Fugue 4 by Tomas Boudreau & Mike Thorn
1. Clandestine hustlers strike out at night on the tip of a match while undercover whores and do-up dolls trace the alleyways and track marks of street gang vigilantes wanting nothing more than to fuck you up. No one is to be trusted here—a shadow play begins. 2. “Typee or Happar?” I ask, delirious with Melville hallucinations. The surrounding denizens smoke themselves out and banter violence at...
The enormities perpetrated in the South Seas upon some of the inoffensive...– Herman Melville, Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life
How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know...– Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
Fugue 3 by Tomas Boudreau & Mike Thorn
1. “Show me generational trauma thru poetry; start at the wrong place.” 2. “What plot point?” 3. “Don’t ask me; the map doesn’t plot itself.” 4. The boy-girl-love-beneath-the-shade-of-an-autumnal-elm-story keeps slithering into his typewriter and stunting his knowledge of clichés, stereotypes and sex positions, but he pops six consecutive pills and writes it anyway. 5. She admired his openness—his...
Fugue 2 by Tomas Boudreau & Mike Thorn
1. Who the fuck. An irrelevant question, thinks the Typist. He went to the forest to exist in pure essence, the tangling web of nature violating his being. He disorientated himself on that spot on that day – the day time ceased as his spirit lurched through the filament in an orgasm of such high appeal it didn’t register cosmically, but infinitely and indefinitely—the two tongue-tied for all...
There is only one thing a writer can write about: what is in front of his senses...– William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch
The Typist spent a great deal of time wandering through the catacombs. It may have been two days since he had felt metropolitan daylight on his face, or it may have been two years. In any case, he chose to avoid thinking of time and its pressures. He designated himself to an unspoken form of discovery instead. He walked down a very ruinous passageway running parallel to a hall he had explored for...
Fugue by Tomas Boudreau & Mike Thorn
1. (3.) The location is decidedly irrelevant. He smudges geography from his notebook and finds a new introduction; a new standpoint. 2. (11.) He would begin with her, since reality ended with her. He felt inspired by a vision of ships; something intoxicating about vast bodies of water, something irreversible. 3. (7.) Conclusively, she was an aspect of his meta-fiction and therefore representative...
It is a law of nature that we overlook, that intellectual versatility is the...– H.G. Wells, The Time Machine
There are infinite things on earth; any one of them may be likened to any other....– Jorge Luis Borges, “Avveroes’ Search”
[OFFICER 1 (O1): Testing. Say hello. HM: Hello. O1: What’s your name? HM: Harold Mundy. I call myself Harry. O1: Could you spell that for us, please? HM: H-A-R-O-L-D M-U-N-D-Y. Harold Mundy. O1: We’re here to discuss the deaths of Gene Purdy, Alan Bartlett, Dennis King, Louise Ward, and Timothy Stromberg.] the gas station attendant is startinta piss me off, what wid that smug look on iz fuckin...
bone to bone
After performing the required ritual, Mark sat at his desk under a lamp’s orange glow. He began to scribble verse that made him tingle, bleeding lines together with dexterous precision. [a reference to the “etymology of death” remains unexplained; critics suspect a lack of technique] Autobiography became prose-poetry under the guise of a lean narrative. Words became kinetic. [critics take umbrage...
The brute lumbered, its brawn streaked with gore. (hardened black skin scab-cracked / crustacean) I watched its colossal limbs trail pestilence. I watched it imprint tiles with wet violence. (unshaped / form kneaded / shapeless husk) It towered over me and spattered haemoglobin in my hair. (cower / kitchen stove / lights off) Ancient eyes were etched into its face, liquid black slants...
If I / my body quickly enough, he’ll plunge / slither knife into my guts, stick me like a pig / to bleed prose in the parking lot If I / drag my broken / leave me …faster than I am… (spitting teeth in a black pool and begging for mercy: “don’t do this stop stop jesuschrist / crazy fucking stop”) / should have gotten a hit in / didn’t feel any of it he’s mechanical, plodding,...
He comprehended that the effort to mold the incoherent and vertiginous matter...– Jorge Luis Borges, “The Circular Ruins”
I see a ceremony of bloodless forms. “this isn’t a descent into hell” “it’s a dance floor” They work themselves into entropy. “they’re not even aware you’re here” That’s a lie. They look at me while their flesh drips on the floor. “you fucking dramatist” They scream at me as their tissue peels. Their skeletons clatter into darkened corners, strobe lights flickering in their sockets. “just get...
Anonymous asked: Im gonna put your recycling in a bin.
Mark observes fractured dreams. A backseat voice hollers at him: “somethin about the decay of language, that’s what they want! some fuckin patriotism! thatll get me published!” Mark says nothing. His rosary sways in time with the tick-tick-tick of the turn signal. “dooya believe in that shit? you a catholic, drivah? you read the bible, drivah? you a godfearin man?” Mark doesn’t believe in God, but...