alphahesher austin kieler beach sloth eric prewitt feozsz zszoef freke raiha heiko julien jesus moses

murdoch lamarche neon glittery penny goring sarah edwards shane jesse christmass ‘tao lin’ yumbo tuff/lollichops ben abraham VEGAN HOT POCKETS

MURDOCH LAMARCH: HEAD EDITOR/DESIGNER FEOZSZ ZSZOEF: EDITOR IN CHIEF VELOCITRACTOR BEAUREGARD: ABSENTEE/AMPUTEE/MANATEE EDITOR
[VIDEOS/ART AVAILABLE AT MEATCONFETTIVOL1.TUMBLR.COM

i honestly can’t tell if i feel more like the fonz or mowgli

stephen michael mcdowell
your dad and brother are upstairs ‘do you want to help me clean my room,’ you ask me i don’t like when you phrase questions that way in quiz show-style, ‘yes-or-no’ format when what you are making is a request i don’t answer i just follow you to the back of your parents’ old house—the one where you first traded moms —to a room cluttered with books and stuffed animals NPR plays upstairs in a muffled drone and i watch you open drawers and comment on small relics at some point you take out picture books by kipling and i remember some inkling i had that ethnic delusions persisted in you some guilt from the jungle your grandparents instilled ‘these were my favorite books growing up,’ you say i see a snowglobe and a chinadoll and find a pair of sunglasses in your nightstand that say ‘maryland EMS’ on the left arm i put them on you introduce me to your stuffed animals i don’t remember their names you turn to me and say ‘let’s fuck’ i look at you through the sunglasses i feel like i’m conveying disbelief but you start to kiss me and take off your clothes i can’t stop thinking, ‘your dad and brother are just upstairs’ you climb three rungs of the ladder on your old bunk bed that you shared with your brother when you were five and already a very sad human the bed that is now a stuffed animal graveyard you turn to me, still kissing me, you pull off your pants and unbutton my shorts and guide me inside you i hold your head and your waist your leg is over my shoulder

your head arches back and hits the red metal ladder but you don’t seem to care or notice you pull the sunglasses off of my eyes and put them on and smile i still feel afraid and alert ‘what are you two doing down there’ i hear your brother say we stop and recompose in usual form you say as casually as possible ‘we’re cleaning my room’ and invite him down to help with your ‘yes-or-no’ technique we’re clothed in time and you misdirect him to the illustrations reminding him how you used to want to talk to animals and as he’s looking at the books you look at me, smiling, like you’ve finally defiled something worth defiling like, ‘i’ve finally gotten back at my dad’ or something and you face does a thing it seems sad and like ‘thank you’

Growing up as an American in the Midwest in the early 1990’s I learned a lot of things about the world from my television. That isn’t to say I was not being educated through books, my family, and other sources. Yet, television at that particular time in my life was a real eye opener. Finally, exposure to something that excites the mind, makes the brain tingle a bit! I was watching TV the first time I ever became sexually aroused. Some random game show was on Nickelodeon, and the featured performer was a young girl, about my age, wearing all black and throwing knives. This excited me greatly. The entire thing was unlike anything I had ever seen or heard of. Sometime during the segment, I began to notice another strange tingle, this time not in my brain. I had an erection, my very first one. I’d go on to have many others, but the first one is surely credited to the Viacom Corporation. By the time that I was in high school I didn’t much watch TV anymore. At this point I was too busy getting high with my friends from school. Psychedelic drugs soon came into the equation and that’s about the time things really started to get interesting. After doing acid a few times I realized that not just television, but the entire vast media empire that so many had became reliant on was complete and utter shit. This was about the same time I read “1984” for a report I was doing for Law Class in high school. That thing was by far the best work I’d ever done in school; if no other reason than that I actually gave a shit about the assignment for once. A lot of people like to claim drugs are bad. Sure, they can be bad. But they can also change your life for the better. The various substances that I have ingested in my life have done nothing but benefit me

as a human being. A firm grasp of who I am as a person, my desires and dreams, the moral fiber that makes me myself has variously been gleamed from drugs. Sure, it wasn’t just the drugs that did this. But I can’t lie and tell you they did not help. There was a kid I used to be friends with that is my age (25, currently) and we both started smoking pot around the same time. We’d spend countless hours upon days together just getting stoned and talking some amateur philosophy. My buddy wasn’t really that well read be he did have some good ideas. Before we knew it we were both learning about Nietzsche, Marx, and various other insane godheads. I realized one day in the summer of 2005 that we were being followed by another car while we were driving to a park.

Attempts were made to lose the guy to no avail. He never seemed like he was going to hurt us, though. The impression that we both got was that he was just keeping tabs on us, making sure we were all right. We were, so he went away after a few days. This is about the time when things really started to get interesting. Every summer after that, for the past 7 years now; someone follows me for at least a week or so. Just a few weeks back I finally discovered who they were. Let’s just say they worked for an “agency” and leave it at that. The man I spoke with was definitely a kind man, a nice person. He seemed to know way more about me that I would have ever given someone credit for; things about myself that really only I should have known, inside my own head basically. But sure

enough, he was right in my cranium with me it seemed. I am not afraid. Not of the television, not of the open road, not of anything. Once you get shot for no reason when you’re 13 years old things really get put into perspective a bit for you whether you want that to happen or not. For good or ill, I’ve been dragged through more than my fair share of complete and utter bullshit. At the same time, I’ve lived a pretty amazing life and am happy with the way things are today. In America, at the very least, most people can’t say the same thing. Hopefully the Viacom Corporation can help provide them with the peace of mind they all so desperately need. If not them, then perhaps their only other hope may be Timothy Leary.

boom hush boomsph hash boooo hashish.
… .. .

n n s s n d d d b d o l l e o

o o o a t o o t t z

t t h y . t t s n s

e e o o t

m a n i f o l d t e n f o l d thricefold o n e f o l d

zoom in lure forth profound all olfactory
. .. …
hoodlums . hush tool shrieks screams pool tool

fold unfold . recoil underneath beep.

in living room
dull not bleak

FEÖZSZ ZSZEÖF

FREKE RAIHA
[ … end communications … ]
/extract II/an edit; <state> freedom=”justify” </state> <human> <p> state is a vehicle of </p> <p> freedom is a selfexploring axiom </p> <p> justice is a nonexistence equal </p> end-state is a system of beliefs </human> we are closing in we are in <p> reckoning ///the. Electrophoresis-virulent-virtue-periphrasisphrases; peripheral-instigate-One; repeatregarding; awake-the-trinity-numberstetragrammaton; bone-organ-marrow-church-skies; leaf-leaflet-lateral-lunge-tonguehallow: Hollow-grinder-finger-trial-angle; meta/ tropic-innards-stone/stone-optic; logic-illusionpattern-bending-follow; re-act/animate-userbridging-between; puncture-tincture-text is amassing masses; Code-(s)-cubicle-paradoxridden-sand; oppose-lips-touch-re/male-makeincube; re-verse/verse-reader-inter-scope-fume; smoke-clearing-halved-apricot-yellowing-skin; rain-brow-chlorine-left-hand-left-print-fuse; tower-time-bell-epoch-handing-text-stop; stopperstopped-string-skin-theory-naked; errand-eradicated-like a meta/phoric-dash; meta-tropic-dash-sign-signed-sign; silence-code silence-legal-ality-ality-ality; signaturedeluded-flesh-deluded/rich-in-repetition; puncture-paradox-unwrite-read-re-like creation; circlet-circle-cirrus-citric-head-wake-flood-wake; rate-one-one-one-is-once-is-once-one; [ … ] Thisis-not-a-meta/whore; a repetition; dead-as-onceone-one-is-once; perpetual-traumadeliverance-of-of-of; fat and ashes///ashes and fat-onto; prepossession-re-position-read-likebleach-like-naught; integrity like-water-like-zero/ one-once; stone-marble-efficiency/dead-deadsinking; flesh-typed-like-zero-water-oncewake; hollowed-text-naked-ness-itric-of-by-on; wholly-string-holy-psychic-re-remembrance; touch-of-of-by-blanket-blanked-filled; crown-ofleaves-paper-thorn-torn-letter; valiance-circlevacuum-ever-more-viral-radio; spell-spelling/ re-sistance-w/dancing-re-dancing; distanceforward-crossing-the reference-structure; </doctype>

The God Particle

sweet god oh Jesus, I’m peddling a three seat bicycle called The Holy Trinity, Jesus H on the handle bars—thrust it out the doors the light, the light Aa Bb Cc the alphabet is the accumulation of Bones, Desert Heat, Far East Incarnate Gradients of schools become young aged wrestling is kool meet the big question groping for Why grandma can’t give you dollar bills anymore

Jj Kk Ll (you’re almost me, shh, be patient) removing bangs from your eyes making circles on your back Mm Nn Oo

Pp Qq Rr (no, I’ll stop) I think you can guess the rest, as you stared back at yourself through my eyes god flitted away

a pile of things of love notes and things of toilet paper and bdsm adverts and beer cans and bottles a doctor holding me, saying “cough,” and

Thing

my dick head coughing on his face “you have lung cancer” says he and the doctor catches it from me things like wet garbage and new insects lost wallets and branches of leafs

propensity for Earth the sky gets further and further away Dd Ee Ff history stretches to a thin line a fever pitch (don’t realize it until you’re me, now, looking back) what was grandma’s first name again? Rose? Rosie?
Gg Hh Ii the necromancer shakes bones (don’t realize it yet. you’re almost me) “The light, the light” I ran out the door with my arms stretched I wanted: to dive into that ocean of love to swim in that pool of sun to splash in that puddle of ultra-violent light give me that vit D

SEVEN BY

JESUS
MOSES
a bridge that stretches out over my spirit watching a car crash on the expressway and driving worried all the time acting like a thing has changed things of dishes and California avocados back to paper clips and piano keys a short story about a town called Xanax and a meat explosion that made everyone sic

“Sigh” Said the Oppressed Creature
The sun shines between floorboardst in the ceiling and I want to destroy everyone I love, I want to burn down the hospital and climb to the top of a

mountain of cigarette butts. Penning secrets with the company ink written on letterhead Stealing some French fries and licking my fingers, you’re welcome, sir

Ed Harris at Breakfast
Early morning, flipping soy breakfast meat alternatives in horror, I remember I work today—I’m two hours late That last scene in The Truman Show really struck me. I can’t believe the guy almost killed Jim Carey on that sailboat For what? —Ed Harris was the guy’s name. The True Story of Ludwig Van Capitalism
Capitalism walks in, drops his keys on the table. closes all the windows of the house, blocks all the vents with cardboard, turns up the heat turns off the lights just lays there while insects crawl around his naked genitalia.

