Tea-Bagged by Mark Blickey


That idiotic doctor smiling down at me as if I am a Christmas leg of lamb ready to carve into my chest searching for a purse of gold and municipal bonds safely guarded by Margaret’s father cruel old bastard God Forgive me bribing me to marry his obnoxious daughter crying in the corridor afraid I might live and interrupt her carnality and bastardly children dear Lord I am sorry do not treat me harshly why did you plant this Covid-19 have I not suffered through years of archaic gospel and fanatic potbellied evangelists kill Margaret’s father or my bacchanal son not me or that incompetent surgeon ready to claim my wife’s loins along with her insurance oh Jesus remember I am sick I will die today spouting blood making nurses convulse with disgust splattering my fluids onto sterile white aprons disregarded in garbage cans as my flesh is shoved into an incinerator

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Detritus by Allen Serafini


virile, alone,
knotted hands grasping
at the sinewed cord
of reality,
rope turns
into a tentacle as you haul
the bucket up from the cistern,
a severed head bobbing
in the rancid water,
one eye plucked
by the hooked beak of a seabird.

drunken bell tolls
a hundred headaches,
clanging in the blood
sluggishly circulating,
muscles stiff, water
up to the ankles. tasks
pile up in heaps
like the salt-crusted debris
in the kitchen, stains
seeping down between
the unrepaired shingles.

light screams
through the night,
black as ink,
a blinding blade slicing
the rain apart and singing
deep within the ear, dull
as it is from the klaxon.
vise blares around your skull—

the shriek from the beach that echoes
throughout your dampest caverns,
consuming, confusing the senses—
seaweed, slime, the black rocks
slick with it, groping for a handhold.
the mind softens when trapped, isolated—
moreso in conjunction with astute manipulation.
soon there is no difference between the self,
the other, the nightmare, the fantasy.

wind gnashes its teeth
against the windowpane.
it still carries traces
of the inhuman scream that burst forth
from your mouth when
the radiance touched you,
melding with the voices
of the other departed,
their flesh having long been swallowed by the dirt.
they chorus when the wind changes,
the sudden absence of gulls
signaling the approaching storm.

Spore is an accurate simulation of the evolutionary process

earth shatters around me and I go on watching
my fragmented memories spin before my eyes like
an extra-large laundromat dryer. I call this one
the trauma cycle. it’s where the machine eats
your credit card and the centrifuge never stops spinning.
with each psychic impact I crawl further, more desperately,
away from my body, dissociation a phallic instrument
that cleaves my amygdala. fear now looks
as strange as I do; it is transformed into a cardboard cutout
of a feeling, just as my heart is now an urn filled with ash.
why ask to be lifted from this abyss—what is there
left to save. I become the martyr I have always imitated,
crucified at last. free. then the pin drops and I am
beaten back into myself, peering out from behind
the veil of madness with needles on my tongue. all this
and more just to climb out of the water

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Post-Logic (The Neopraxis) by Natalie Terezi Rei Watts

Bodies creep up the walls like radio signals. Limbs are coaxial transmitter-tendons that plug into the apartment ports and upload their regurgitating thoughts as packets of dying breath. The skyline is the harvester network where broadcast pylons intersect solid wavelength steel into the heads of people who haven’t removed their cerebrums entirely for printed flex-circuit social media analytic cyclers. Everything is branded by Gucci.

Because moonlight became corrupted by the Calvin Klein Lunar Reactor meltdown the night sky has been deplicated to expose the subcutaneous LEDs under its flesh (Chanel built them inside the sky’s body centuries ago, in the off chance our universe chose to hate us). Instead of projecting images these LEDs project new thoughts that mimic what it is like to stand in a forest and suffocate in the Milky Way radiance. Every thought can then be recycled to form new words (as lexemes are a non-renewable resource speech needs to be processed through IEEE-Supreme defanger servos that remove the teeth and let the gums bleed until you can’t eat without a drip feed of congealed morphophonemic stimulants; controlled language in place of the unpredictable). The energy for the LEDs is leeched directly from the sky’s nerves.

(None of these words have any meaning for you because you digested the meaning. You crawled into the recycling plant pipes to suckle on the flow yourself. You had no other choice but to starve. I don’t blame you.)

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Real Housewives by David Kuhnlein







Kelly’s smile is lashed to her lips. She’s backed herself into every possible corner. Appearing like a shredded element on camera, leaked on lens, gravity has manhandled her. Nevertheless, she eroticizes the distance between her and things, existing better at one end of a phone. Distal as a talking cashew, she remembers Vicky’s challenge: “All this tomboy talk seems fishy.” Everyone else’s kids are gay. There are wilder ways to be robbed of an obsession than marrying your beard. Kelly wants to do an exercise montage on Vicky’s piggy face. Picking up her child-shaped court date, eyeing the teacher through a cracked window, Kelly instills the pins and needles gathered in her somewhere beyond temperature. She’s scratching out the ruins of another season with nail polish. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go within a mile of my lips.”

