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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Three Poems 𝑏𝑦 Jack Campion




we bulge we permeate we

                                     [in that black terrible we grow]

grow inside bile-columns – fix our terrible jaws and

                                     [fixing, feasting, grinding our teeth]

grow to hate caverns that keep us

                                     [fumbling behind our mandibles searching for it]

beneath silicon-cylinders – the will compels.

                                     [tear out a place where the maw can rest]

scorches our translucent hides while we

                                     [take it apart piece by piece]

fix fangs into back and

                                     [build on matter which drew us forth]

tear into side –

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Map-Evyenia 𝑏𝑦 David Roden




Map was content never to know why I had come. She knew I was hers. I possess an overexposed photograph of her, straw-colored hair, precipitately erased like Woodman wounded on the stone floor.[i] 

Inquisitions hunted her like melanomas, but Map made no apology. She weakened from their conflicting imperatives and who isn’t excited by finitude encroaching with a spear? So we lay in black-louvred rooms by Decasia’s garment quarter, watching spider sigils redacted from The Matriarchy, or even before, project to dust.

Reading this blackened history helped us face her impending replacement. We might have imagine it, but she knew it wasn’t anything. The Syndics told her so in spiteful missives to which she retorted in stone, a rain of theory.

  • The mechanism is bigger than the World.
  • The number of a Power exceeds that of the set it owns, absolutely in accordance with Cantor’s diagonalization theorem.
  • With the infinities, it is indeterminably larger; a ruination.[ii]
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Lola 𝑏𝑦 Candy Rhizomatic

Lola could feel the effects of the drug almost instantly, in her root chakra and then also in that one above the root chakra, what’s it called, but also just straight up shooting ricocheting up the whole damn spine, the whole misty brainfuck of the kabbalistic tree, every single chakra and microchakra exploding up to her head blasting out into the spinning, dizzy, jouissancing schreber-stars, the stars striding heroically in their swift constellations, those muscles of arno breker microfascist masculine flexing in that giant fuck of distance that separated her from some kind of cosmic abyss too abstract to fathom. Then again maybe this is just a sort of metaphysical-hyperbolic exaggeration because the feeling could also have been described as just a sort of a warmish glow in the pit of her stomach. But still… This 2CE, combined with the Robert Desnos she had been reading just before, she felt free, unhinged, unhindered, unencumbered, let-loose, wild, cosmic, redolent, insane!

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Two Poems 𝑏𝑦 milvaspectre


Abecedarian  for my dyin  laptop and its missin  two keys


Qwernomic intersections between t e S oles keyboard confi uration and t e Qabala
W at obstacles t is  as posed for t ose of us on t e web
Every keystroke and click an offerin  to Moloc
Rivulets of antitussive accidentally splas ed, stainin  t e keyboard red
T e balance of t e alp abet’s w ole 585  ives way to t e  ematrical unease in 583
Yawnin   ulf of a cracked LCD screen t rowin  w ite wallpaper into relief

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face flush to the screen until my eyes melt to the glass. ass pressed against the chair i begin to lose the sensations separating me & leather. i employ a macro to auto-click away 238 ad windows. tick tick tick mouse clicks fetter across my desk / HOT PRE-USED CUM CORPSES BURIED NEAR U / LEARN SECRET 2 SUMMON A DAEMON 2 INSTA-GIB YOU & FUCK THE REMAINS NOW / 10 OCCULT WAYS THE WORLD IS ENDING AS YOU WALLOW HERE etc.

at the desktop i start up FLASHLAND.exe. screen fills w/ white like a stun grenade just popped in my mouth. black fades in / splash logos zoom by / companies ive never heard of + Sierra / i get hard in anticipation. body already knows whats up by now. its the only time it gets to die. chipping my nail polish against the keyboard is like slathering my gums in coke, but i never seem to have enough & i never seem to need more than a taste to get sent off. the word FLASHLAND blares in cleansed white on the left. techno beats from the OST fucking each other in disharmony drops of blood leaking out my headphones–every time, oh well.

the main menu options are laid out like this:







i click on NEW UNIT.

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Submission 𝑏𝑦 Tobacco Orc

The words I write slip away within the hour.

The words I find are unfamiliar, and quickly become irrelevant.
The incessant subtle awareness of my own inferiority is manifesting in violent, self-destructive outbursts that get worse as years pass and gaps widen. 
I am constantly trying to maintain a persistent level of satisfaction with my performance, but it always comes up short.
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Hearing 𝑏𝑦 Amie Norman Walker

Since landing on the bedroom floor I’m certain you won’t scream any more. I’m opening and closing holes in my ear to check if that buzzing sound is really there. A ringing from the background. It is there, though now that it’s been noticed, it’s fading. This noise yelled as if for my attention, yet now plainly hums. What does it take to go unnoticed? How do you maintain mundanity? Learn to be consistent, so as not to draw attention. Blend into regular habits.

Your blood is patterned like a rose. See how prominently flowers display their sex. Show me an ugly flower. They have no sound. Shushed, silent but the wind. A bird. A bee. All the dark swaying of the trees. Overwhelming mechanical noise.

I’m not distracted by one now, dare I lie. I’m tempted to draw out vibrations in patterns explaining through frequencies what the quiver of my lip means. If I turn my head to the left, if I turn my head to the right, the vertical humming changes volume. So, see? I’m plugging only my right or only my left in attempts to zero in on decency.

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