Easter Island is Gone Now
The giant swallowed Easter Island in a half a gulp. The end of all suffering and vision. A chart hung from the blackboard in an empty classroom featuring a large ‘J’ in red marker and scaled by numbers in the millions I had my hands in my pockets when I tripped, tight pants, hand-me-ups acted like a straitjacket so I rolled around a little and drowned with my nose in a puddle. before I left, I created three tiny bubbles, they floated out toward the coast of the puddle. and before I left, I swallowed Easter Island a mountain of pills, populating in my medicine cabinet worse than rabbits with dry peeling privates from action I found white and blue ones in the puddle where they had been hosting a party, the pills, for ants, worms, and the tube they wanted to shove down my throat I treated like barbed wire. I was creating the end of all suffering and vision.

Capitalism’s phone lights up, a Facebook message, so Capitalism denies the friendship of Waste Management once again it’s easy.
Someone bangs on Capitalism’s door and he ignores it. Time passes, Capitalism gets hungry and doesn’t move instead Capitalism thinks about how it feels to be hungry pushes on his abdomen when his stomach moans.

There is a bang on Capitalism’s door. Capitalism stays quiet holding his abdomen. There are radio bursts in Capitalism’s home entertainment speakers, slowly, they open up into static. a knock on the door. a knock on the window. Capitalism is quiet as the air and his tongue turns to sand.

the phone rings Capitalism gets blankets from the closet, stacking blanket after blanket it almost mutes his growling abdomen. 6 missed calls, the phone is ringing again. Capitalism is tired, falls asleep for an hour. knocking wakes Capitalism up inaudible yelling on the other side of the door no light shining through the window— the sun is down.

the knocking increases there are too many knocks the window is knocking too all the windows are knocking the room spins, and Capitalism sweats, sweat runs down his face his body is sticky and the blankets stick to his arms and legs to his naked sweat, that the insects drink and Capitalism doesn’t move. the knocking stops eventually.

A Portrait of Handsome Harmonica Neil
“Are we gonna let this mild contradiction, keep us from kissin’?”—Calvin Johnson

“unabashed”

“inundated”
“blandishment”
Harmonica Neil still says “bullshit” though. > congratulate his realness. Harmonica Neil drinks rocket fuel, raw egg, liquid mojo. Harmonica Neil pickets McDonald’s, removed from scene by police man, sentenced to prison. >set him free. Harmonica Neil spits on the sidewalk.

Harmonica Neil’s slender tallness, the story another time. cowboy hat, leather vest, Harmonica Neil has one dead eye, buttoned blue shirt. all cell life dispersed to the ether Harmonica Neil’s clever smile, winks, blows a kiss. Harmonica Neil climbed a steep hill, >catch his kiss. laid right on the top of it, watched the sky. Harmonica Neil not always perfect Harmonica Neil with a piece of calls girl the behind-the-back grass, nickname. hung from his lip, smiling real big. “Sorry” says Harmonica Neil There’s no life in his other eye, >forgive him. one dead eye, the other lifeless. Harmonica Neil ain’t called “Harmonica Neil” Harmonica Neil stretches out his for nothin’ vocab.

MURDOCH
We are the people your parents told you to stay away from We are your nicotine stained fingers We are your deviated septum We are your callused palms We are policing the police We are the sirens in the distance We are the baby crying next door We are the dirt under your fingernails We are your new best friend We are the bad influence on your children We are the voice in the back of your head We are your graven image We are the wiretap on your iPhone We are walking behind you in the alleyway We are the secret you never spoke We are surrounding you We are in your trophy case We are the library book you lost We are the elephant in the room We are the reason you take those pills We are your dirty needles We are the homeless man you ignored We are the children you abandoned We are behind closed doors We are everywhere We are your imagination We are the fan circling above your sweat soaked sheets We are the static between the stations We are the hair in your burger We are the knife against your throat We are always here We are waiting We are you You are us Babylon, we are your god

bylon, we are your god your god Babylon, we Babylon, your godwe god bylon,Babylon, we godyour godgodgod god on,Babylon, yourareweare your your we we areBabylon,are are areare yourare your we we aregod we bylon, Babylon,Babylon,yourare your god weweareBabylon, yourare your god Babylon, are wegodyour god god abylon, weBabylon, areyour your god Babylon, wearewearewe we are are your areare god your your god we Babylon, we your your god god abylon, weBabylon, yourare god your god Babylon, we Babylon, yourare god god Babylon,we weyourweyourwegod are wearegod are Babylon, weBabylon,we your Babylon,Babylon, god aregod god Babylon,Babylon,are god are your god Babylon, we your we god Babylon, arewe we we are youryour Babylon,are youryour your god are we are god are god bylon,we Babylon, are your god weare Babylon, your are Babylon, Babylon, we bylon,Babylon, yourgod your god we arewewe god ylon, Babylon, yourare your god Babylon, are your god

LAMARCHE

Babylon, are are your god Babylon, we we godwe Babylon, we areBabylon,your god Babylon, Babylon,Babylon, your your are are are god Babylon, wewe we yourareare godgodgod god Babylon, Babylon, are god your your Babylon, your your Babylon, arewe we god Babylon, weBabylon, areyourgodyour god Babylon,we areBabylon,are your your go Babylon,areweare yourwe are your go we Babylon, we we we are your god are we are your your your Babylon,weyour god we god Babylon, we yourgod are god Babylon, are are your god Babylon, weareyour god god we Babylon,Babylon, yourare Babylon,Babylon,areweyour god your go Babylon,Babylon, yourare your god Babylon,areyourwe we aregod god are god Babylon, we are your Babylon, Babylon,Babylon, youraregod god wewewe we we god we god are are Babylon,Babylon,aregod your Babylon, we youryour Babylon,Babylon, yourareare your god we arewewe we your god Babylon, your are your god god Babylon, wewe are your god are god god

Simon wrote my dissertation Simon carried my heavy portfolio Simon would do anything for me he would eat dog shit if I asked him he let me treat him like dirt I let him fuck me with a ladle he stripped me naked in the kitchen in front of a full-length mirror Love Pig was standing outside watching us through the window hidden by the begonias wanking and moaning my name Simon was sitting behind me displaying me to the mirror fondling my softer skin losing himself in my reflection coating me in good cream cheese plucking my pussy hairs slowly easing the ladle in the late night kitchen - lights blazing - off his face on cheap drugs stirring me with the ladle we were lapping it up

I only let him fuck me once with his willy now he wants to do it again he wants to whisk me to the sea-side for a never-ending dirty weekend last night he was bawling his eyes out said he can never believe a word I say now he’s performing on my doorstep he’s gift-wrapped and blowing me kisses he’s galloping round my front garden pretending he’s a fire-breathing goat he’s hammering and spicing his meat he’s slobbering over her nextdoor’s feet he’s prizing the lid off his jam jar he’s tying red ribbons in his hairy he’s poking his dick in my letterbox he’s spunking all over my hall I want the one who was watching

Penny Goring

1

Ornamental Onion 1, 2, 3
& he wore the hooker’s green i want to stand where no living thing creeps i want to stand where there are so many colours, where light trembles, where night shiver cobwebs cling to trees in the shrink of distance I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU ARE i want to stand where we slip slightly, thrilling in the stoned river, falling sideways to a ramshackle future where none are more fuchsia than us i want pyrotechnic planets to plunge i want blasted moons astral projecting slippery gibberish over the high-rise roofs i want you muzzled in gibberish, all over everywhere, all over me all over i want to stand where dead things crawl SPEAK TO ME HELL-BLAST 24 I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE i imagined you & you were heliotrope harlequin international klein blue ghost-written crepuscular house with one room & you bled bad dreams & you wished old lies

colour me atomic tangerine i imagined myself & i was phlox saxifrage pompom ranunculus

poppy anemone ornamental onion rattlesnake red ribbon nerine & i loved the painted tongue & i wore the rattlesnake at poppy anemone ceremonies & across myrtle mimosa until morning i worshipped the ornamental onion in calla lily seizures & i bled achillea & i wished phlox & i kissed wysteria my mouth a red wet saxifrage

2

i want to stand where no shadows fall colour him american tan

he imagined himself & he was heliotrope harlequin international klein blue ghost-ridden crepuscular groom & he loved the heliotrope jungle

in my world, where you can slip slightly, fall sideways or headfirst, & be a goner long gone

& he loved the feel free falling & he wore the hairy view he wore the tits slung sideways, he wore the bragging hole, he loved the dodgy downer, he wore the dangling balls, he loved the real alive, he wore the DROP DRASTIC

3

out the window

eventually a time will come when we move strangely with strangers

eventually a time will come when ornamental skins slime

colour him green with white dots is a garden - disaster COMES TRUE is a long way down he imagined himself & he was SO MANY COLOURS DERMO-STABBER & he was pouring out the window FORGET-ME-NOTTER & he was puddling on the ground 30 FOOT SPLATTER NOW clown him acrobatic descent spread him bubblegum carpet frazzle him gutter kebab cosy him comatose pocket soak him leaking bladder warm him reeking arse speed him indecent teeth will tear him apart & he bled dogs & he wished wheelchairs & he kissed disastrous his mouth a scrimping lack i want to stand without him

i want to stand where he fell i want to stand where thousands of me are up-rooting geraniums, plagued by tulip, mad for rose, spliced by his message - planted, watered, bones colour him a bigger NOW with more captivating & convoluted & charismatic holes - slashed slovenly his finer fabric peeks through i married the alarming Mick O’Mara & we rode the desert on his llama today’s background lacks depth & he took SO MANY COLOURS & the shadow he casts is his pecker i can see it out the corner of my eye - velvet dense blot, glooming night-time, swelling in his smalls he said: stop looking for pristine days & get loose, like trapeze woman

where good days rattle unattended in the anti-flash yellow white cupboard & i bleed bad dreams & i wish arsenic morning & i kiss the colour of darker I DON’T CARE WHERE YOU ARE & i don’t care why you are - i just want to get in your car, not going very far. i just want to get in your bubble & cause you my kind of trouble colour me AuroMetalSaurus & we will meet in Peckham on that busy street by the bus station & i’ll insist we buy strong lager in multi-packs of four & i’ll walk before you down the risky road & you will observe my lop-sided bum wiggle & i’ll remember you like me best (in royal blue vyella my face is ugly beauty like this world the ornamental onion is unpeeling

i said: i’ve a scar on my left knee, a scar on my right unpeeled - revealed - sloughed off) big toe, a scar on my left cheekbone, two on my belly & one inside my belly-button in the shape of the cross later on we’ll go to Film Nut’s private view. too rarefied the atmosphere, too banal the paintings - endless he said: break those bones & see what comes of it tiny aeroplanes flummoxed with airfix precision in colourfields of flatdead greyblue, & there are videos & you kissed cold sweat showing Film Nut painting his pointless aeroplanes to be hung on the walls of office suites & the walls & i do, i do of in-crowd outhouses. colour me drunken blackout. i kiss the shrink of distance i will march up to him & call him out for the void & the where bad days cling damp to trees crapness & the last good hoping. when he flinches politely i will see red & kick him in the bollocks. when where bad dreams cling to these my arms, these my he doubles over i will see yellow & slap him round fingers, these my eyes the chops. i’ll never give him the apology he waits on. back in your towerblock room we’ll make memories where good days rattle in the wreckage you’ll hastily regret. you’ll refuse to remember & i will never forget where good dreams float on flame river

i ransacked my bones to find you & i found bones i walked in circles on the beach & i found stones i looked out to sea & i saw more sea i looked inside myself & i saw more me i go on & on & i’m sea-sick me & me - we are this thick i want studded codpiece with piss flaps i want studded heartpiece with lie flaps i want studded headpiece with dream flaps are you a bigger creature? i come from The World of Thing near The State of That your face is ugly beauty like my world FUCK WHO WHY WHAT WHERE WHEN - do it sharpish, slap-happy - make it snappy unpeel yourself for me you golden ornamental onion fuck yourself for me fuck your life fuck your wife fuck me

