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without further ado, D5 Chapbook IIRUELA PINHO
We are not allowed to leave the compound, so class field trips tend to be localized; for instance,this week we visited the bathroom. As each stall offers homage to a different deity, the studentswere segregated and left to autonomous explorations of the toilet, which is also a well, so withstring spun from fine-knotted hair and hooks built from braces each team went sewer fishingwhile Annabelle and I read letters from the home office written backwards in the mirror. Thewalls decorated with dyes squeezed from hand soap and urinal blocks and flags flown from toiletpaper, soon enough each stall became its own nation, and the flourishing of under-divider com-merce taught truer lessons than any of the gibberish textbooks the temporary government sendsus in dump trucks every other Monday. I felt a sense of purpose swelling as the miniature cretinslearned to haggle and barter, and I told Annabelle we should never return to the learning center,we should spend the remainder of the semester in our bathroom classroom, but she was pleasur-ing herself with the hand dryer and paid me no mind.
DB.
 
MURMURISTShow do you wash your hands before Genocide?in a sense. the same way you wash them before god.in the rain. as you ride the wings of insanity. as youfold the wings of insanity. are you not as religious?painting dreams. is your song not as filled with hopedespair and the grasping of general confusion. asyou confront the future. this is what i hear.but to find only part one of a song. but in a songthat is everything.likebirthinglightin astring of water. JASE
 
LAZARE..a hologram aching with adoration and a vague hope of recovering fifteen billion sweaty balladsfrom the colour of opium. one could blast off into theoretical nights, or freely choose to squanderthe new Eve on remixed whorls of metaphor. the scarab's initial relation to superior fingers, itwas all a harbinger of the sweet, unresolved fifth that augmented gravity, the codes revealed byyour bare shoulder minus the lattice of smiling numbers. I ran through the flickering conspiracy,baritone impulses splashing at my exposed knees and thighs. the logic of evisceration drankprophecies from the fluourescent green foliage, a satellite was given enough answers to question.on the cusp of a digitized sunrise with blank eyes and a frightening message from the automatic,I mourned what was ironic in you, the equations that drifted without purpose yet were capable of dividing the bluest sky into the syntax of my upturned palms. ROBERT CHRYSLER
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