“PURCELL” by LOUIS JONES


Purcell’s fingers tarantula twitch
draining mauve in the pocket of his close fitting tracksuit bottoms;
poor circulation;
mithering at a piggish erection with dictionary definition disdain.
Purcell’s sallow lips purse and thin;
on a cracked black plastic whistle;
to modulate increasingly shrill blasts of spittle sodden disinterest,
brought to issue with a slight slurp;

that drool pools,
on his weak bottom lip
depending on the qualities of the boy shivering in line for the shower

The pipe servicing the urinal trough that runs the length of the wall has leaked ever so slightly all season;
and so Purcell has, really quite entrepreneurially,
had the run off stewing;
in a crusty blue bucket;
for the duration of that mornings training session, and for however fucking far back the team has failed, docile, to perceive total trauma;
Today’s piss;
sat curdling, as froth on the already collected;
slop bucket cushioned by cut wet grass;
slicked to the once white tiling;
steaming;
a small font of sorts;
for a baptism of belittlement in the offing Continue reading

“GAGG” by GRANT MAIERHOFER

You lose an absurd weight, you become and, frankly, I worry. Today we can give the venous injection to you. But do not forget the fact that important thing eats despite your feelings here and now. I listen to the few things and… I must not eat do not want to pass over what kind of line although… just. Becomes. You the body scoop out sit afternoon all through with the needle. To spill the arm, and when bends the body and the people sound to be removed is audible, to be cursed with the behavior. Really, to that place. No, no. I think that the interest goes. Through the necessity which is unconscious will hold you from you from the memories which still sit before your mind drifts making a dream. When the dream started improving after their first stuporweeks, your mind your dream to believe firmly, your dream measures a perspective to, any more as the place which is an enemy. It is not real, not the fact that reached, is very. I must think as the existence attention person. Completely me, appears to be being normal.

 

The room shifts with pleasantry.

 

We giving to each other about task and aim of the family do to be very simple, and does not reach with that more than. I most respected their house and when although, I moved to that place, I almost had sold everything immediately. I can buy the articles which got in year sufficiently made the space: Several hundred books (almost like exactly there are these, I reading and loving, and I will like) with I am being divided. Continue reading

“AS I KILL HERE IN THE NOTHING-HEART” by TROY JAMES WEAVER

I wake up and it is dark. The waves sound like flesh-smacks and bottle-cracks. Sometimes the sea is like a hook in the mouth of an orphan. I do not know what that means, but that fact alone should not lesson its meaning. It mainly has a pull, that’s its triumph. The nights here are generally beautiful, cool, almost tangible, like webs of spiders multicolored as if from other worlds, but in this moment, the beauty of this very night here eludes me. I feel as though it is a vacuum, sucking at the sky that birthed it, and I find myself coughing often, as though my wind is being sucked, though I don’t think this illness has a name, nor is it my illness alone.

A fine mist of stank comes over me, bile and curdled milk, the horizon at this hour a smudge of coal, but there is a seed of a light out there, I see it now, coming for me, coming for somebody, moving inward. It glows dim, and is aureoled by the fog. I watch and watch. I watch it bobble and move closer, until, the minutes killing the hour, it comes on suddenly bright, breaks through the weather, and settles itself as a rising sun.

Swollen thick with urine, I go over between the cargo containers to relieve the pressure. I remember precisely how it felt that first time. His mouth was quite soft and moist, but there was a roughness on the roof. He would have fared better were he to not let it touch that spot.

As I empty, I go to a time of a few weeks before he was dead, to a place where we skirted the mist about the dockyards and two miles away from all of it found some clear air to breathe in a pocket of beach. We sprawled out together in such a way that our heads were cradled in the other’s thigh. Continue reading

“55 REMAKES” by BIG BRUISER DOPE BOY

Remake of The Matrix that’s security cam footage of me drunkenly breaking into a Best Buy and passing out with a VR headset on.

 

Remake of Memento where I’m stoned in a room trying to remember what I was talking about.

 

Remake of Batman where I walk around at night in a cheap mask hitting cops in their ribs and shins with a bat while shrieking dementedly.