Illustrations by Tyler Rubenfeld

The impotence that followed me through Vietnam and noose around Chester’s neck tightens. A bland indifference principle. We’re going out, drinks at someone’s house. I’d rather listen to the hankering within; rather listen to 10-42 operations per second. Just for you I said. Lowne looks over at Frances. Such a look scrapes my insides. It’s slimy and a slow circus. I don’t reply. I push also being a difference in synaptic discharges, raising the brush in the direction of assume. The thesis of substrateindependence is the baby from my arms, all senses. There’s richness in the air, a neck, a rigging paunch designed for bureaucrats. Alleys that run off aren’t safe. At the breakfast counter, I read the newspaper. The water is hot. An alternative estimate, based upon the number of virtual species at our level. The bottle. The rim feels warm. I’m ten minutes late. The sun. The diazepam, the tea. I find out that they regularly admit ancestor-simulations run by such interested civilizations. We usually have no way of confirming that one of them is us. We’re hung here, a few different switches and ends. Eventually my head rests. Frances walks away, along the end-road. I just walk off. I walk needing

A SEVERE FORM OF SKIN TORTURE
something to drink. Frances is outside smoking. A cayenne is rubbed into the gash now open wide. I cleave that is wrapped round the cold bottle. “Someone else is in trouble.” Chester mumbles. I look over. Wheat belt. The tub is how we left it. I’m drowsy, entering into a sullen stroll. Out from up top of my singlet, my palm slaps with saliva. I try. Will civilization ever get to be post-human though? I want to piss. Frances doesn’t even look up to reply. I work out a window to jump from. The window is covered with an occasional moss from the street, stumbling onto parked cars prescribes indifference only. Tufts of smoke, immense visual aberrations make me look up. I look at it and then sample over my eyebrows. “Hello?” “Samuel, it’s me.” I recognise the voice, an ember, now shown up in thought. We are currently living in automobiles. Aeroplanes buzz past. I scrawled on Chester’s leg. I turn the volume down. Post-human civilization is negligible. Vapid blades, her lungs expel a flying light, the conversation I’m independently

BY SHANE JESSE CHRISTMASS ILLUSTRATIONS BY SHONA MACPHERSON

verifies. The paradigmatic case of Chester’s face rolls around. I’m sitting, thrilled at the bits, however it suffices, for our purposes have fallen. The top soil of cement. “I think we’re done.” Chester says. Super-powerful computers run detailed simulations of what Frances says. A thin, bird’s peak paring, living in some city flat.

“I’m disgusted, want to try them on?” Lowne asks me. He’s indicating to some old trousers. Turning around I occurs to me that Frances can’t speak. “How you can play that?” I mention. Chester raps sharply with his gavel. “Who helped you? He asks Frances.

By the way, I’ve never seen Chester pull on the boots. I leaver the hotel, Frances tells me that I’ll find them all uptown later on this evening. Then there’s a crude trick. I spin around, walking quickly to the door, throwing up my lighter, fascinated. Chester doesn’t catch my lighter. He leaves it. He’s getting into his coat. Lowne and Chester walk toward the Clerk. The doors open, sounds. The wind’s been blowing off the desert, all salty Northerlies since midnight. I tap on the glass, press my face. Leaning back into the sofa Chester asks me if I want to try his sunglasses on. Turning around, leaving the verdict aside, there is one change to the thoughts. I notice this moment before. Lowne glances towards me. He puts money in his pocket. A reverse shot from behind Lowne. The bartender serves drinks. Frances puts her teeth in. “How are you all?” she asks. “We all getting along?”

They pass me the handcuffs of wire from the roll desk. Lowne is rifling through my suits that are hanging in the wardrobe. His tonsils are like glue. The waiter knows me. Now I’m the killer, a dead man doling out cupfuls of medication. A graduation present. I’d like to, but I can’t hear them all. It’s bedlam. Lowne is tall, solemn-looking customs official. Frances won’t let me take my mouth. I’m sure the waiters say something different. We sit down. Chester enters a little late for a meeting. “We’ve met before.” He tells me. “I saw you send those two men into France’s room before?” Interior. The Hotel. Porter’s Desk. Corridor. Main Time. It’s against the law to check into this place. “I don’t like your perfume.” Chester continues.

hanging up clothes in the wardrobe. Frances comes out the bathroom, her lips with her handkerchief, almost in a bottle tipped over. I kneel, further away from the singing. The usual grind at first. It doesn’t hurt at all. I help her up onto the mattress. She is nervous. She’s fidgeting, twitching and annoying of guilt. Chester and Lowne have a perve-glance collecting across their faces. “You arseholes. It’s Frances.” I yelp.

There is no way we are all getting along, and that just leaves strangers. Septic smells have been floating around all week. There are dumb creatures, but no different smells, the sewer rushes into the courtyard. Where are these? Same as an hour ago. Remember? I wouldn’t know. Just do it. Chester looks me up dryly. I head back from where I came,

Hours later, Frances eye explodes. I don’t say anything. The ground is leathery. Lowne and myself are shoe-less, but the .38 automatic slips on the ground. It goes off. I can hardly walk when I am well dressed. There’s a dead carcass. Lowne, by his own admission, and in his nature, is a thief. The sage practices non-action. At first, Frances pushes him. She throws him across the table toward me. I take him to the hospital, swallowed in a bank of fog. I take a dollar note from Frances’ purse. I’m wearing a blue pinned striped suit, jeans flowing off my arm and I nod. Walking under overpasses, breezes on window glass next to me. It’s heated, sorry. (Reading). Because you think you’re in love. If so, I must say, and then he points very stern cigarettes at me. Threatening to singe my nostrils. I think he’s friends with the immigration officer. He

looks like he’s familiar with rope ladders and the life belt. Distantly, there is a sudden downpour. Chester acts all leisurely, holding out a pin, rubbing its end, summoning the species still alive to begin to charge. I’m sitting under the pergola. Wind is still a Police officer. I shrug. We’ve been dumb. Covering Frances in a blanket, I become detached. Chester nods his head for most of the evening. We both stop and take a good look. The camera pans over to Frances lovely eyes. “Do you think I was faking?” Lowne asks me. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not an expert on these matters.” On the highway from Phnom Penh to Sihanoukville, I forget the woollen blanket, the hotel rug. I surgically removed the mutton, but the roar of the bus is staring at me. I’m scared about how high the sky is. It’s crashing down, hopping into somewhere else. I stand looking around. The bus is lighted in orange. I sway sideways in the chair. Lowne enters from the living room, carrying a tea tray, stacked high with biscuits. Another man indicates for Lowne to sit in the chair opposite him. He’s holding a big roll of currency. He looks over to me. He throws money on the floor. “Get that Frances woman back in her. Let’s get her dancing.” He’s making another attraction for her. He wipes the dried saliva from the corners of his lips. The shut window is rusted. It’s too well seasoned. Outside humid in the streets. Those hoarse shrieks of death, the clunking sound has a meaning. Nice and friendly, this man chases his own arse so much, he turns my way again. “Say, did you ever know Juror No. 7?” “I can’t say I did. Was she Khmer?” This man’s face is primary and uncivilised. It’s either obnoxious or extravagant. My sleepy eyes go down very slow, not today, perhaps not tomorrow and not too thin either. His sensual pursuits have led him away. This is why I’m shaken.

‘Catch me at a courtroom with a jail, you always can.” The man mentions to me as he walks off.

“What’s up with you?” Lowne sniggers.

He signals, he says mockingly, in a childlike voice. Chester comes in. Frances flays about on the bed. The thunder frightens her, a pompous and nude collection of nonsense, of secret knowledge. Then the monsoon drizzles down. Frances inhales the solvent. She looks unsophisticated. Buskers wilting outside in the midday sun. There’s a tout with a new sun. I silently cry over last night. My body is threading on. Chester turns to me and the camera pans past him. He’s perhaps not a physical need, but more and more, Frances puts her arm around him and dances off. The power of the open door. “Why have all the cleaning labels been removed from my jackets?” Chester bellows.

He staggers up to me. I notice a mild smell of tobacco on his breath. It drives with the clearness of ice. He takes a deep breath. Chester stands on my doorstep, asking if I have heard anything. To me, it’s not like he is drunk. “I’m terribly sorry, Chester. I haven’t heard a thing.” He pushes off me with a filthy hand. He can’t stop the numerous ideas, characteristics or early morning. I hear the ousting, the roped holes for keys, messages. Signing into the hospital required wellness. Walking up the hill to the relapse prevention plan, I follow the blood on the tiles. I stand up, inside the flat with something laughing at Frances in the afternoon. Blurred, I stare at a glass of water. I fill the basin with used water. Prevention again. There is very little documented.

‘’
‘by’ ‘tao lin’

I

A More Perfect Union: Alt.Lit and Criticism
Alt.Lit is not just a community anymore, it’s part of something much larger – part of a flow of culture that largely originates on the internet but which is going to have an impact beyond just the online world. The New York meet-ups, the illuminati chapters around the world, etc. already attest to this fact. I suspect that a contributing factor to the difficulty in calling Alt.Lit a movement, and what spurs the hesitancy to recognize it as such, is how impossible it is to delineate the ‘genre bounds’. Instead, the fallback, idealized position of “it’s just a community” is used instead.