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Five Poems by Austin Miles



Futures Insectoid + Worm-like

the insects cannot cash


            as long as my screen is cracked

            + my battery is so trash


hellgrammites cannot either

            in this water


w/ tire + television     


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Chapter X by John T. Fowler




Was looking over a rubbish heap near a hotel. Saw three tumblers of dark-colored bottle-glass. Seeing they were not cracked, I thought they might be worth taking care of. As I was about to pick them up I was noticed by the landlord, who called to me that I had better not meddle with those three glasses; they had been used by a party of very dirty people and were more irredeemably befouled than I knew.




Was living in village, and in passing out of the door onto the sidewalk, stumbled against a neighbor who was passing. Knew him as an undertaker, Joseph Smith by name. Went into the back yard and had some talk with my mother about undertakers –– objected to being buried by a man named Joe Smith. Expected to need services of the kind in a few days. As I talked, I stood and combed down the nap of a shaggy cloak I had on with a coarse comb.

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Angelholic by Yuya Sakurai

Angel-holic our killing MODE PARA:SITE attack resuming UROBOROS-like reptilian wreckage sodomy: puppet KARAKURI hallucinating fuckin’ Chinese 2020 ant wolf slaughter meme planet sperms deja-vu in Golden Street The hustle and bustle is infectious!? Misogynistic homeostasis REIGNITON the shagging cripple’s mg

GHOST IN THE SHELL 2049, Evangelion’s Kabukicho junkie “God does not exist yet,” “God will be born soon,” “the dead will be resurrected” Nihil Unbound, the ethics of extinction is OUTPUT to the angelic device in the style of protocol::0 extinction… Uber Eats: The ADAM Project.

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Angelphobia by Yuya Sakurai

It was a hot day. The earth was in a frenzy. Here in Hue, the wings of an angel are about to open. That’s why the world was as pale as the white guards at the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum in Hanoi.

Anger is deposited in my body, and this howl is so suited to the Phước Tích firing kiln that I feel like throwing myself into the Hương River. The Angel’s horn has been blown. There’s no turning back now, adieu. Someone has said that we are unretrieved, unleashed, bursting, debauched, unrecovered by anything. That’s what it means to live this one-time-only life

Remember when we were walking together under cherry blossom trees? Here in Vietnam, we don’t see cherry blossoms. Instead, there are bougainvillea and dahlia trees. The rococo style imperial mausoleum of Emperor Khải Ðịnh is in such bad taste that it would be meaningless to tell you about it. I was there with you. I wish it were easier to forget.

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The Inherent Violence of Ancient Creatures by William Tidwell

“It is common in the Orient to discover the inherent violence of ancient creatures,” said the narrator of a documentary. A woman struggled in a river at the bottom of a canyon. She remembered sleeping in a hotel with her grandmother, who was also sent to the river, but drowned. Giant jellyfish and squid groped at her dangling legs. The tremendous size of these fauna was common in the Orient, as opposed to the West, from which the woman originated. Time did not pass normally in this region. She described her supernal calm during this situation.

A philosopher and his poet friend went to a bordello. It was hexagonal and built into the wall of an underground city. The prostitutes were arranged in a circle of sarcophagi. The philosopher slid back one of the lids, revealing a flat stone surface with an embossment of the prostitute’s nervous system, and fell upon it. He ran his fingers along the nerves and laughed that this was all there is. His poet friend urged him to leave. He said the cops were coming and they needed to run. The philosopher couldn’t stop laughing. Later, it was heard the philosopher had disfigured his lover’s face with a hammer and disappeared.

I found a paperback novel on my shelf. It was a classic science fiction tale about the aggression of ancient creatures. The cover was a drawing of a gigantic ape in a pickelhaube battling several men with a spear. I had seen it before, but still not opened it. I seemed to remember much of its narrative, which appeared before my closed eyes in a series of moonlit vignettes.

I was restless through the night. With each dream I went deeper into the underground city. The walls were blotched silver, dark green, and black. The demons of each realm grew more and more obscure. Their forms of torture were ordered according to the hierarchy of esoteric bodies. The first realm was physical, the second emotional, and the third aetheric. These spiritual tortures were the most terrible to me. They were indistinguishable from waking realities, sometimes taking the form of lifespans without memory. They consisted of perverting the subject’s higher intuition. The capacity to project into the future was tied and stitched as in a sterilizing operation. This was performed by the mind of a primordial spirit immured in the depths of a silent lake. I came to know a strange solace in this deprivation by which the demons reconciled to their existence.
I was taken to a secret chamber rented by a criminal organization that belonged to the world of the invisible. They showed me a sickly-green aquarium that housed a sessile organism growing along a slanted surface. It resembled a cephalopod and had been imported supposedly from outer space. The digestive system was mostly external. I learned that to be fed to this creature was the highest form of execution by the organization. The organism excreted a chemical that paralyzed the victim but allowed them to continue breathing underwater. It would be placed facing outwards so that members of the organization could look into its eyes during the process. The mode of digestion was mysterious to me. The organism released objects like marbles from tubular appendages on both sides of its body that rolled down grooves and aided in dissolving its prey. It would be pulled in half from the middle of its skull to its pelvis over a matter of weeks. The victim would be hypnagogic for the majority of this time. Terror, pain, and incomprehension could be read in its face, even as it was split in two. I stared into the eyes of a poor soul whose gender and expression were no longer recognizable, being near complete disintegration. I woke with a familiar nausea that used to make me think I had swallowed a bug in my sleep when I was a kid.


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