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Three Bell Zero
Three Bell Zero
Three Bell Zero
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Three Bell Zero

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Poetry. The young, English experimental poet Miles Champion has established an impressive reputation on this side of the Atlantic, tweaking the sense that the British are more poetically staid than Americans. When we ask about a younger generation of adventous poets in England--is anybody negotiating the more radical possibilities stirring in recent decades--Miles Champion is one of the very, very few names always popping up . . . THREE BELL ZERO puts attractively varied flesh on the positive buzz --Bruce Andrews. Miles Champion moved to New York City from London in 2002. His other books of poetry include Sore Models, FACTURE, Eventually, and THREE BELL ZERO. 
LanguageEnglish
PublisherRoof Books
Release dateJan 1, 2000
ISBN9780937804827
Three Bell Zero
Author

Miles Champion

Miles Champion was born in Nottingham in 1968. He has published three books and several pamphlets of poetry. He lives with his wife and daughter in Brooklyn, New York.

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    Book preview

    Three Bell Zero - Miles Champion

    Sugar

    THE BEIGE SUPREMATIST

    We made some drawings of the volume lengthwise.

    There was a typewriter key in the sweat.

    What of the resolve that curtains us into a solid trope.

    I see him loosen what’s moist,

    and acquire a mute pathos.

    That, says Kazimir Malevich, makes a soap man.

    On an island of noise, attach

    the sockets to a mucuslike substance.

    But what are these wooden pipes on the floor.

    Points of beforehand in Deanna’s basement.

    In the end, though, I came out on the square.

    He said it was white and felt cheerful.

    Our smooth shapes angled off in flakes of noun breath.

    They have the inner beats.

    Seems Tim swam off, forming two domes, whose crystals had dislodged.

    Put literally the cylinder seems to striate the flicks.

    The box that holds it has a burly dynamism.

    A sausage-shaped ball roosters about this.

    In constructing it, what I say breaks

    into heavy props.

    Basic plastic strain exhausts artistic feeling on the roof.

    So language, stopping, creates a square.

    My sharp eye out, the size is no break, it words the interstices

    and creates a split.

    That chairs be ladders, each chair rescuing a flake.

    Chet bakes the fast eye.

    It’s ridiculous to gargle the lance.

    Miss Betty fit the armband, paints, bird mask and a powder nucleus

    into the stem.

    As butter spins so does the powder arm

    against the scape.

    Space rebounds from the brink

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