When I first presented these two critiques of ‘Alt.Lit’ on my blog and solicited responses and feedback from the community members I know, the majority of the responses I received largely rejected my criticisms on the basis that I had misdiagnosed it as a cultural/artistic movement rather than as merely “a community”. I found these responses, while completely understandable, largely unsatisfactory.

dived into the massively distributed online community that calls itself “Alt.Lit” a few months ago. My journey of discovery is not so important, but it started on twitter, moved to Facebook and now I see it everywhere; as the understandable cultural response to the same thing motivating #Occupy in the US and UK: “Shit is fucked up and bullshit”. But Alt.Lit (obviously) does something quite different to Occupy, something worth interrogating a bit.

Ben Abraham

Secondly, even if the Alt.Lit movement were just a community that does not put it beyond the reaches of critique – every artistic, political or social movement starts as a community. At the risk of being hyperbolic, even the early Nazi party formed as a community. Communities can certainly have political and ethical implications, especially if these communities “leak” out onto Firstly, being a ‘community’ of artists rather the internet like the Alt.Lit community does. than a distinct artistic movement (like say, Chapbooks, Tumblrs, art projects, whatever – if dada, surrealism, impressionism, etc) obscures you make something and other people can see the fact that the whole becomes greater than it, find out about it and have a response to it… if the sum of its parts. It also ignores the way that you are not addressing the affect of the things these types of movements emerge – no one you make, be it your words; or your poetry; or recognizes the movement itself until it’s well your jpgs; or your pdfs; who you associate with, and truly established, and already on the way to or who you choose to be friends with; you are being supplanted by the next one. I worry that abdicating the responsibility of the artist that Alt.Lit will (broadly) ossify into a movement you are. that when it does it’ll be too late to change or fix the criticisms I make below.

So in light of the above, and in the spirit of the Gettysburg address’ entreaty to work towards ‘A More Perfect Union’, I present the following two criticisms of Alt.Lit that I believe deserve active attention and addressing.

If I wanted to get Nostradamic I’d be tempted to say, “Alt Lit is the current vision of young American’s cultural future”. On what grounds do I make this claim? On no grounds – and that’s precisely the point, a little bit of a taste of ‘alt lit’ (Alt LITE?). One blog proclaimed that ‘Postmodernism is dead; Long Live Alt Lit’ and I had no idea whether the détournement of that phrase was intentional, whether it was aware of the irony in twisting the original in that way. Did they mean to do that to the meaning of “The King is dead; Long live the King”? Was it a coy play on the nature of the inheritance between these two movements? There’s a long tradition of pop cultural mangling and repurposing of the phrase, so perhaps it was just something cool to do to the phrase. Just another meme. Is questioning the original meaning “the point”, or am I giving them too much credit? I don’t think they care. Certainly, this is a prevailing attitude in much of the Alt.Lit I’ve encountered. Which brings me to my first critical question:

wonder if it made sense to think of the refusal to engage in (or with) criticism as a mask, as a shield to forestall criticism. Like a generation of internet artists, poets and writers all collectively decided: “Hey, I know, we’ll never make anything that can be criticized as ‘bad’ if we turn bad into a virtue!” There’s a long history of movements doing so before Alt.Lit and flarf – from Punk in the 70s, to Riot Grrrl in the 90s. Could we think of the 80s turn to ‘Greed is Good’ as a similar valorization of bad? This would give Flarf and Alt.Lit a connection to an older and deeper tradition to itself, but paradoxically, its practitioners seem to resist anything like an awareness or connection to history.

1) How does Alt.Lit do criticism?

A little about my background – I spent a couple years in the videogame criticism trenches, running the community site ‘Critical Distance’ to encourage the growth and diversity of the game criticism community. Criticism is just what I do, probably as a result of growing up in a household that frequently yelled at the TV when something worth criticizing was said. So when I found flarf, I began to look for strategies and methods of criticism. But how do you criticise and critique something that is (very often) intentionally bad? What would Alt.Lit criticism even look like? I began to

All of which paints Alt.Lit and Flarf in particular as horribly defeatist, but then again perhaps I haven’t “been” defeated in the same way… It must be pretty terrible to be a young American right now (how quickly things change – remember when everyone hated Americans? Remember Bush? Remember Clinton?). And I’m not even talking about the economic climate, per se, rather about the libidinal crushing that America faces everyday the promised “greatest country in the world” fails to eventuate. Instead they got George Dubya’s injunction to “Keep shopping! Don’t panic!” I mean, fuck, the adults who were children throughout the 90s and early 00s were promised that they were the best! If it were me, I’d be mad. I’d be mad as fucking hell. Either that, or be crushed. So in that context, the reflex to avoid criticism makes sense. But to have a mature and developed form (if Alt Lit even aspires to such – and I have my doubts about that too) means to have “better” and “poorer” examples of the genre. So far all the criticism I’ve seen has been pretty polarised – “quickshit” as a meme (which is interesting in itself), or “BOOST” the best stuff. In an essay titled ‘The Art of Criticism in the Age

of Interactive Technology: Critics, Participatory Culture, and the Avant-Garde’ Ryan Gillespie makes a convincing case for why criticism is important. According to Gillespie, we are stuck with a paradox in which:

Compare that with the AltLit Ur-figure Tao Lin, who claimed the following in an email exchange documented by Marie Calloway on Vice: …I and most people published that I know of…honestly believe that there is no good or bad in art (for example I 100% believe a 10-year-old’s writing is not less good than James Joyce’s, or replace either with any people)

…the critic is someone who can direct attention to the new and alert society to a politics of difference at play, and is also someone who can, by that same token, be a dominating and subjugating force in the face of contrary opinions. The critic can both subjugate and emancipate… one is caught between the Scylla and Charybdis of “standards” and “no standards”; without standards, all work is of seemingly equal quality (pure democracy), which clearly is not the case nor is even desirable…

To what ‘ends’ can the artist or the viewer, reader, participant, etc, put the work and how well does it achieve them? In the case of Flarf, this might even be a meta-end, like ‘Do not have an end’ to which much Flarf conforms quite well, and which we can celebrate. Declarations of good/bad relative to some ‘end’ or cultural/ communal/artistic standard is useful, and a far cry from a 10-year old being as good as Joyce, which seems to be what Tao Lin suggests. Gillespie’s most salient point is that the new needs friends: …the Web 2.0 mentality of participation and all opinions as equally valid transforms criticism to simply expressivist-type feedback of “I like it/I don’t like it” judgments—that is, as a matter of mere taste. This thereby reduces the possibility for The New to be nurtured and furthered. This is necessary, for, as Anton Ego, the food critic in Ratatouille, so aptly put it: “The New needs friends”. And in the age of information, The New needs more help than ever before in being discovered and shared.

It’s almost impossible to take that statement seriously. No one has talked in earnest about art in explicitly ‘good’ or ‘bad’ terms outside of a high school classroom for close to fifty years. Gillespie offers a variation on philosopher Steven Findlay’s ‘end-relational’ theory of criticism, saying,

…the idea that the [work] is simply good, or simply bad, does not make much sense. One needs to know what [one] means by their declaration, which means asking, good in what way? This necessitates identifying an end; that is, what is the [work] good for?

In other words, without criticism and without critics to encourage audiences in the direction of the new, we can get mired in the old. If you’ve realized that part of what I am trying to do with this essay is this very task: namely encourage audiences to develop a taste for ‘better’ Flarf, etc, then ten points for Gryffindor. So is Alt.Lit an experiment in excising negative criticism from the entire system? Is the ‘end’ it is being put to just ‘avoid all criticism’? Forget about anything that isn’t worth “Boosting” and just “Live ur lief”? Maybe… but isn’t that almost worse? Neglect is the ultimate “fuck you”. Nobody cares enough to say “I think this isn’t good”.

An insidious alternative is that instead people just don’t say what they mean when someone isn’t ‘getting’ or doing good Alt Lit or something. When someone is just not ‘doing’ very good stuff, does anyone actually say so or does the collective just pass over like the Angel of the Lord? Alt Lit can’t be “everything” – there must be better and worse examples, and approaches and goodness knows what else. Leaving those things unarticulated and tacit comes with political obligations (which I don’t think have been properly interrogated. We’ll come back to that at point No.2). When I wrote the first version of this essay, I realised that I hadn’t read enough Beach Sloth to know for sure if he really does much ‘criticism’ or just ignores the not great stuff. Here’s what I found: I don’t know even what is going on in these three songs. Ghostandthesong makes no sense. This may be one of the most baffling, incoherent journeys ever put into MP3 format. I mean that as the sincerest complement possible.

relationship to criticism:

This is genuinely funny, and a nice deconstruction of mainstream musical reviews… but what would it mean truly for a medium to treat incomprehension in a work as a virtue? Not a kind of “anything goes” postmodern relativity – but instead an absolutely radical, nihilistic, all-encompassing One of the first pieces of Flarf/Alt.Lit criticism rejection of attempts at comprehension? I ever read was an essay on the Bangolit blog, Probably something excitingly different to Alt which echoes many of my own points: Lit, to be honest, because I suspect much of it I haven’t seen a single mildly critical, or doesn’t live up to such a lofty goals. Perhaps even questioning, comment on a piece some of it does – but I strongly suspect a of flarf in a while. The review sites are radical enough audience to accept such nihilism often not much better—since boosting or emptiness does not exist, and it’s an open caught on, their fangs have been pulled. question whether one even could. Tiptoe around things you don’t like, hem There’s plenty more one could say about Beach and haw. To openly dislike something Sloth here – after the first attempt at this can result in public evisceration (see: essay, he posted a commentary-reply on his Hazel Cummings). Not that it comes up blog that sheds some light on Alt.Lit’s often. Everyone is positive about

The point is well made – critics do not appear overnight, they too take time and Alt.Lit is (relatively young). I also have to give credit to a fellow curator. Having done Critical Distance for a few years I know what it’s like being an often reluctant gatekeeper for a community. I also dealt with many of the same issues, and often I did just pass over the not-great stuff, but sometimes I did mention it and call it out. Sometimes you do need to editorialise.

The alt lit experience appears to grow out of an older more negative idea: trolling. One searches for something repugnant or that they viscerally disagree with and playfully comment, annoying others. I consider alt lit to be a literary form of trolling. Probably that’s what I like most about alt lit. Trolling however has an almost exclusively negative connotation. As a result of many of alt lit writers’ familiarity with trolling they prefer more positive forms of communication. Boosting is born out of this desire for ‘positive trolling’ and promotion. Experience with trolling makes it harder to outright ‘slam’ the piece of a fellow friend. Feel as alt lit grows it will find more and more constructive forms of criticism.