 

Remake of Life of Pi where I fall off the raft and drown in the first 5 minutes and the rest of the movie is a 2-hour shot of the ocean.

 

Remake of Bloodsport where I spend an hour and a half trying to do the splits and rip open my taint and bleed out on a gymnastics mat.

 

Remake of Say Anything where I show up uninvited at my father’s funeral holding a boombox over my head playing “Hippa to da Hoppa” by Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Continue reading

“THE REPUBLIC” by USERCORPSE

Box

Box began work on The Republic at that time in a young man’s life when he wanders too far and tries to trace back to his roots. But can’t find them where he left them. So he starts digging holes. Still none found, he resigns to digging the holes deeper and into the shape of his missing roots, and casts a concrete mould of a past; “Must’ve rotted. Pretty sure they were here.”

Box is Dutch, Protestant, and American middle class. Digging said three tunnels through time, he struck the Dutch Golden Age thrice. Examining it, he found it was not just a coincidence of his making, but a serviceable model of his world, and one he was personally connected to (if only by concrete). Wasn’t that what he was looking for?

The huckster OhK once comforted Box through a time in the land “too far”. His muscles so ached without will that he let an OhK YouTube ad play, finish, redirect to the whole of its advertised video, and finally kick off a whole playlist, all as he peered out from the wrappings of a chilled blanket. Continue reading

“ARCHIPELAGO PART 1” by ERIK STINSON

That beach was north. So far north, the ocean was cool all year. In Orion’s first memory, he’s on that cut of coast in eastern Canada, maybe ten years old. He’s trying to walk the sand. It’s so wet and heavy, every direction feels impossible.

Others cross the beach. He remembers the collective mood of terror. Exhausted bodies washed up from a missing wreck miles offshore. The coast guards were gone, busy fighting Chinese pirates fishing farm cod.

The wind of a passing storm had blown them to land. Orion’s foster parents explained later that he was part of a group of migrants, people from far away looking for a new home. Continue reading

“BLUE-SHIFT” by RYAN SILVA

The torsos of two tangled teenagers tangoed with torn titanium. The sweaty smacking of skin and sultry sighs of satiation only ended after the rent-asunder husk of the Alfa-Romeo Giulia stopped spinning. Bringing down my shaking hands from the steering wheel, I unclasped the metal flask velcro’d to the inside of my satin jacket and took several long gulps of the elixir inside. It’s gin, tonic, a dash of lime juice and the dissolved remains of 11mg of Xanax. I took a deep breath and turned back to my clients, spread out in the back seat — still stark naked. The girl was slumped up against the rear passenger door, completely spaced out, looking outside the tinted window above her. Something had cut her and she was bleeding from the shoulder — not profusely. The boy was sprawled out across the middle of the car, fondling his minimizing member and grinning greedily.

“I love this.” He said, his chest heaving. He ran a hand through his red hair, twisting his curls and then letting his whole arm sink across his wiry frame.

“I love you.” The girl said to no one in particular, her eyes glassed. The stream of blood from her shoulder had already managed to slip down her minute frame, and it was now mixing it up with the jet black hair that covered her small, round, breasts in a biblical fashion.

“Did something in the car hit her?” I asked the boy, curious about how far I’d get with these two drug-addled drive-by-death-seekers. I’d have to leave a call to Tom Anderson, the fellow who procured these cars for the company. The interiors were supposed to be properly reinforced to withstand 124mph head-on collisions. The front-end fianchettoing was purely cosmetic.

