Evan Isoline 日 18/03/2020 · friendly_admin No comments


Anathema is an archangel who rots in the ocean.
I can see it when it arrives, creeping forward through calligraphy forests.
Let me make clear my voice with this valid expression which eateth your flesh.
Stop accepting the word. The fragrances in her branches contain microbes
With villainy that is squandered on sticky sleep.

Search for a quiet, narrow-minded vacation: this is the precise definition of instinct.
Ransack the funeral glades. The original medicine erupts from the soil of your body.
It gives a classical fugue to you. So, I make a noose for the cephalic blossom,
Anchor-poles for the heaven-bright annelid. Where have you gone, O Philistine,
In the ghost of your own inner perfume? Your moment withers in the wavelength.

Dale Brett 日 20/02/2020 · friendly_admin No comments


It started in a small pocket of Mujeongsam. The boy’s mother IM’d the authorities and claimed he must have imbibed some illicit drugs. She amiably described how he went to the kitchen to obtain a glass of water and returned with a vessel full of gleaming onna no ko, a sea of animated girls undulating in a refracted prism, light glancing between world and image. The boy was under the impression he was hallucinating too, and in an act of brave defiance, he hastily consumed the contents of the shimmering volume of viscous imagery. Upon digesting the deterritorialised representations, the primary enzymes of his stomach and pancreas strained to work. The ingested girl-goo was quick to alter the terrain of his metabolic scenery, sending the ordinarily apathetic teen into a cloudy reverie. The boy’s mother insisted that this was a war on drugs, but the only offensive front that could be seen by medics that arrived on the scene was a change in biological structure inconsistent with any criminal substance. The boy’s frothy saliva and pearly blood tested negative for any molecule able to snap into the hungry wetware of the youth’s serotonin receptor. Organically, there were no outward signs of radical bodily alterations, behaviourally though this unhinged soldier had rapidly demurred. His speech now came out in spurts of arbitrary sets of words, all seemingly related to sexually explicit technophilia. His voicebox had become a vocoder for the garbled code of an obsolete lorem ipsum generator – sentient in nature and insatiable in its yearning for extreme hentai forms. The answer to any question the boy was asked involved a deep yearning for the love between flesh-man and girl, computerised.

Jane Judith 日 30/01/2020 · friendly_admin No comments


Waking up in the middle of the night was nothing unusual. Even needing a moment to situate my sense of direction was precedented, if uncommon. But as vision set in I realized that the darkness in my room somehow held a blue tint approximating that of an iPhone backlight, and this would have been remarkable, if I had been in any position to wield language. Animalistic, I only felt revulsion towards such a logically wrong stimulus, and swiftly turned my head in the hopes of a change. I was granted one, my eyes locking on the lamp that I had in typical fashion left on, yet its light was hardly extending beyond its bulb, and its warm orange had been replaced with something adjacent to maroon. My head unthinkingly reoriented to its original position, once again escalating my anxiety by making my eyes land on her, crouched on the foot of my bed.

The way she appeared was more like a cue blip than a badly edited jump cut. That was an attempt to pay tribute to her early 20th century air — maybe it would be more accurate to say she appeared like the term “gif”, encircled, summoned to watch over a paused gif, more than she appeared like the inevitable reset of that gif. But this paints her as too common. Something in my brain registered “night terror”, yet she was wearing a smile that said “night terror” in the same way a netsavvy singer-songwriter might wear a shirt saying “big rock star” while playing to a room of eight to ten familiar supporters. You see how my prose stylings dissolve just trying to capture her? Her dress seemed leather, baroque, impressively severe, painfully yellow in its outline, illegibly black in itself, resolutely constituting a hole in the darkness even as this darkness lost its previous aspiration towards machinic blue. Her flesh was pale, inconsistent, hardly registered as skin. Her hair was ostensibly mauve, but I hardly trust my memory here. She began to explain her reason for appearing. I’m sure her mouth moved, but I was hardly watching it, the way I hardly watch a mouth in a subtitled film or anime.

Gary J. Shipley 日 17/01/2020 · friendly_admin No comments


In my other language the fog is always yellow and the light is the light of afternoons. The trains are always silent, and derailed, and the men on bicycles, circling the crash site, are never only that: they are growing into one another, like men into cockroaches and cockroaches into women. A Frenchman watches a parade while hanging from his belt, and the fog comes in, the colour of mustard, the colour of children // with kidney disease laughing in the other language at the men’s faces turning blue, turning purple, turning black, turning soft. And I’m pissed rotten pissing blood in the Hofgarten until I collapse, and I never have to wake up, and when it rains nothing is compelled to grow. Or else it grows the other way, so we don’t have to see it: a garden under the ground, stretching for miles, stretching for the sake of stretching, like the dogs on the mud, their tails in the air, forbidden to dig, and growling, and drained of air.

Nathaniel Duggan 日 28/12/2019 · friendly_admin No comments


When I think of you, I’m actually
thinking of a distillation of organs.
Livers, kidneys, vessels
through which blood flows
like the dappled leaf shadows
whose shifting I never saw
because I spent my summers alone
in basements wondering if bugs
have hearts or even lungs.
No one knows. God is dead.
Society crumbled so we built
a giant robot and launched that baby
to space to do battle with a species
of cricket-sized aliens, because
we need triumphs now more than ever,
no matter how small and scurrying they be.
It’s like this morning when I took
a beer instead of Tylenol, vanquished
a whole day before it even started.
To the liver it’s all the same,
mere surges in the gut, and in fact
I often mistake bowel quivers for love
and you my lover for your evil clone.
Because what is a robot anyway
but an overgrown insect? What is
a heart except a collapsing colony.
What are you if not the shore
upon which I may finally crash,
take stock of myself, and formulate
a world worth worshipping.