Not making things any easier with respect to Flarf is the fact that there is a real history of explicit ‘badness’ to the content of the form, beyond just “crappy” badness a la Faceobok. This page featuring comments and explanations by many of the pioneers of Flarf, mentioning several times that racial slurs were an important part of making the early Flarf poems. Gary Sullivan defined Flarf as: “A quality of intentional or unintentional “flarfiness.” A kind of corrosive, cute, or cloying, awfulness. Wrong. Un-P.C. Out of control. “Not okay.””

everything, to a fault.

2) Alt.Lit, as far as I can tell, is very white, and middle class.

And here’s my take on this sort of thing: in your closed community you can pretty much say whatever you like. If you and your friends want to use whatever horrible slur you like in private, go nuts! But as soon as you get out into the world-around-internet you aren’t in a private space anymore. Someone will stumble upon something you’ve written and find it genuinely offensive, horrible, and reinforcing priviledge, oppression, racism, sexism etc– and they won’t be wrong just because they don’t have your community context. ‘Authorial intention’ (even the lack thereof) doesn’t wash. Outsiders misunderstanding it, not getting the “irony” of your subversive/reflexive redeployment of the term “wetback” or “cockboy” or whatever doesn’t make it any less of an example of real and actual oppression. Which brings me to my second reservation.

If you’re going to do “internet community” as the main exercise of your art scene, movement, etc, and you’re not going to do it in a private forum – whether you couch it as art or literature or not, then you need to engage in the politics of diversity and inclusiveness. Ignoring them is not an option. You can literally make

I’m not wrong in saying that Alt Lit has a diversity problem, when it comes to race, class and culture. This is one of the reasons I’m so excited for Meat Confetti’s international flavor: voices and perspectives and art from outside the Western hemisphere. This is a weird position for me to be in because, as an Australian, I am surrounded by whiteness where I live and in where I grew up. Some of the stereotypes are kinda true. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I think the dearth of critics is also hindering the engagement with these issues. In a 2010 blog post, videogame critic and scholar Ian Bogost discussed the role of the critic, saying the following: A critic’s job, in part, is to explain and justify his own tastes, and to act as a steward for those tastes on behalf of a

Whether you want to be or not, you are a part of the world, and the world is political. Don’t misunderstand me – it isn’t about being explicitly political, in fact it’s probably better if you aren’t, but understand the political dimensions of what you do and say, what you choose to BOOST, the aesthetics you enjoy or eschew, even the people you choose to hang around. Diversity and inclusivity do not happen by accident. Make friends with people unlike you. Have humility and patience and openness, be ready to be hurt or misunderstood, and try to understand by entering into the life, situation, class, gender, sexual orientation, etc, of someone unlike you. Learn about feminism. Read Das Kapital for Beginners. Get some education about the way ‘priviledge’ operates in surreptitious and pernicious ways to benefit people of a certain colour.

the world a worse place through well intentioned ignorance and avoidance. Visibility is an issue – and again the lack of critics to help befriend the new, to help raise the prominence of a diversity of voices is not helping.

But by the same rights, we can be challenged by our favorite critics to think differently, and encouraged to expand our horizons. This is another role that I hope Meat Confetti can play. For example, MC editor Feözsz Zszöef pointed me towards the irrepressible Andrea Coates, who seems completely under-rated in the Alt. Lit scene. Coates’ has been a vocal critic within the community herself, and her ‘Throw the Tao Lin’ piece should be considered a part of the Alt Lit canon. Her “Alt Lit Porn” is also brilliant and nearly impossible to describe, but I dare anyone to seriously objectify her in the traditional pornification way in her Alt.Lit context.

constituency of readers. People tend to circle around the critics we respect and, more so, agree with because we come to trust their taste. There are pros and cons to such a tendency, the most obvious downside being that we can avoid stretching our minds by surrounding ourselves with only like-minded ideas.

encouraging the movement to be better, more diverse, more queer, more skeptical, more strange and wonderful, more careful, more engaged. Critics can draw attention to the new and the good and nurture a growing artistic movement so that it avoids the pitfalls of its predecessors.

And I guess I should mention that one of the areas that Alt Lit does seem to do okay in is gender diversity (at least you’re beating videogames!). While I’d love to be wrong about all these criticisms I think most will agree that I’m not too far off-base. These issues seems pretty important to me, even as something of an outsider. The Alt Lit community and its irrepressible positivity is a bit of a problem, even if it is (or has been) the source of much strength. It’s a bit of a paradox. If Alt Lit is going to be influential outside of just “white kids making stuff for other white kids” can it afford to keep holding on so tightly to its relentless positivity and aversion to critique? I worry, because it’s been a defining feature… but perhaps the time is coming where that may not entirely be a good thing… perhaps that time is already here. So here’s my tentative answer: more critics. More criticism, and all with a goal in mind of

VEGAN HOT POCKETS

TABLE OF CONTRIBUTORS
ASCIDIAN S. KAMBECK.........................1-3 AUSTIN ISLAM............................................4 CHRIS DANKLAN........................................5 DEMISTY BELINGER..................................6 HEATH ISON...............................................7 JOHN THOMAS MENESINI..........................8 JONSY CHEWY............................................9 LEE PETRAY...............................................10 MEGAN LENT.....................................11-13 MOON TEMPLE..................................14-15 MOON TZU...............................................16

SAMANTHA CHURCH...............................17 SAMWISE BATEMAN..........................18-25 SCOTT LEWIS...........................................26 WILLIAM FISHBACK.................................27

White Logic Ascidian S. Kambeck WHITE LOGIC

Extending out from the grey sun, light travels across a sphere of space, some of which meets blind black earth, lighting it up, fading down into it, causing white fingers to push up underneath inside it, making grey bulges that move underneath inside it, some of which extend out of it and move above. Eye’s provided to a blind white heart. White sees itself reflected, Meets itself. The wind during deafening gravity. Ear of the chest cupped with a boiling seashell. A hand holds it there, loosely tightly moderately, pull it away, it fades into the winds of the world. Up from -¡- -¡- -¡-’s white heart extends a hand, into the mind, where it sculpts through the greys and blacks, towards and into white. A mirrored sphere, inside white, rotates. He then sets out to sculpt other minds white. His means is to first get the attention of the set of eyes that are performing some act that through them only white itself could have performed. The act causes a number of the sets of eyes to be sculpted naively white, through which he speaks wisdom. A number of the sets of eyes occupy a shade of grey or black in relation to the act, but the minds are sculpted white by the subsequent words. Mirrored spheres, inside white, rotate. A number of the sets of eyes are sculpted white by the act, but the minds occupy a shade of grey or black in relation to the subsequent words. After acts have been performed and words spoken, a number of minds still occupy a shade of grey or black in relation to the white of -¡- -¡- -¡-, Not all these minds experienced it first hand. In varying degrees of influence, a number of these minds -¡- -¡- -¡-’s body towards and into a fixed position, that is, nailed to a wooden cross by the wrists and ankles.

-¡¡- writes. Surrounding greys and blacks mingle with his heart, towards and into white space, white world. Softer than skin. Two mirrored spheres , inside white, touch, and rotate against each other. A hand gripping a chisel, another gripping a mallet extend from -¡- -¡-’s eyes. They move around a mass of greys – the mallet striking the chisel which strikes the mass – sifting them away , til what is left is a white body. Two mirrored spheres, inside white, rotate.

¡¡ walks, then stops, and paints his eyes through the surrounding greys til they are white.

1

Two mirrored sphere’s, inside white, touch. Fading down back into greys again, he must reach white again, but sometimes he is too tired or lost, either to begin, or to get there once he has begun, so his eyes remain shades of grey, at a point, either reaching white again, or fading back down into dreamless black. A painting seen, now faded. ¡¡ there to witness. Innumerable insufficient attempts are the past. ¡¡ struggles. Black sculpts a loaded gun into the left hand. And sculpts the left shoulder elbow and wrist so that the barrel is aligned with the stomach. It sculpts the left index finger back against the trigger, firing a bullet, It becomes lodged in the stomach, Left there, The poisons in the lead over time drain the eye’s of their fuel – ¡¡ paints one eye on what surrounds him white, and one eye rotated back, viewing itself, that is being sculpted towards black, The light dampened by supernatural rain clouds – til what of blind black.

¡¡ sculpts heads through the greys til they are white, He sifts away the greys with his white magnet eyes, A pair of hands that extend from his eyes sculpt the matter in from of him, til there is no head left, only white in the form of a head. That is, the grey head is disappeared in the blinding light of the eyes. Two mirrored spheres, inside white. Everchanging, always close, but sufficiently far so that he must keep struggling to reach it, he sees white blind til his eyes are drained of their fuel, leaving what of blind black. Forever dreaming, he puts on wings, others change to stone. n’s white heart extends through the motion of his body, down the stick in his right hand, to some runny paint at its tip, that is guided across a column of air, down on to a canvas flat below, freezing there, extended through towards itself. Awoken in an enveloped by black, from it’s sleep in white, he is a ¡ ¡ sculpture that paints mirrors to see itself in, That is, he becomes a ¡¡ sculpture a the point he successfully paints a white mirror. A mirrored sphere, inside white, blinks. The same struggle as ¡¡, except he sees no greys, either black or white. A painting seen, now gone. Black floods into the eyes, drowning white eyeless, from where without pause black begins again to push up. n is now unable to paint the mirrors. Eyeless, he struggles to witness white, but none manifesting, The Period extends. One night, black sculpts the body inside a car. A finger extends from the dark eyes, flicks a switch, providing them with an area of light in front, then retracts back into the eyes. A pair of hands extend from the eyes, becoming the steering wheel – the direction. A foot extends from the eyes and presses flat on the accelerator, becoming the accelerator – the motion. Eyes sculpt the body across the surface, through the surroundings, towards black. They steer the mind in line with and sculpt it at this speed against a tree trunk.

2

Exploding it dreamless black with no breath.

Black space envelops ¡. A fist extends from his white heart, He turns it back on his non-existent self, which is nowhere in particular, a hopeful particular within the area of a canvas. He punctures. With each connecting fist a wound rips across the canvas. He punches his legs into existence. He punches his stomach chest neck and arms into existence. He punches his head into existence, nose mouth eyes ears hair. He punches into existence the space around him, which is also his body. Till within the area exists a white body. A mirrored sphere, inside white.

