His muscles slacken. His eyes open. “The worst is over.” Demerol Daemon dulls the pain and extracts metaphysics of presence. / there is an essence to that dream where she runs away from you across the pedestrian overpass and you sprint after her but the cement keeps spreading like gray english toffee and no matter how hard you try you won’t reach her in time but you try anyway because you love...
Conjuring You x Conjuring You
/ Exhalation mists the air with Jack Daniel’s fog. Digits redden. My cock shrivels. N.L. offers his will to a power higher than himself. He blesses Gallo wine with a cross that shakes in the cold. / You know I loved her. I mean, I really loved her, you know? I did. And she was great and all… but I’m starting to realise how much of a fucking liar she was. It was a Sunday night and she was...
The Drifter’s eyes are focused on the bar TV but you have his attention. “They’re gonna turn on you before they turn on me,” he says, dribbling whisky in his stubble. The home team scores, heightening the suicidal monotone of shadowfaced patrons grumbling amongst themselves about the twilight of sexual experience while chipping tooth fillings against the rims of smeared pint glasses. You ask the...
The customary motion of the day had been suspended, and he had the sense of an...– N. Scott Momaday, House Made of Dawn
I can barely hear through the din of midday espresso psychobabble. I slide my hand across ribs bruised by desperate sex. I tilt closer and N.L. scoffs: “You should be thankful.” Pause. “You’ll never be so young again.”
In the morning, I woke up first, freezing cold and with a bitter grinding...– Donald E. Westlake, 361
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Fugue 10 by Tomas Boudreau & Mike Thorn
1. I douse H and K in lighter fluid, then reconsider my potential. Maybe I’ll churn out one more thought worth reciting (that’s the most hopeful thing I’ve ever written). I remember fucking her at some unnamed landmark at some unspecified point in time with some unclear motivations in mind. Romantic—K would hate this shit. 2. Most of the text is missing. We know little of...
Moleskin x Massacre
Doom is the mathematical certainty that it will never be early-mornin-rise-n-shine Amerika again Doom is the passengers citing Bush administration melee while stuffing their faces with oversalted snacks and undernourished sex lives Doom is Hoover peeling fingerprints beneath the star-spangled eternity of global absolution Doom is dressed to its best when the fucking thing plummets—87/0009....
battery acid hangover / coughing sins in a bathroom sink / look out the window of a moving train / watch duality dribble down faces like sludge
Most of us are content to exist and breed and fight for the right to do both,...– F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Offshore Pirate”