“Nah, I fuckin’ bit her, man.” He said with a sickly self-satisfied smirk. Continue reading

“DASH CAMS 15, 13, 8, 10” by JOHN TREFRY

A woman is running across the reflection of a white coupe in a substantial puddle on the sidewalk, raindrops are falling on the windscreen before the buildingscape bloomingly befogging the radishthrottler pyrrhostucco charcoal and onionjuice facade diminutions into a pseudopartywalleous megastructure beyond a white coupe creeping toward a green trafficsignal, flashflame and a flake of fire is erupting is seconding from the ventilation slots on the bonnet, a hatchback is approaching the far left crossstreet inlet toward black debris across the skyglare on the asphalt neath the silhouette of the hood ornament in a linear scattertrail behind a woman running toward the white coupe, a crowd of people is crossing the street downrange upon their griseous reflections in the asphalt, a hatchback is approaching the far left crossstreet inlet of the broad intersection is pulling into the wide open space colliding corner to corner with hoodcrumples into a celeritous sedan, the asphalt is free of markings under two women in black hip length coats are stepping out together from a corner in double atop their soft reflections in rainslick asphalt across the blackmute desaturation inverse of buildingscape into the sky, a red glow local just above the crossing pedestrians, aerihumectant focus is blooming forth a white atom of the rosy and beige apartment mass with parapet of sparse merlons, the silver hatchback with its front bumper askew is inextricable from the careening silver sedan across the vacant and blank asphalt stretch of several lanes, a red trafficsignal in rhythmflickers halting downrange and approaching traffic above the slow disengagement of the silver sedan is rolling loose onto the curb in front of the joltstop of the silver hatchback and both threading reinless racingly around two women running out of the street clutching the hoods of the black coats, Continue reading

“RED-SHIFT” by RYAN SILVA

Down It went — direct, sans demur — descending as if determined by doubtless deities. On the palace’s poolside patio, a picked selection of patrons puckering lips on Perrier spritzers perused the parabola of the projectile dematerialize into the pink horizon point.  Murmurs manifested throughout the mansion as the missile disappeared from view. The reaction of the soiree’s host, M. de Kuhn, was a simple stretch of his supremely ambivalent expression into a subtle smirk.

I had the opportunity to watch the whole affair from the patio’s private mezzanine. The gasps, the booster’s disappearance into the desert scrub, and the angular, severe face belonging to the angular, severe body of M. Martin de Kuhn, whose eyes were squarely laid upon me in his dashing dinner suit.

“Did you want to visit Cyrene tomorrow?” He asked, lifting an eyebrow.

I reeled at the suggestion rather reflexively, but I did my best to remember the advice of my editor, Tony Bactria of Wire — “go anywhere he wants to go, agree to anything he wants you to agree to.”

Wire is Silicon Valley’s premiere tech magazine. Prior to this, I was a one-time contributor. Now I’ve got the fancy title of “Guest Editor”. A month ago, I had written an article of sorts on my own personal blog called “40 Years of Vaporwave 2009-2049” that one of Bactria’s associate editors, Mara Wesley, enjoyed and syndicated on their entertainment sub-vertical, ArtWire. The site traffic app recorded 3516 hits. ArtWire averages 750,000 hits a day. It appeared on Election Day, when no one on the country is reading musical sub-genre retrospectives. I had been jobless that month. Continue reading

FROM ANALECTS: ABYSS SEQUENCE by R

Actus Impurus

The Abyss was a map of its digressions from its essence, an infinitely broken chain of its being, a labyrinthine passage from its right path, a misshapen and impossible sphere that contained itself within its all-embracing circumference, alongside a dim image of its centre in the distance.

 

Cosmological Argument for the Existence of the Abyss

The Abyss, a thing of seemingly absolute complexity and infinite contradiction, was that of which nothing more confusing could be imagined, and from which our slightly less confusing and contradictory existence must thus have descended.

 

Contraphatic

Analogies of the Abyss are true only in their imperfection in illustrating the Abyss, for only that which is false to coherence is true to Abyss, and thus it is only by misleading and deceiving that this sentence can be true to the Abyss.

 

Tunc motu vitae suae intellectivae in se descriptum reperit quod quaerit

The Abyss, which was absolute imprecision itself (or at least so in language, in which it was almost always described imprecisely), baptised the mind in immeasurability itself when the mind delved into measuring Abyssal things, and then emerged from itself somewhere in the imprecise distance.

 

Abyssinia

A peculiar feature of Abyssinia is its tendency to make minds marginal in their imagination of its landscapes: to make the mind an incongruous caravan in its visualizations of Abyssinia. Continue reading