David Kuhnlein 日 30/04/2020 · admin No comments

THE DISABLED

The stink of Lysol and mouth foam peculiar to most mental patients, followed by what might have been kindly referred to as Genghis Khan eyes, sat in my car, unhinging its hair. She’d grown everyone around her into a cyst without circumference. Her moons waned in me. Our collective urge to self-destruct flattered suburban crackheads. All the interstices of pain she came to cultivate stood polluted through a lust not given lightly. Barren from poking at herself too long: “I’ve been bullied by many endoscopies,” she mocked. These disassembled memories spent like antibodies, petite sufferings left uncured. Her mouth moved strangely, like the injustice of the creature it obeyed. “What do I have to do? Walk around in high heels all day just to get a couple pain killers? Any time I see these quacks they treat me like I’ve just crawled out from the dirt, a fucking junkie. And they’re still selling love and light like an unendowed alchemist.” We passed the house of a sister scared of her punk-like shadow. The mother’s house was off limits. We squeezed every last muscle relaxer from her armoire. “Open the glove box,” I said, “I geocached a souvenir from my sister’s suicide.” She flipped it open and the weight of the gun lugged against the plastic with a thunk.

No Name 日 09/04/2020 · admin No comments

THE MACHINE, THE EXPLODING WHALE, and THE MOST BEAUTIFUL DAY

The sleepy machine
passes slowly over us,
a simple god,
warming the sun’s reflection
into a gentle taste.

I get lost in its generosity
and begin walking Underground.
Underground is a purple place
where the statues fall.
I only come here
when I think of the same thing too long.

The statues today
talked about climbing
the Founding River.
It was a bad idea
but the sun was still
in my mouth, and I went on.

It was square and straight.
The end was a window
where I saw the machine
dance lazily,
eclipsing the sun.

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

THE LUNATIC’S THRONE

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

ARISU

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

ONLY AN INSECT IN HOW SHE MAKES YOU FEEL/IMPENDING LIKE DOROTHY ON THE AIRPLANE/POLYAMOR

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.