Maskenfreiheit 𝑏𝑦 James Krendel-Clark

“the opening of attraction and the negligence welcoming the person who is attracted are one and the same”

 

-Michel Foucault, The Thought of the Outside

 

Rex Hairdo Orifice IV was a genius and America’s leading art critic. He represented a new generation of critics who rejected the post-critical for good old fashioned judgement, although not without integrating the stylistic and conceptual advances of the post-critical vernacular (he had the instincts of a Greenberg and the theoretical acumen of a Krauss). He was also a veritable Don Juan, a Pierre Klossowski, a Phallic Prince, in short, a Mephistopheles, whose rhizomatically predatorial animality always arrived at its destination, and he surely clawed his way into the hearts of millions of homesick waifs yearning for the latest information on how to be erudite. Behind his expensively framed glasses were eyes that swiveled diabolically-robotically, saccadic crawl of mindrich divots spinning at the end of the terminal interface that churned the core of his surfaces and crunched the math of his machine moustacheface, whirring rods and pumping pistons straining towards the futurism of his smirk, intestinal situationism slimily sidled over to tzaraflirting artgirls in a woven sharpchat witword clunk glut deleuzian stutter of galactic oh wow what a brain you have gaping the void run abgrund against her sweetgleaming worldlyways, he oozed with goo, wisdom barfed its alphabetic associations into a holographic hieroglyph of true truthcave, we all nestled into its shadowy light, adequatio, correspondentia, convenientia, to on hos alethes, mellowly whispered clockworklike guruvocals, gigglesheheardhim alightwenton, comeintomycave, swirling negative dialectics, every charm known to enchant these cynical screen-kids and it knocked resonating like gong, clever clutzy cutesy nerdyouthgothtightskirt of today right on their cute asses. Oh, and tonight he was slyly relaxing awaiting most graciously the advent of the artwork whose author he intended to seduce (this time a charming young man with a ravishing hairdo and a well-groomed orifice, Rex whose name was a rhebus of features that belong to both genders), Ralph Overdo Dilletante’s long awaited gesamtkunstwerk (no doubt the start of a promising artistic career; Ralph’s name a rhebus of a universal tragedy of youth confronted with its own promise) with this imposing yet sincere presence, the raw bones of Rex’s robot-being were neutral and almost clinked like the ice in his drink, and almost invisible like a psychoanalyst’s fists clutching the pen that carved out an inky diagram of this fancy lad’s psyche, the revolutionary capacity of his s’words (god Rex could remember so much, the archive of his mind was archeologically organized with histories of movements ever kindling, ever going out like Heraclitus’ matches, tossed idly into a fountain one by one as the sun goes down and the sublimated dialogue barely conceals the genital topology within; Rex scratched his head and soothed his hair as he remembered the history of the avant-garde, its futility, its majesty, its excess and momentum, storming the museum, formalisms inverted, deconstructed, shattered). Glasses clink and polite chit-chat flit through the resonant hall as the lights dim. 

 

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Eyes, Uber, War Games 𝑏𝑦 Sam Russek

When I’ve had this much to drink, closing my eyes
gives me a kind of vertigo. My life is
Here, between the blinks
Nothing else is safe anymore &
In the morning & forever after that my pulse
Differs too.
I haven’t told the doctor yet, or my therapist.
It’s just dust in my eyes
            & anyway
Much of the time normal can’t mean anything
But a series of anticipated in-
            consistencies, behaviors already with a more generalized safety net. The power’s
Out, but by the time
My eyes are open again the lights are on
            & my neighbor is telling me not to worry that’s normal around here.

He gave me some unsolicited advice
That is
To search for something new always, meaning all the time
To ignore the landlord’s rules, which are bullshit anyway
Not to drink the tap water, to use the oven sparingly, check
For mold regularly
            & finally, he said, a wise rabbit never only
                        digs one hole.

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Left Behind 𝑏𝑦 Rickey Rivers Jr.

I’ve been left here by my owner. I’m lonely and cold. She left me here, well not here exactly but here in this stranger’s place. She went home with him, his home. Beforehand, they had drinks. He bought her one. I suppose that’s unimportant. What is, is me, here, he slid me under here. Under where? The bed of course and she left to go, where? Home I guess. Yeah, I guess she went home, our home.

Maybe she’ll come back for me? Maybe he’ll look under here and find me and mail me back to her? I can’t imagine so, though it would be nice.

I wonder if she’s made it home. She was wobbly when she got here, wherever here is. She must be cold without me. She has to have noticed my absence. Then again, there are many others at home.