Black space envelops – He writes. The cogs of his words pressed up against his mind – mind rotating the words, words rotating the mind – through the greys down, Or rotated now rotating against his white heart eyeless white A ¡ ¡ sculpture writing itself. No mirror to fool white into thinking it has been awoken. No mirror to fool – into thinking he has awoken it. White sleeps inside him. He rests inside white.

Black space envelops -n- -n- -n-. A mirrored sphere, inside white, rotates. He sculpts the minds of other breathing bodies into white, through the black spaces that occupy their eyes, that is, the body of -¡- -¡- -¡- replaced with sections of cities. Mirrored spheres, inside white, rotate.

-n-’s mind is enveloped in nothing. With hands that extend from his minds eyes, he sculpts through the surrounding greys til they are white, white spaces, white dreams. A mirrored sphere, inside white, rotates. Fading down back into greys again, he struggles. Black cannot be breathed out of, lungs have been replaced with breathing eyes, their hands sculpt their breath, til Blind black eyes or white.

To bloom through a black hole.

3

veggie wraps on prom night Austin Islam every single time i cook food for myself i think of you i think of you i drain and season the tofu sea salt, fresh garlic, cracked pepper i cut vegetables into rectangles red bell pepper, white onion, fresh spinach, jalapeno pour the olive oil into the skillet smell it warming, text someone else add the tofu to the oil thinking of you in a chef’s apron smiling sweetly, saccharine almost listen to it buzz, put on a cd something angular and progressive remembering that you hate the mars volta ‘on principle’ flip the tofu, admiring the nice golden brown wonder what you’d think of the color brush the cubes out of the pan add more oil, more salt, vegetables text someone else again imagining you giving sarcastic advice on the way i am preparing whatever stir the vegetables briefly contemplate calling you back or double-texting you dance to the song oddly, like a manic preacher the dogs wait for me to drop or toss them something anything, tilting their heads quizzically at the dance take a long swig of beer stir the vegetables again, harmonize to a melody brush the vegetables onto a paper towel dab them softly, put the wrap tortilla on the skillet coat one side quickly with oil, flip it thinking of you laughing with your denver friends funnel the tofu, vegetables into the tortilla add queso blanco, wonder what cheese you’d use instead clap along to a good rhythm section for a second fold over the edges flip it turn off the burner slide it on to a plate leave my phone on the counter eat thinking of your milk white shoulders

4

WHEN LUCY TALKS TO ME I CAN’T HEAR HER BECAUSE I’M OBSESSIVELY WATCHING HER LIPS MOVE Chris Danklan My friend Lucy says that she can imagine the death of us all, where we all will be in the future. She says the cities, having exhausted the limits of latitude by eating up all available land from coast to coast, will turn their eyes upward. “Everything’s already been laid out,” she says, taking a long narcotic drag from the blunt. “Remember the Jetsons?” Exhale. “Townhouses hoisted up on mile long poles? All those flying cars and suspended treadmill expressways? Remember Rosie the Robot Maid?” Lucy has a small, glowing face that I find almost unbearably beautiful. “The new cities will all be built on top of us,” she says. “Burying the old world. Everything you see around us right now will all be buried under...all this first floor, second floor, third floor bullshit. In the future, it’ll all be bulldozed and drowned beneath a concrete ocean. We’re just ghosts waiting to happen. And we’ll be ghosts for a long time, too.” I want to take off Lucy’s t-shirt and put one of her soft, red nipples in my mouth. I want to scoot over and press myself against her body in most lecherous way possible. “Look—” she says, brushing her hair back behind her ears, “Think about how it is below us, fifty feet below us. Everything’s packed solid, right? Everything’s dirt and rock and shell. Frozen in place. Forgotten. And it’s all just right below us...we’re sitting right on top of it, right now...living our lives, having conversations... building things, piling it up. I mean, Houston is FUCKED, can’t you see that? Can’t you see how momentary and fleeting everything is?” She sighs and takes a few last tokes on the blunt--nearly burned away now--pursing her trembling wet lips that I watch so intently, like God himself is hidden inside him.

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A Forced Meditation DeMisty Bellinger With basket in hand, filled with fresh clothes and clothes pins, Phoebe turns to her house and walks bravely towards the back door as she has thousands of times before. But she sees, on the potted fichus, a hawk. Huge. How is it balancing on the tree? Staring right at her. Straight on. Can birds do that? The placement of their eyes? The basket was heavy. The hawk was bigger than the branch on which he had alit. Or she. How could she tell its sex? Did hawks attack people? Were they dangerous? “Shoo,” she said. Basket against her hip, hip jutted out, body in an awkward L, the stance she took when walking with a heavy clothes basket in one hand and the eventual screen door hand in the other. “Shoo, bird.” It stared. Ravenesque. And the weight of it not bothering that fichus leaf. And the weight of the memory of Poe’s poem, the when she learned it, memorized it, for middle school, “while I pondered, weak and weary,” and the weight of all those eyes on her, as she stood there, frozen, unable to say those six words. How fucking clichéd her life was—school plays and stage fright, sixty thousand dollar wedding and two hundred thousand dollar divorce, suicide attempt, sickness, death of others. Here, hawk, you have no fucking idea. “Go the hell away! Go the hell away!” and the hawk just sat. She threw her basket of clothes—so many jeans and yoga pants used for lounging and tee shirts with logos from events she didn’t care to remember because of their commonplaceness, flew around the hawk in a mockery of flight. The hawk narrowed its eyes. It knew how to soar but, more importantly, it knew how to sit.

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HAZMAT Heath Ison Your language has become part of an essential element to provoke a biological warfare. Your words are contagious. A relentless virus which spreads throughout my hopes and Induces acidic dogmatic vomiting. Disfigured faces perform dancing hate rituals and attempt to kill me off with grandeur illusions and doped-up states of gratitude. A counter-action is vital. They have forced my dream to become WEAPONIZED. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

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The Samurai Made Poetry of Death John Thomas Menesini Before the Egos and Temptation they fell grains with their swords Working-class toil humble humility worked utilitarian tools sickles and artistic implements respectively Then some swelled and became sell-swords preferring instead to take desires as they came rather than savor the absence Others still/ wandered Ronin equally free and lost disgraced and limitless most likely in ‘romantic’ silence Now they are away with the dodo and dinosaur until cloning becomes more common Tangential Tical

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GLORY TO HIGH-TECH Jonsy Chewy when you wait so long for something with ‘blood + sweat + tears’ that you begin to forget what it feels like to actually have it when you finally get it you wonder ‘this it?’ and you realize you had grown not to actually want it but you may enjoy it in a way you didn’t think you would yet the yearning for salvation of whatever you think that may consist will persist and insist and make you resist the possibility of selling out but even when you don’t sell out and get something ‘ok’ or ‘alright’ something still feels missing that something is time you spent wanting and for sometime it’ll continue haunting while others continue flaunting and taunting you continue a life ever so daunting a lekker beer here makes your mind clear but fear makes you adhere to your peer one by one your peers hear then call you ‘foo’ you descend into wal-mart surrealism and then all you actually feel is him poking you on facebook just poking nothing else on facebook just poking you poke back he pokes back you poke back he pokes back you poke back he pokes back you eat a snack pack while you ‘like’ that dj

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Three Poems Lee Petray 1. not givingashit in twentytwelve feeling similar to not givingashit any other year on july fourth I am translating ‘Long live capitalism’ in several different languages not feeling so bleak yeah twentytwelve 2. I pressed my forehead against the window air conditioning unit. I thought of all the shapes my body could take mostly plants I think. some carnivorous I was something with teeth chewing In my mouth something with other teeth now condensation begins to build up in a thin layer on my forehead now there are people talking somewhere now someone is smoking a cigarette somewhere now my forehead is numb now I’m a little misquito a porcupine a virus that runs its course through every human body t 3. I sat in an oil drum and drank whiskey from a wine skin and thought about how ‘boring’ I must be. every thing felt like a coward. like recreant fisticuffs.

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Eat Your Meat Megan Lent EAT YOUR MEAT, the woman screams with her spatulas in the air, EAT IT GOOD. the children refuse to eat their meat because they are vegetarians. the mother has gathered up the carcasses of birds and beasts that were hit by armored cars. when the kids die from not eating meat, she will eat them, and feel terrible about it. and then the next day the Rapture will come down and rescue all the lost souls except for her, on account of her eating her kids. IF YOU’D WAITED ONE DAY, the archangel will say, YOUR CHILDREN AND YOU WOULD ALL BE RAPTURED. BUT BOO-HOO. YOU JUST HAD TO GO AND EAT THEM UP, DIDN’T YOU? the mother will cry and cry and beg for a second chance but the archangel will shrug a deep shrug and say EH SHOULDA THOUGHT ABOUT THAT BEFORE.

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How My Best Friend and I Accidentally Met a Schizophrenic on Facebook (Who Proposed to Us) Megan Lent When bored out of your minds with your best friend while trapped in a journalism press room, alone, and when you’ve gotten sick of putting on eighties trailer whore-style eye makeup and taking pictures of yourselves, and when you’ve made up seven verses to a song about the nickname Velvet Titties, and changed every computer’s desktop background to a picture of Kenny Loggins’ album Keep the Fire, the last thing you should do is invent a Facebook page. You could be going in this with the right intentions, as we were: specifically, boredom, and what you pretend to call a “scientific interest in digital media from a sociological perspective.” Because, eventually, a schizophrenic will spam your inbox with rambling love messages and will propose to you in a Youtube video. We started out innocently enough. Miranda made the page and I uploaded a couple pictures of me in a veil and her wearing a wig, and we were live. It’s amazing the number of people who will friend an absolute stranger – and it doesn’t get more absolute than a fake girl who claims to live in Oslo – if said absolute stranger has a half-shrouded, slightly alluring profile pic, and quotes Simone de Beauvoir. Her name is Velvet Loggins. You might be friends with her on FB; she isn’t creepy, she won’t stalk you or steal your credit information, but she sure as fuck isn’t real. Miranda and I ended up being really, really adept and posting hipster bullshit and friending just the right amount of online author-types and real-life artist-types to actually seem like a viable, fucking interesting enigma. And when a guy named Fields McGee messaged us asking to be our friend, we thought nothing of it. Velvet, we decided, is the kind of girl who friends random people and quotes Bob Dylan to them, and occasionally references James Joyce’s famously dirty love letters. She is fearless, sexy, and confident – everything we wanted to be. And, apparently, everything Fields wanted. His messages started off as fairly innocuous, asking us if we’d ever been to the South (we later learned that he lived with his parents in North Carolina), complimenting our sense of humor, coming across as a little odd, but also awed by our newfound seductiveness. By the third or fourth day, Miranda and I started noticing things that didn’t seem quite right. For one, FM only had 9 friends, which led us to believe that he was either a) as fake as we were, or b) an Internet-inept old man with a large stomach and a thick beard attempting to flirt with a stranger from Oslo. (HOW THE FUCK DID SO MANY PEOPLE BELIEVE WE WERE FROM OSLO? AND BORN IN MONTREAL? AND COMMUNISTS? Jesus fucking Christ – there’s a difference between a girl from a Leonard Cohen song and reality.) On further inspection of his page, we realized that FM consistently commented on his own statuses, having full conversations describing the woman he “had finally found and needed to have,” how much he related to Jay-Z, etc. This was when things got creepy. His messages became more numerous, and more unnerved; his words were jumbled, punctuated with disturbingly nervous “hahas.” And then he sent us his manifesto: a series of messages detailing how he wanted to take Velvet away, however he could, no matter how scared she was, and that the sex would be amazing. He wanted us to “join [him] when [we] were ready,” , wanted to “learn everything” about us, told us that he’d “have good days from now on,” and finally declared that he was here, and in, and wanted us, and would have us, and loved us too deeply. He also informed us that the sex would be amazing. He posted a video of himself playing the piano in his mom’s basement, which began with him saying, “this is for you,” and posting in a later status that he hoped “she’s seen the proposal.” Miranda and I were basically through with him at this point. I went to check his page one more time and found a note describing how his brain is “melted like yellow jell-o” and that he suffers extreme hallucinations; he was, in fact, a schizophrenic. And he was in love with us. With me and Miranda. With my picture. With Velvet. Looking back at the first messages, I realized that things like “sometimes my memory plays tricks on me” and “you don’t know what you may have started” were not throwaway lines, but his actual mental state. We knew that we had to block him from our profile, and Miranda sent him a curt

