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”
Fugue 9 by Tomas Boudreau & Mike Thorn
1. in an otherwise indifferent and infinitely expansive ocean. He was right to throw out the poets—He was wrong to have stayed in the empire reading Tolstoy or Joyce, etc., etc., etc…] 2. Demagogue hated libraries. Sickened by silence, he wobbled to his feet belching yeast and sweating misogyny. “Nothing will change until every one of you sonofabitches—and I mean every one of you—burns...
It seemed forever down the length of white, sun-glittering concrete which curled...– Robert Penn Warren, All the King’s Men
James and Mark walked to the neighbourhood liquor store. They bought the cheapest 26oz bottle of gin they could find. Carrying the bottle in a paper bag, they walked to the park. They spoke very little. The park was devoid of spectacle, but it was an ideal place to drink. There, they could achieve a level of gutter-mouthed, wet-faced drunkenness without anybody giving them shit. At the park,...
Triggered Into Fission
Ghostly sensations ice his nerves— every nightmare is characterized by the stench of this lurid brothel: cadaverous wails, tombstone orgasms, the shadow of moans. He pins phantasmal remains between blankets, eyes squeezed shut—
To be a clown was to be fate’s pawn. The life in the arena was a dumb show...– Henry Miller, The Smile at the Foot of the Ladder
A man with a hangover should never lay flat on his back looking up at the roof...– Charles Bukowski, Factotum
That’s no conversation you’re hearing. That’s malignant memory developed in retail photo labs and bedroom walls. That’s no conversation you remember. That’s the sound of a half-closed windpipe; you didn’t hear a thing.
To the untrue man, the whole universe is false,—it is impalpable,—it shrinks to...– Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter
Turn your attention to beer-scuffed lyrics on the bus seat: “manic screams are pulverized by the arrival of a C-train.”
The real end came quietly. It came in the small, barred room where the voices...– Robert Bloch, Psycho