Head Disaster I and Head Disaster II – after Brodsky
Tone wakes in the middle of the night. A breath breathing on his neck. At first he assumes it’s Flint’s fitful breath. He must’ve joined Tone in bed, stretched across the arc of his back, his snout behind his head, his nose close to his ear. A grumblevoice. A shifting of weight.
the prick next door
makes sweet plum wine
and is good for you
same old shit
is a guest
but we regret to advise
are just like home except
the European Union
Folds. Folding down
together in a group: sliding them around on the floor.
Tilting like a choking child (oneself), two splitting arcs,
on the inside. In back of. Value? Untouch,
untouch in tree sky, someone in tree sky, tree sky . . .
the internal color
bobs as I walk, flashes. I
pinched the flesh into a little wing.
An Invention p.20, 2019, ink and pastel on paper.
Continue reading “Three pages from An Invention by Brian Baker”
Chants of innocuous dreams. Juxtaposed worlds full of images. Nowhere to store these moments but vestigial ingrown pockets. Resultant miniscule sacs swollen with residual blood. Echoes of a thousand Nippon years rasping in my ears. I awake in Queen Himiko’s tomb. Continue reading “Sapless Fortunes by Dale Brett”
Human as alien as animal as transformative substance. My gills again. My lungs left behind. The anti-intro that discusses mutations and mutations only. New genes discovered in the side streets of North Inglewood. My personal mental fitness … a direct agency to despair. Psychedelic mathematics … the double helix … organisms occur as new species … desirous selection. Cockroach shells beneath my upper lip. A thousand times a day I vomit in the open hallways. No one sees this sign … let alone someone asking my name. I am not human. Live nude guys on Instagram … the micro-evolution of asexuality … the sticky goo of human bones … a total deterioration of feeling. Continue reading “Simpering by Shane Jesse Christmass”
In memory of Sam Shepard (1943-2017)
1. Under a fat summer moon the Lost Cowboy stops his horse. Stares at the scars in his hands looking for a map to guide him home.
2. Home is the place where you always long to be but which you will never find. The Lost Cowboy still hears the words of his father.
3. Come home, oh sweet baby, come home back to me. Startled, the Lost Cowboy struggles to place his mother’s lullaby in his memory. Continue reading “The Lost Cowboy [A story in 24 tweets] by Mauricio Montiel Figueiras”