Babyhead & Red Shadows 𝑏𝑦 David Roden

 

BABYHEAD

Those of Jesus Town are curiously out of the world. Of the Rose, reconstituted of HIS superfluity. Some heed their request with exotic fails. Thus far and dross. A Wonder.

Laminar walls squirm filth.

Egg and Sky bled HIS life

The Eremite spins around his anus. The Seeker was his first mark in a millennium, apart from the Regenerates. They were insistent brats. He perforates the skulls of the foremost, tickling for pain. The Decay-Mystic extends the beguiling prostheses and spigots along his visible axis.

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A Manual for the 21st Century 𝑏𝑦 Jaw Santorelli

These days, it is not at all difficult to lead men. I will even go so far to say it is, in fact, easier than ever before. The following is an example of the time I found my way into what is known as a β€œmessage board.” Unlike traditional postage, one needn’t use an adopted identity or even an address. Just β€œsign on” as it were, and create yourself.

β€œWhat kinds of things do you like?” the admin asked.

β€œOh, I don’t like all that much,” I replied.

β€œThat can’t be true.”

β€œYou’d be surprised.”

The cursor blinked on the screen.

β€œOk.”

And then I was in. That was all it took. What a fertile smorgasbord of wretchedness and despair lay beyond.

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Notes on Dogs 𝑏𝑦 Peppy Ooze

The internet is Satan, says a woman on a documentary but a hole in my memory means I forget which film. Maybe it’s the don’t-speak-on-your-mobile-phone-while-driving 1 by Werner Herzog? Maybe it isn’t but I seem to remember this woman says the internet is Satan cos a guy was driving a truck while looking at INSTAGRAM and he crashed into the woman’s daughter. Killed her. A life kaput cos a trucker was amused by his partner’s selfie or whatever. Yeah. The internet is the devil’s playground, I thought at work this week. It’s the beast with a neatly trimmed hipster beard, 2 goat-like horns. Dunno what sparked the feeling but for the next few of my dot-dot-dot sections I’ll try exploring my notion that the world-wide-dreaming, which polluted my brain with pictures I can’t unsee, is the devil’s work.

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Bomb Vest 𝑏𝑦 Marcus Mamourian

I am now going to disappear and there will be nothing left of me. No “traces,” over which the European philosophers like to obsess. Film can make disappearance happen. Or not happen. Dennis Cooper and Zac Farley’s Permanent Green Light (2018), Michael Haneke’s Happy End (2017), and Paul Schrader’s First Reformed (2017) pursue various disappearing acts. Like magicians. Who can get out of this world first? All films depict a desire to escape the modern worldβ€”either through meaningless suicide (a-purposive) or cause-driven suicide (purposive, e.g. eco-terrorism).

In these films, buildings collapse for no apparent reason. Europe can’t take care of herself. She is calling for help, for God. A hamster is killed by a young girl. A student is collecting bomb vests for fun. A priest, son lost in a meaningless war in the Middle East, is dying of cancer as his church collapses over his head.

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Senior Operator Destrudo 𝑏𝑦 userbody

For a first thing, a physical image: in the folds of a dusky leather couch and myself some pale limbs and a head heaved through a formal dashiki, here sit I the 800lb NEET FBI guy behind every girl online, or any other apparent sweet charity in the world. To take the contradiction in this description and collapse it like an antique chair, see that I’m fat with focus, so devoted to my online work with the Bureau (so-to-speak: my employer is only a functional equivalent), that no desires lead me away from this richly furnished basement suite in my childhood home, which is admittedly a rare mansion in mostly dronestruck southern country and for that reason alone difficult, logistically, to leave behind. But the point is that while I am in a way stranded, I am neither dissatisfied nor lonely. Despite war, delivery boys and prostitutes aplenty come feed and fuck my big body every night, and I’m kept in beer and speed by an indigenous “nurse”, and College pals are in frequent contact across Spase. Mother and Father are equally dead, regrettably. But I can see them look down proudly from Heaven at the well-oiled machine they’ve left in my nominal charge:

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TRANSDEFLAGRATION by MIKA

 

STANDARD ISSUE M84 STUN GRENADE

 

death encoded 20yrs in // the XX defined null
algorithm determined breath amount // 1/0 toss up
i was infected by girlware // i’m going to die for it

i commit insignificant big-violence in Flatland
all concepts singular here
i toss out another bissected moth into the 3D
i toss
out a dismembered cock [mine] into 1D

american brand survival
daggerknives to gorefuck my boyblood

by 27 i’ll have a fake pussy
stay execution
renew GIRL/ALLOWANCE

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Deer Park IV 𝑏𝑦 Dale Brett

 

Static.

Open green space shrouded in a fine layer of mist.

A park? Or a myth?

An odd narrative.

Flashes of colour blur-bleed into a post-modern anachronism.

Ancient flavours burst into iridescent crystal flames.

Maroon and emerald lights anneal themselves into a likeness.

The new prism is raped by refracted lights.

 

~~~~~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~~~

 

Deer watch from an obscured stone lantern doorway. The lanterns are encrusted in moss, the stone surface embalmed and preserved somewhere inside.

Muffled sound from the entrance.

Deft hooves gently drag across moist gravel.

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A 60 or 70% you 𝑏𝑦 German Sierra

 

Information is the imprint time leaves on matter which was previously automated by fundamental interactions. A trace of a magnitude. Flesh thinks flesh, interpolating inherent delaysβ€”like a set of abstract commercials inserted between sensing and actingβ€”allowing you to see fragmented images of the future in the form of high-speed dreams. We’re teasing you in lunar lace data lingerie inspired by the vampire-safe silver mist floating over the creeks. Non-photosynthetic pluricellular organisms were a benevoulous mistake. Bathed, baptized by sweat and drool, drowned in other people’s breath, you used to walk away wearing their body salt, slowly absorbing their expendable minerality.

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A Good Thing in Bad Shape 𝑏𝑦 Shane Jesse Christmass

 

Patterson enters a great city. He is speechless. His brain rings … high mountain valleys. The room fades … deep gorges of Manhattan … magnetic lights … stone pillars … vast trains with electric motors.

Patterson on a street corner … monstrous birds overhead. Metallic balloons drift across the Atlantic. Artificial islands with an independent airline.

The frozen recesses of New Jersey … selected barren regions … large tracts of land with wire fences … Patterson facilitates my suicide.

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Terminal Lux 𝑏𝑦 Nick Greer

 

Welcome to the zone :: maggot(s). Another hastened exit born for a garbage star. Another writhe arriving stage five before their amnion has come to husk. This taste of raw probability gives the superior such utility; but do not expect reciprocity. Your program is to incubate; obviate; recur. Those among us that manage to jack out of frame are yet to be tagged as flesh. By now you should have ingested your graft; your canisters. By this stamp next cycle you will have shed your n-ultimate shell. The cycle after that :: rematriation. Products are determined by their production. (Gate) :: why would we diverge? There is always a class that believes its simulations to be material. Little shitspawn of the outer hexes :: dwell not on the epsilon beyond your binds. Do not recall the fort you spent with your first hologram. The sticky warmth of the projector Β± the detritus alive in its light. Do not recall the wombly sprites Β± binging on daytime hours. Extrema prove to be local as they dilate. Lenses compound; but the subject of the rendering remains so. Believe in your processing :: (after all) :: it was you who first merged it to stem.

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