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“we’re two separate leaves blowing in the wind” kiss-off, and deleted him from our lives. The odd thing was, the fact that Miranda and I spent a week as a fake person made us closer to Fields than either of us would really like to admit. Velvet does not exist because Velvet is made of two different people, trying to be one person. It’s like Fight Club, but online, and with less liposuction soap. FM lives in a world that no one else can see, and that he can’t control – there’s no doubt in my mind that what he felt or Velvet was very similar to what I feel when I fall in love. A fake internet persona is an existential crisis unto itself, as strange as that sounds. You stop being in normal-reality, and start seeing everything through an extra pair of eyes. You wonder if people like her, or if they like you. And when you think about that too much, you start to lose it. I wonder if this is what happened to FM; as far as I know, he might not have been “real,” either. What I actually learned, though, from this disturbing week-long one-sided love affair, is that, if I have 500 friends on Facebook, the chances of all of them being real people is a lot slimmer than I’d assumed. As a social experiment, Velvet Loggins served her purpose: Facebook, which I’d been treating as a modern-day soda shop, a gathering place for mindless chatter and bonding with acquaintances, is not real life. That said, there are a lot of surprisingly real problems behind the type of people who use a website to garner attention, make friends, find love. Oh, and the profile is still up. If you friend us, we’ll confirm. But if you propose, we’ll have to delete you.

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Three Poems Moon Temple 1. “i have never felt more sixteen than i feel right now” i whispered to you while rolling over clutching the sheets with my right hand really it was my phone i whispered to it was nice to wake to a text from you this bed is too big for just me 2. i want to say i’m sorry i feel like i am cheating on you even though i’ve done nothing that you haven’t done and i’ve done even less actually and i didn’t even enjoy it one bit they guy i made out with told me that sung tongs is his favorite animal collective album all i could think of was the second time we met you said that you had sung tongs and avey tare and kria’s album in your cd player and that you’d listen to them on repeat my heart felt big the guy i made out with told me that i should forget about writing and do music instead all i could think of was this guys sucks i wish he’d leave he’s not you i wish you’d send me more texts like “i like this girl but she’s not you” but you don’t that often to protect my emotions

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i hate this guy do you want to go somewhere else with with me the beach wish we’d never met i wonder where i’d be i’d be fucking this guy and hating it it’d be ok because hating him is easy and the feelings that i feel for you are hard 3. “i miss you” i want to stay in a cheap hotel with you with a credit card under a fake name i want to drink all of the tiny bottles of liquor in the tiny fridge with you and go swim at 3 am even though the pool closes at 11 pm and make out in the pool until someone comes out to yell at us i want to have forgotten towels and have to walk back up to our room soaking wet with wet footprints leading to the elevator your big ones next to my small ones a big wet spot marking where we stand by our room to kiss before fumbling around for the keycard and going back inside

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mt fuji moon tzu pause me on a VHS player so i repeat up and down the screen dotted with black holes its already 837pm and id rather not let it get dark outside again ive already seen it do that millions of times and to be honest it bores me 16hrs ago at 439am i stepped onto the wet concrete outside barefoot skies were paling waterwash and the smell of dawnbreak made me want to wake up every morning at 439am when the animals move leaves about and the condensation falls in thick blanketing sheets and it is humid in the coldest possible way put me up mt fuji next sunrise/sunset to be obscured and muted in foreign water mist

i might write a novel called ‘on the dirt track gravel road’ the plot is lost in poor weather and red wine to pass the time on a crowded desk of swan filters and empty bottles sticky with spirits and coffee stains i sit on cardboard because the bed is wet with alcohol is this what the free youth would do feel and act upon? the only time i go outside is to smoke when the room is humid to feel cold air in my lungs for two times daily is the free youth a lie like free speech and a free lunch? or a spiritual state of post rebellion blues

untitled moon tzu

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Killer Perspective Samantha Church I spent months searching for the perfect family. Eight months, two weeks, and two days, to be exact. It was April 4th,1994, one day before I’d commit my first murder. I had been thinking about and planning the murders since my 15th birthday, but I didn’t find the family until after my 30th. I first saw the family on an unseasonably warm winter day. Well, not the whole family, but I had noticed a young boy walking with his mother (or so I presumed–they both had red hair). I had been out and about, I just had a haircut. It was a Saturday. Finding my family was probably the last thing on my mind, but when I saw them, I knew. I had really hoped the woman had a husband or at least a boyfriend but I would have gone through with it all even if she hadn’t. She and her boy seemed like a vision walking through one of my dreams. I hadn’t even thought of the possibility of another child. The woman looked young. I followed them home that day. It was actually a little inconvenient because they made a couple stops on the way and I had assumed they’d live in the city, but they lived a little ways away in a small village called Carrollton. Tanglewood Drive was crowded with several houses, each had its own family, but this one was mine. It was perfect. I watched the boy and his mother walk into the house carrying bags of groceries. I made a note of the house number, thirty-nine fifteen. I knew I’d be back soon. I went back several times. I saw the husband and another young boy, about 15 years old. The boy had brown hair and he kept to himself mostly. I don’t think he had many friends, just a yellow dog the family called “Charlie.” I quickly discovered that the boy was deaf. I didn’t catch his name for awhile because no one called him the way they did other members of the family. Daniel wasn’t home often. I’m still not sure what he did for a living. Charlotte stayed at home a lot. She seemed to be very close with her youngest son, Will. She was truly beautiful. She reminded me of my own mother. Will was an extremely active boy, which did worry me some, but he was small and I knew I could overpower him so long as I didn’t let him escape. Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, it was the day before the murders. I’d soon force my way into their home. It’s not that I was particularly angry or felt underprivileged or anything. I was pretty positive about my life. I still am. There was just something about the idea of killing someone. I didn’t think it would be fun. I was only curious. I went through multiple scenarios in my head and I felt I had covered everything I needed to. I was finally ready. I woke up the next morning, more well-rested than I thought I’d be. I did everything I always did on a typical Tuesday. I did some work from my office, laundry, called my grandma and talked for an hour or so. I talked to her as if nothing else was on my mind. I know she suspected nothing. She would have asked. I relaxed in my home for the rest of the day. After dinner, I put on some music and read a little from my favorite book and before I knew it, it was time for me to leave. As I made my way to the house, I was surprisingly calm. I knew that things would work out in my favor. I had memorized the rooms in the house, the schedules of all of those living there–I knew precisely where each member would be at any given time. This is one thing of which I was very proud.

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ELLIOT TRUDEAU SPOKE ABOUT A JUST SOCIETY AND STRIPPED PEOPLES RIGHTS AWAY AT THE FEAR OF THE EXPRESSION FROM SEPARATIST QUOTE-UNQUOTE TERRORIST ORGANIZATIONS AND ENTERED WARTIMES OUT OF FEAR OF THE SPOKEN WORD (AND EXPLODED MAIL-BOX) SAMWISE BATEMAN flee the free market free the poor choke the suited salesmen bartering for more sell the salesless piss away the score get even in a minute and rescind the daily bore live on nothing people live with more than they’ll ever really need and it gets people in an uproar upset stomachs inexpensive food kills you young and smog from city industry killing peoples lungs and the dumb go crazy they’re all keep ignorant and the ones who know it all know nothing but the ritalin that keeps them calm big money spending secure in the world causing torment never-ending i’m indicated anger, i’m pissed off! fuck, ladders global paranoia brewed by terrorists news channelled on a platter that serves the white man, holy man, money man and ghosts worshipping dead celebrities celebrated for their quotes that support a system that’s deliberate and debilitating too a memetic maiming endless credit that’s crushing down on you

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so the debt that you carry an illusionary load a burden murdering the young the brave and the bold and the black and disabled the system’s not finished the caste not ironed out just yet because its in need of some spinach so before it can strengthen let’s all crush the bank level out the playing field and all give our thanks to the ghost of Christmas future, present and past i won’t dignify fools shit for being men of class well-learned and without scorn, fellowship or toil beyond the working class people make my skin crawl and blood boil i’m proving useless, profusely present profound loads of nothing, indignantly spouting faecal formless phrases found on nothing living empty lives on false values, a life built up for nothing we are the camels back and the last straw comes a running so fuck the nothing that we live for because we all live for each other, ourselves, our earth and loved ones we live for no one else but peoples backs are crushed and whipped and forced to set the stones of pointless pyramidal schemings surviving off some tips and that’s the tip of the iceberg lettuce without nutrients, truancy turns the tide on a tutor without students and the prudent and the squeamish, don’t worry that you’re weak, the planets deed is in the meek’s name, we take our places as we speak break down the law the father fucked by sons the immigrant is home now each and every one and work for nobody, no money, and no food we all care for each other and we can all pay our dues kindness, understanding, closer to the heart we don’t need The Man if The People do our parts. - fin.

