“THE BOY WHO CRIED WOLF” by NICK ZEDD

I’d like to say a few words on behalf of the late G.G. Allin, an individual I once knew but never took very seriously. For those too square to know, G.G. was a singer in a series of punk bands that never made it big but he was on the verge of becoming famous before he died of an overdose. I don’t think his life particularly deserves a eulogy and if he were here he’d probably tell us all to fuck off. Not that that matters. Having witnessed more than a few of his celebrated performance pieces and successfully eluded the flying turds of this warrior poet, I can now pass judgement on his barbaric antics. Perhaps those of you less familiar with Mr. Allin’s oeuvre are looking to me for an opinion upon which to base a consensus. Think for yourselves, assholes.

Far be it for me to speak unkindly of the dead, but as far as I’m concerned, G.G. was a fool. Since he’s not here to defend himself, I don’t feel too good about having to say bad things about him, but the same thing will probably happen to me once I’m gone and in a way, G.G.’s death serves as a challenge to all of us to face the truth, which I’ve always tried to do anyway.

G.G. went out of his way to be hated. He spread hatred and stupidity everywhere he could. One theory advanced for his psychopathology was a childhood of sexual abuse. Who knows? Furthermore, who cares? I consider it a joke that I’m even writing about him. His minimal talents were focused on a crude form of infantile self-promotion manifested in public filthiness. Continue reading

“HOUSE OF THE HOARDER” by BLAISEWELL

December 17th 11:48 pm – Wherein a Life of Crime Meets Its Logical End

 

A puke green Volkswagen van idles in the middle of vast parking lot. Its engine loudly passes gas into cream puffs of exhaust that dissipate into the prickly winter night.  In the van, sit the Brothers Parcheesi whose nicknames (C-Drive, Dingo, and Bradbury, in respective birth order) have superseded their real ones, and whose long string of crimes have kept county law enforcement so puzzled as to why they were even committed long enough to let them get away with each one.

A month ago, they ran a test drive circuit to every dealership in town, leaving the Mustang or Ferrari or Prius they got from the previous place in exchange for Volvos, Saturns, Pontiacs, ultimately winding up with a van painted the same color as the bug splats on its windows.

Two weeks ago, they bought an entire vanload of canned cat food and poured it out onto the lawns of random residents of Tweaker St underneath the Turnpike 404 overpass, then, days later, went door to door, Bradbury armed with a flame thrower, Dingo eating the cat food, and offered “pest extermination” services to the unfortunate individuals whose homes had been overrun by an influx of feral felines that constantly made meals out of beloved pet birds and guinea pigs and kept entire neighborhood awake every night with an unsettling symphony of mating frenzies.

In the end, no transactions were made; no cats were cooked; many cops were called. Continue reading

“THE TIN” by w.t.

Eight years ago [in the year 1532] at Dessau, I, Dr. Martin Luther, saw and touched a changeling. It was twelve years old, and from its eyes and the fact that it had all of its senses, one could have thought that it was a real child. It did nothing but eat; in fact, it ate enough for any four peasants or threshers. It ate, shit, and pissed, and whenever someone touched it, it cried. When bad things happened in the house, it laughed and was happy; but when things went well, it cried. It had these two virtues. I said to the Princes of Anhalt: “If I were the prince or the ruler here, I would throw this child into the water–into the Molda that flows by Dessau. I would dare commit homicidium on him!” But the Elector of Saxony, who was with me at Dessau, and the Princes of Anhalt did not want to follow my advice. Therefore, I said: “Then you should have all Christians repeat the Lord’s Prayer in church that God may exorcise the devil.” They did this daily at Dessau, and the changeling child died in the following year…. Such a changeling child is only a piece of flesh, a massa carnis, because it has no soul.

Martin Luther, Werke, kritische Gesamtausgabe: Tischreden

 

While Tiro was eating his meal, his date got up and went to the bar, then left with another man. The waiter had slid the bill in front of him by the time he noticed, and he promptly declined, then loped to the other side of the world.

The Tin is round and low, people stoop to traverse it. The Tin is not a town or a city or a country or a commune. The Police collected Tiro from behind a vending machine and grilled him. You didn’t pay the bill, they said. I won’t, he said. The Police walked away and consulted one another. Well, what do we do with him, they said. Let’s get an analyst, they said. They brought in the analyst. Continue reading

FOUR POEMS by MARGARITA ATHANASIOU

FEARS

A fear is a funny thing. It’s a thing you have: I have a a pen pal in Thailand who has a dog with a fear of heights. Fear sounds like the humming of the elevator shaft when inactive and like elevator music when activated. To get over a fear means to no longer be under it, carrying it like a huge backpack; up a steep mountain hill, in July, in the south of France with an ex- boyfriend that smells of beer. If fear was made out of matter it would be the hugest backpack ever, made out of your own skin and bones. It would sit in your chest humming elevator music. To no longer carry the fear means to no longer be the same person. All fears are ultimately one.

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FROM ANALECTS: CAPRICHOS SEQUENCE by R

 

 

Prose adaptations of Francisco Goya’s Caprichos, I-XXVIII

 

 

Artist Portrait

His expression is a pretence at inscrutability, but it gives him away: there is that haughtiness of the besieged, the embittered mercifulness, that tense, intermittent truce of compassion and disdain that distances a man from mankind as he finds men caught in the crossfire and sees them hurt…

 

They Say Yes and Give Their Hand to the First Comer

Every man is a boatman on the infinitely branching river of his possible lives, and every man is condemned to the course ordained by those faults and misfortunes particularly his, and she will marry one and embark, as first mate, siren and captive, with those faults and misfortunes particularly hers, to certain death amid the wreckage.

 

Here Comes the Bogeyman

A mother and her children cower before a hooded figure, who is perhaps the bogeyman, or a comparable human evil, as he prepares to eat the children, or extract his payment, or drag his family back home.

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“THE BATHTUB IN THE GUESTHOUSE” by DAVID HENSON

The apartment floor was cold to the touch. She pushed herself to her knees and turned her head to watch as her roommate breathed one last breath and reclined against the far corner of the room. The three-pronged leather whip was still in the middle of the coffee table next to the few fresh, unopened packages of hypodermic needles. She knew the men would arrive soon and call these things evidence.

She couldn’t stop thinking that her saliva had a taste to it, and that the ceiling was restricting her line to heaven. Not heaven but the place above where the others existed. The others being the people we are not. The dead, but not dead, because they left their bodies behind. The dead are only bodies and what leaves is something else. Continue reading