A woman tapped the cartoon cherries and blue diamonds on the cellphone screen as she steered through town with her knee. The game went gling gling gling and then there was a bursting sound, meaning she’d won.
She looked up as a man in a camel-colored jacket wandered into the street on a diagonal. The woman slammed into him with the car and then stomped the brakes. Continue reading
It was in the winter of my twenty-eighth year and I was lost
somewhere on the isle of misunderstood wines.
The first time we met I thought almost nothing of it
but the second I remember thinking: good times in dark days.
She became a red cloud blowing through my brain,
a page from a letter in a dream, fading,
her alphabet running in circles of subtle runes. Continue reading
Louis Slotin has decided to make a run for it and has made it pretty far until he feels sick again, kneeling at a busy intersection where everyone notices him but doesn’t place a hand on him. He’s able to make it another block or two before he is forced by his body to stop. The further he gets from the Center the more the radiation poisoning comes back, the image of a clear vile larger than the size of his chest is inside his chest, a green liquid drip for each step he takes. Continue reading
Jared kept on texting and messaging me, even though I hadn’t responded in days. I just thought if I ignored him, he’d go away, but then I got a text, said he was going to kill himself and livestream the whole thing on 4Chan, and I thought, Okay, alright, I’ll fucking text him. So I told him I didn’t think suicide was a good idea. In fact, I told him he was emotionally abusing me with the whole suicide shtick, and if he really loved me, like he said he did, he would cut the shit. That it was over. He just needed to accept that and move on with his life. Continue reading
Jane is a bitch full of shit. She plays the Game Boy like her pussy. She hates family men. She loathes my ass. She fucks a lot of people and she likes music like Kraut Rock shit. I love her. I am her servant. I fuck her from time to time when she is not fucking the Lizard Man. I hate her and I love her at the same time. She loves me and she cares for me cause my mustache looks like Lester Bangs’. I paint shit. I am a painter. I fuck my hands and I paint. I work in a bookstore and I shoplift from supermarkets all the time cause I don’t have a lot of money, 240 euros for 20 hours of work a week. Continue reading
Really, it boils down to our common Judeo-Kardashian heritage,
our appetite, the way we can suck the marrow from a potato chip
until nothing fits, not our pants, not our cultural jigsaw
pieces of jazz and cat memes, hot dogs and Zoloft,
the sugary agar we sop from our environment, our psyches
filling osmotically with an amalgam of strobe light and bubblegum. Continue reading
This is not real life.
This is not fiction.
This is not a novel.
This is not an exit.
Although fleeing, maybe. A light fire of abstract barbaric bombs illuminates the future. The same as building an ark. Before the flood, they said, humans mated with gods, angels, crocodiles… Continue reading
Strands of long motion obscurity of smoke in the one point vortex of a continuous dash dash lane center and double solid roadway center, a white figure in the black rapidly in the consumption of smoke and in the smoke is asphalt fragmentation the largest chunks of which are near the vertex smaller in a rain ballistic arc over the entirety in absolute brown and gray with no potato flesh daylight remaining, the perspectival vortex black in the impactcrater of thin flakings of tabular layers radiating in graduation from brown to gray to black and all to black, the potatoflesh sky a gently transitional canopy umbrage in dilation smokewash crenellations of imperfections within the strands of a color softly with desaturation of the strands nearly green Continue reading
You don’t need your dick to be too big, said Reo, caring about feminine sexual pleasure is the mark of a dying society. Elm and Reo and Davis and Rogers sat in the Conch, watching light play on the false nacre of the subterranean walls, levitating trash with their minds, and smoking pot. They had all been relegated to this place by their hormonal profiles. Elm yawned and straightened out his fingers again, trying to keep them from curling when relaxed, which he believed was brought on by a youth of playing video games, and constantly beat himself up about. He was going to leave the Conch today, but he changed his mind. What is there to do, he thought helplessly, and there was a twinge of anxiety in his gut at this, but he let it sink into his bog-like stone, and forgot about it. Continue reading