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Kept Underground by Sam Machell

Thumping thumping muffled thumping outside airlock the queue moves slowly thumping from the thumping from the thumping bouncer grimaced holy the thumping night the thumping air the door a thumping gateway downstairs thumping they queue and sway and sway and the drunk men thumping leer and taxi’d honk and thumping whistled wolf with lights bloomed astream through thumping vomit chunks and din road wheeze and toppling flashed they toppled the motion the thumping words in queues forgotten they smirked stretch rustled their hidden baggies sweaty knead their thumping feet with no sir thumping shoe sole asshole cavity grassed gasp flashed a creep in coat dust smell and wrinkled member rimming plastic bottle and thumping fell to the blood speckled floor the fell to the flashed the fell to the bouncer in frowning flashed old gum go on then go on for not the shoes ushered flashed the thumping skull the stairway pendulum flashed the way down through queasy thumping flashed the way down to the club flashed drowned in flashed light drink and sour thumping smell they made the thumping thumping lewd acts in shadows and banshee wails flashed the blue strobe hall with thumping jacket leather jacket squealing rodent observed cross union and organised jumping to the thumping to the thumping to the main room thumping piss stained revolution serf round dancing.

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Scream Queen 𝑏𝑦 Meeah Williams

How many staircases has she been carried down 

how many cold steps of rough-hewn stone

into how many dank cellars

damp dungeons, mad laboratories

underground labyrinths, suburban basement torture chambers

 

transported across how many moonlit moors towards how many castles, cemeteries, ancient mausoleums, abandoned construction sites and midnight back alleys?

 

How many times has she been cradled in the arms of some hulking goon, priapic vampire, lunatic henchman Frankensteinian monster, lifted over how many thresholds like a bride, but always unconscious

always in diaphanous nightgown

always barefoot, head and arms dangling

toes tensely pointed to the floor in orgasmic anticipation step-by-step descending in an embrace

of muscle, bone or moldering flesh

to meet her softcore fate?

How many walls has she been shackled to

drawn up by chains and ropes on tiptoes

how many pagan altars has she been staked out upon

how many times has her blood been drained by some suave bisexual aristocrat,

some Count or Countess Bathory

how many times has she fallen the pretty prey to the overly complicated machinations of a madman from the wax museum?

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Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe 𝑏𝑦 Toga

he fought the concept of fatherhood itself today

he was bleeding on the ground battered by his pain

glasgow smile adorning his face

what lies at the end of the corridor he doesn’t want to see ever again

it dimmed the fire inside of him permanently

here in this house we can still hear the broken promises

it’s in the piping system

it whines

one day it’ll be replaced

unless the ivy plants that grow inside of it

drag the whole system down into hell

everything will be dragged down along with it

it’ll leave a hole in the administrative records

just like the hole it left in his heart

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House – Breath – Absence – Veins 𝑏𝑦 Bryce Jones

              Drawn-water soaked into its own spongegrowth of mold. Humidity bred from a warm, moistured smell. Tiles softened like a mouth eschews teeth.

              Until his lawn was sick with summer – the stems of grass distressed their stalks from hardened soil – and turned his neighbors’ thoughts upon the homeless – with sallow hair half-limed of keratin, scratching off their chaffglumed scabies – he lay balloon-burst in the bathtub, six weeks dead.

              Appointed by resentment, vouched by the sheriff’s silence, the suburbs’ population is a posse comitatus – and the police their janitors.

              Every neighbor and their neighbor and their neighbor and their neighbor to the neighbor of his neighbors were incensed to group before his door. Forty people wend from welcome mat to sidewalk. Martyred knuckles knocking the same next-to-nothing, one repeated swamp-grained thump. Hoping that he’d open while their fists were bunched in motion, inertia-prepped to land on wood, colliding with his skull instead.

              They shouted

              And scattered

              Into the backyard

              The side of the house.

              They squint through the gaps between blinds

              And saw nothing.

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Gloss 𝑏𝑦 Janice Kang

sugar-sweet cotton cheeks,

/

needlework feelings forwarded to a disillusioned, sad-eyed angel boy / ‘good morrow,’ it entails, all e-boys’ correspondence with the pixels & eyeliner & apathy 

/

‘good morrow, here is yet another love poem for only your eyes to relish in’

/

‘good morrow, listen to this sonata i composed for you, arpeggios of our aurum scenes’ 

/

you know, melancholy’s just a monochrome rainbow / angel boy’s softly grey–– though tonight we’ve got a splendid crowd & hot pink lights the prime of fallen-angelhood / bluffed wings peek at the poles of his body, where the blades have parted to usher those radio waves past through / and, well, poet’s indigo even without the lights(with love) / and, well, poet’s hands thrum with the wavelengths, stinging like gamma rays & fright (with love)

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