privately self-published…can be purchased via paypal (
or Venmo @Barton-Smock-1


sayings and sight:

My small press writing day:

interview by Crystal Stone for Flyway Journal:

Interview with Barton Smock, Author of “Ghost Arson”

@ The Collidescope:

The Poetry Question:



recent, at {isacoustic*}:

Stephanie L. Harper:
person Stephanie L Harper, four poems

Kelli Allen:
person Kelli Allen, a poem for Daniel Deardorff

reflection on ~Space Struck~ by Paige Lewis:
{ Space Struck – poems – Paige Lewis }

reflection on ~Hard Damage~ by Aria Aber:
{ Hard Damage – poems – Aria Aber }

reflection on ~not human enough for the census~ by Erik Fuhrer:
{ not human enough for the census – poems – Erik Fuhrer }

October 15, 2019 / barton smock

{ @ The Poetry Question }

Thanks to those at The Poetry Question for letting me say something toward Kazim Ali, Camonghne Felix, Frank Lima, Franz Wright, and Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello.



October 13, 2019 / barton smock

{ Space Struck – poems – Paige Lewis }


Space Struck
poems, Paige Lewis
Sarabande Books, 2019


If, instead of a far creature, I imagine here an empty cage, then perhaps I’ve been blessed by revelation as originally intended, and tended to, in and by the baptismal poems of Paige Lewis as visible from their Space Struck, a work of thisness and anti-thatness. In a verse so propulsive that the forms therein dance in the before and after of being re-shadowed, Lewis makes of the beyond a proximity where privacy enters the pocket as a rescued oyster and emerges secretly as a smallness freed from size. In places such as these, urgency need not be restless, awe need not outgrow its display, and we need not slow ourselves to be overtaken by beauty.


reflection by Barton Smock


book is here:

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October 11, 2019 / barton smock

from ( diets of the resurrected )

I think of my mother in her block of ice summoning a curling iron and of my father sending a robot to prison. Of a leafblower named mercy hugged by my brother for outing my sister’s electric chair. Of nakedness, poor nakedness, always playing itself in the story of had we not been invented we would’ve had to exist. Of how daughter she highlights an entry on hair loss in the cannibal’s diary. Of how one holds the owl and one pours the paint and how both, knowing how to dream, choose this

and how they are both a boy in a bottomless mirror asking if death is still known for its one mistake.

October 10, 2019 / barton smock

from ( diets of the resurrected )

Ohio introductions:

A god finds its mother in a joke about the food chain and is no longer sad that human babies don’t walk right away

Hunger remains your painting of the angel’s predicted appetite

The wind gets that way by looking for its twin

October 8, 2019 / barton smock

from ( diets of the resurrected )

I am allowed one imaginary friend as long as it’s a boy when I share it with my brother. This story has no bones. Its seesaw turns to salt. You can’t watch porn and say you believe in ghosts.