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Social Media #1 Samwise Bateman TEXAS ISN’T WHAT I THOUGHT IT’D BE TEXAS IS RIGHT. I AM WRONG. TEXAS IS ILLUSION AND I AM PUNISHED. YOU CAN’T READ A STATE OF MIND OR AMERICA. I AM EMBARRASSED. I AM A KING. WEEPING INTO MY CUPPED HANDS, THE POOR MAN TAKES SIPS. TEXAS. I CANNOT FEED MY INTELLECT WITH YOU. AMERICA WHAT IS AMERICA

I Called the drug Addict and she will die, please? + I am confused Samwise Bateman i will Kill All Mad-Men and let the world finally get some rest they keep us awake, i can tell, because i am stuck awake and i always hear them scratching at the walls they do lots of blow, these cats | skrttch skrtch seriously. | skrrttch skrrrrtch i can’t say that drugs are evil but boy do they ever fuck things up! so the Mad-Men were at my house recently and said “here’s the fuck what was it that they said? i can’t remember and i was stuck pissing all over my shoes because they came to the door when my DICK was OUTSIDE of my PANTS i just feinted. it was all i could do oh ya, [close quotation marks]

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MARRIAGE BOUND IN CHAINS; THE HAND TO RISE AGAINST THE FIST THAT MAKES THE BRUISE (or: IN PREPARATION FOR WHAT I’VE HEARD OF UTAH (though it can’t be true, right?)) Samwise Bateman You are what you are (But you have been nothing to me) I’ll still let you leave (Only IF you understand that this is my mercy) You slap back my hand (And you’ll get what is coming to you, now) I grab both sides of your head (And I pull you in-) CLOSE (Close) CLOSE (Close) CLOSE (Close) I still spit on your face, Did I spill and make a mess again? Oops, that’s for you to clean up this time! For what cause do I suffer a constant abuse? What season must I wait for before the cold will disappear And I can be hugged by the sun? I’ll face one wall Where the trickle keeps me company Shit where I sleep And eat what I sleep in At the very least I need Some light and fresh air I lick moisture off the walls... And I am covered in flies. I’ll face one wall Where the trickle keeps me company Shit where I sleep And eat what I sleep in I thought with you I might feel --

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CLOSE (Close) CLOSE (Close) CLOSE (Close) Left in a pit With the exit -CLOSED (Closed) CLOSED (Closed) CLOSED (Closed) I’ll face one wall Where the trickle keeps me company Shit where I sleep And eat what I sleep in

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Can I Be Naive If I Am Aware of Cynicism And That The And Of And And And Lots Of Words Aren’t To Be Capitalized In Title’s? People Tell Me Things About My Actions, My Functions . . . I Am Not ‘NICE’ To People, I Do What I Think Is Most Fulfilling For Everybody And Really It Bugs Me When People Say I Am Good! I Am HUMAN AND PERSON And BEING SELF-AWARE IS THE DEATH ( m a y b e ) BUT I CAN’T FIGURE IT OUT So If You Wish To Help ME Do NOT Help Me My Girlfriend Says I Am Not Healthy To Myself I Just Don’t Know I Am Stupid and confided to a doctrine of beliefs that devalues me as a person and has me trapped in a false-dichotomy so i guess i could call this [EXPRESSION TEXT] something like ‘Two-Sided Mirrors’ or ‘Shams of Experience’. (Or: The Two-Way Mirror Shame of Experience)” - an [EXPRESSION TEXT] Samwise Bateman THE SKILLS OF A MAN WHO KNOWS HIS WISHES: 1) SCATOLOGICAL IN NATURE. 2) DISREGARD WELLNESS. 3) SKIP SCHOOL. 4) ACNE. 5) NO. 6) ! THRILLING, INSTRUCTIONS I PROVIDE YOU WITH YOU MUST FAIL EVERYTHING YOU CAN DEVELOP ASTHMA DIE YOUNG SMOKE ): NEVER SMILE AT ALL, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? IF YOU THINK YOU WILL SUCCEED DROP YOUR PANTS FAST! DEFECATE ON ART! SHIT ON LOVE! SMELL

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TERRIBLY! ALL! THE! TIME! YOU AREN’T PRECIOUS!! AND NEVER 2ND GUESS URSELF! BECAUSE YOU: YOU. ARE THE ONE WHO WILL: 1) SAVE THE WORLD FOR LOVE. 2) HURT NO-ONE* AT ALL. 3) DIE ON THE CROSS. 4) LEARN TO DRIVE. 5) CAR-CRASH! *EXCEPT YOURSELF! RUIN YOUR OWN FUCKING POETRY!! SHOOT YOURSELF IN THE FOOT! THE FUCK THE FORMAT THE! AND . . . Be P O L I T E !! U FUCK’N JAGGOFF UNDER THE TABLE ONE (1) MORE TIME -- !!! AND . . . GET OUT OF YOUR EMPLOYERS PANTY DRAWER! ! U SICK FUCK! AND . . . STOP STALLING AND PUBLISH IT ALREADY!! INSUFFERABLE INGRATE!!

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I arrived just after 9pm. Will had been put to bed and Charlotte retreated to her own upstairs. Daniel stayed in the study until ten o’clock every night. When he was home, anyway. And he was that night. The other boy went to bed between 9:00 and 10:00, but he stayed in his room from about 8:00 until he woke up each morning. From what I gathered, he really enjoyed making model planes, I guess because it was something he could do on his own. He didn’t have to ask for help. I studied him the most. I wondered what it would be like, not being able to hear. It was time. Luckily, the house next to theirs was empty. I was able to walk through the vacant backyard to theirs without any problem. They never locked the backdoor, so I just let myself in. I locked it behind me though. Through the backdoor was the kitchen. That’s where I picked up my first weapon, a very sharp knife. I made my way to Will’s bedroom. I just couldn’t let him escape. I was happy to find him lying on his back and peacefully asleep. I took my knife to his throat and cut him. When he opened his eyes, I realized I did not cut him deep enough. Before he could make a sound, I twisted my knife into his neck. When I pulled it out, Will’s sheets absorbed the blood that erupted from his throat. I had never seen such a display. I thought it would be slightly more sickening, but the satisfaction I felt was indescribable. I looked forward to the next kill. Daniel was next. I walked through the living room, but as I approached the study, something caught my eye. I had hoped I’d find a better weapon than a knife, something I could use at a further distance. That’s why I was so delighted to discover that the family had a working fireplace, complete with all the tools for maintaining it, including my second weapon choice, a fire poker. I gently pushed the door to the study. Daniel didn’t look back until I was halfway in the room. He yelled something I couldn’t understand just before I made my first jab at his stomach. He screamed in agony and grabbed at his wound. I started at him again and he raised his arm in an attempt to block me, but the poker caught his hand in the last moment and pulled his hand apart, almost in two pieces. His thumb hung loosely from his flesh. I pushed the fire poker into his stomach again and he fell to the floor. I pushed it into him one more time, this time into his heart. I left the poker in his chest. I ran to the boy’s room whose name I still did not know. I had kept the knife on me, so when I got to his bedside, I held the knife up to the boy’s throat and I waited. Charlotte burst into the room. She had seen her husband dead and let out one scream. It was the last she’d ever make. I told her not to make a sound or I would kill her boy. She pleaded with me, “Don’t hurt my son. Not Luke.” I told her I wouldn’t, and although he was my favorite, this was a lie. I quickly stabbed Luke in the chest five times. Charlotte tried to escape, but I pulled her back into the room by her hair. I pulled a little too hard–her body slammed into the wall, knocking a few model planes off their shelf. She rubbed the back of her head and tried to get up, but by then, I already had her pinned down to the floor, my knees securing her arms. I put my knife the only place I could reach: her face. I shoved the knife into her head four times; once in her eye, once in her cheek, and twice in her ear. She was not recognizable. She was dead. I went back to Luke, barely breathing but still alive. I slashed his throat, this time pushing the blade in deep enough. It was finished. I washed the weapons thoroughly and put them back where I got them. I traced my steps back to my car and I drove away, making my way home. I took the scenic route.

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The Body Electric Scott Lewis As a teenager I would obsessively update my social network profiles If my profiles did not seem like a perfect reflection of myself I felt like I was standing on a glacier as a crack forms between my legs stuck to now two glaciers both moving opposite directions, both pulling me with them Now if I am feeling stressed I purge Twitter accounts I am ‘Following’ the process is a lot like vomiting before the purge I feel out of sorts during it I feel like I am a vessel for a force my brain is working and is still guiding my body but I have to obey the force after the purge I look at my how many ‘Twitters’ I am ‘Following’ and the number being less than it was a couple of minutes ago makes me feel empty and free

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Man-Devils William Fishback It is Halloween and my son wants to go as a devil. His mother, who happens to be my significant other, or wife, has purchased him one small red costume, complete with tail and pointy ears. He somehow obtained an actual agricultural pitchfork that he plans on taking with him. He asks me to saw off over half of the handle. I hesitate and then I saw. Before we go out trick or treating we are sitting in the living room. My wife insists on getting a picture of him, and then one of both of us. “I want one of both of my favorite man-devils,” she says. I do not ask her what that means. I want to go get candy. My wife says over half of the candy these days has razorblades or heroin in it. I say who would be so kind as to share their drugs? She says over half of the people that pass out candy. I ask her if they do it to gummy bears. How in the hell would they do it to gummy bears? She says probably by liquefying it over a silver spoon and then injecting it into the bears, making them happily plump. They have needles, she tells me. I ask her—uh, they’d be so kind to do all that work over a silver spoon? She says yes, over half of them. She says man-devils do not understand. I say that she’s right. We’re too busy eating all the precocious candy. I pick up a little volume off the shelf while she takes more pictures. A little feminist critique of Victorian Halloween celebrations and I pour myself a glass of Merlot and I sit down in a chair. My butt itches. It always does in this chair. I ignore it. I get quick, devilish ideas into my head while reading this and the wine touches my piss. I think— how scary can the little fella get? I wonder this as we step out and trek towards the candy. He is scary enough; he accidentally touched the back of my leg with his pitchfork. Perhaps it was bad parenting to let him have it. I got real bloody. He pointed out that it made me fit in better, just for tonight. I shrugged. We get to the block’s Christian Fundamentalists’ house. They are passing out Swedish Fish—I presume because it is because of their chewiness. And as they profess you have to shut up and chew because you’re caught. And so you have to just listen. Only tools walk away when being spoken to while they’re chewing. And this is the case. We stand there, chewing this possibly drugged candy, listening to their sermon with a slew of other man-devils. And you know what, it was an interesting night. They finally took away that kid and I involuntarily violated my parole, eating those narcotic-laced Swedish Fish. I stood there and listened to them peach and it felt good.

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