Texas Reich by Cameron Day

We intend to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and fearlessness. We affirm that the world’s magnificence has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A racing car whose hood is adorned with great pipes, like serpents of explosive breath – a roaring car that seems to ride on grapeshot is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace. We will glorify war – the world’s only hygiene – militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of freedom-bringers, beautiful ideas worth dying for, and scorn for woman.

Heat death in the Texas eschaton. Thousands of horrible huge racing metal monstrosities, black Decepticons, towering trucks mutating outward in every direction, throbbing with the heinous life-force of the necromantic black blood sucked from deep soil, coughing black smoke, burning tires, shining grills. 

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Hyperstar Lumen by William Tidwell

Hyperstar Lumen was an aging photorealistic Pacman knockoff with bulging teeth and cheeks perpetually flushed red. He had amassed a considerable fortune from his years of appearing in a slew of video game titles, ranging from maze hunts, RPGs, first person shooters, sidescrolling and three-dimensional platformers, handheld snake clones, pseudo-roguelikes sold on casual web markets, and edutainment point & click adventures limited to CD-ROM. He fancied himself an artist with untapped potential, always lamenting what little creative control he had over his career, and decided a few years into his retirement to independently finance, produce, and direct a miniseries of eight mockumentaries satirizing cancel culture, consumerism, and the death of common sense. They were monumental box office failures.

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Meditations for Online by Dulce Jay

  1. The increasing incoherence of reality justifies seemingly any form of escapism.
  2. You boil yourself down to a few notable signifiers.
  3. Pornographic fantasies datamosh and interpolate with your suicide plans.
  4. When I close my eyes, the pixels are burnt into my retina, blazing like fierce green-blue suns. A mind colonised with these data packets.
  5. On a forum, I once saw someone say in an argument “you can’t criticise me, you literally eat your own shit” to which the person they were arguing with responded “that isn’t true, I only eat beautiful women’s shit”. While beauty is subjective, I can confirm that he does in fact eat women’s shit.
  6. Sometimes I think about finding the Facebook headquarters and walking in with a suicide vest strapped to my body.
  7. I’m worried the internet has stolen all of my memories. Or maybe prevented me from making them in the first place.
  8. Impact font meme posted 4:26 AM August 3rd,2015 – Image: a smiling anime girl. Upper text: PLEASE HE. Bottom text: PLEASE HELP ME.
  9. Beheading videos have numbed my sense of self.
  10. There are numerous places around the internet where men gather to discuss autofellatio. Many of the posts on these forums involve selfsuck-related injuries. These injuries don’t discourage them, however.
  11. I talk about myself constantly, but I have no idea who I am.
  12. Last post – June 24, 2018: “i think ive forgotten how to love”.
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five poems by EMMACROW


come over

bulling swerves thru the sticks feeling dreamy. let’s ram. failure’ll be my epitaph lol martians. drag thru cropfield there’s plenty ghosts there they’re swaying sapphire dresses in twilight while i’m wheeling sped ivory. slip me your there tongue i’ll swallow it whole i’m a pit flickered there striking kindling in the onyx sheath of earthfall bleating soot in god’s eye. prick my neck watch it deflate. cock stumbles. first xanax age fifteen thanks doc! glory’s strife dipout nowise there i fill my tongue with white sticks. carve faces into stallwall. bitters make my eyeroll black. pennsylvania held my hand said there there dump that fucking purse right there split that gut blew ash. i’m feeling farmgoing eggpowdered. let’s makeout. daylights out. what do you want.

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The Seven Hospitals You Visit When You Die by Todd Matthews

In the first hospital you are shackled to the bars of a rolling bed in an underground catacombs. They remove your clothes, jewelry and wristwatch and draw diagrams on your skin with permanent marker, circling your tattoos and connecting the circles in a constellatory map that covers your body. You know that if you followed the directions on the map it would lead you to your home, but you can’t see the map in its entirety, since parts of it are drawn on your back, shoulders, head, and neck. In any case you do not possess the kind of vehicle that would be necessary to follow such a map. You worry that the map may fall into the wrong hands. You have heard the staff whispering amongst themselves when they thought you were sleeping. They refer to you as “the terrorist.” Many of them glare at you in open disdain. There is only one nurse who treats you with any kindness. At times the nurse appears as a human of Afro-Caribbean descent, but at others she more resembles a large bipedal canid, with smooth black hair and a snout full of sharp fangs. The nurse visits your bed from time to time to ask if you can remember your own name. You feel your mouth open and close, though the motion seems disconnected from any power of will on your part. No sound comes out.

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The Cat And Superstition by Catboy Church

The Catboy Is Deceitful Above All Things

He’s some kind of guy. Imagine a sacred kind of guy, the last kind of guys of his kind, sitting on the curb of streetside Walgreens on a sweaty Friday night. He’s licking his shredded skaterboy elbows with his spiky tongue, stimming off asphalt grime wedged in his teeth. Sadly they’re all fake because he got a septic gum infection in catboy school. He’s walking to Walgreens on a Friday night to buy sugar-free gummy worms for Saturday’s hangover. Some kind of guy, if you can imagine this kind of guy, who tells people to kick him because he’s soft and lacks self-esteem. He’s hates the surveillance cameras stalking him from street lit supermarkets. It starts snowing on the way home. He’s the last catboy and he disgusts everyone.

The last catboy explains to the Walgreens cashier he’s new to the neighborhood. He’s wearing a face mask so no one sees the staph infection serrating his catboyskin a raw sanguine. America’s last catboy simps for the nice lady, with blonde hair like snow from heaven sticking to the branches of dead trees outside. He steps on dog shit staining the concrete sidewalk.

The sugar-free gummy worms cling to metal hooks in the sweets aisle. They make the real-life crinkling noise he hears in ASMR videos. Only he can hear this resemblance with his special catboy ears. The supervisor is watching him. The last catboy stands paralyzed pressed up against the cool plastic wrapping. Sucrosed, eyeless worm faces bulge, sucked into the shredded sphincter of a sodomite spectator. Leave, they whisper, go go.

Wouldn’t it be kind of funny, he sometimes thinks, if the worms had eyes — he thinks it would be funny if he tells the cashier this joke — sugar-free gummy worms should have cartoon googly eyes, the kind you shoplift from craft supply stores. The last catboy shudders. The automatic doors seals shut behind him. This is his stop.

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