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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Adoption Memoir 𝑏𝑦 Josiah Morgan

 

The dogs had gone to the dogs. It was the middle of the night, even so, that was all. Sleeping; the neighbors were still. (The radio was – in its merry midnight way – still crooning and cradling the empty ears of the elderly and terminally ill.) Even so, the dogs had gone to the dogs, the Daschund had come up against the Saint Bernard, so it was time to let the animals start sleeping inside.

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Academy of Science 𝑏𝑦 Max Ernst

 

The night will come when the Academy of Science itself will not disdain to cast its gaze on the sewers of the world. The night will come when, covered with all their jewels, the secondary skeletons that one calls scientists will ask themselves this question:

What do little girls dream of who want to take the veil?

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Pornocalypse: Anti-Suicide/Ultra Virulence 𝑏𝑦 Meeah Williams

 

So I get up to go. I always get up to go. It’s time to go. Well, it’s always time to go. Go where? He’s an old man in a white straw cowboy hat and ratty tweed coat. In his right hand, a thick walking stick carried like a parade baton. His spotted jowls sag. Mouth hanging open. Emphysema? He doesn’t appear to see very well. He moves as if he were pushing against a strong north wind, pushing against a thousand years. And, to top it off, he’s walking away, leading an army of nobody, a parade of silence. He’s making his exit, stage right, up an otherwise empty White Street, west, towards the setting sun. ::Do you know who that is, Mr. Satai?:: I stare at the surveillance photo the agent has slid on the table between us. ::No:: ::You’re absolutely certain you’ve never seen this man before?:: ::I’m positive. Who is he?:: The agent frowns. ::That’s the hero of our story, Mr. Satai. What do you think of that?:: ::I think we’re in a lot of trouble.:: ::Is that supposed to be funny, Mr. Satai?:: ::I don’t know. Is it?::

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Altered Chord 𝑏𝑦 Tom Snarsky

 

Your life looms before you in the shape of a tremendous pipe organ, already playing a hopelessly complex chord your ear is not attuned enough to disambiguate. The biggest pipe organ in the world contains seven manuals (i.e. keyboards), 449 ranks, 337 registers, and 33,114 pipes, but this one by necessity has more than that; each pipe, and therefore each note, plays a dimension of your life, to whatever degree of intensity matches it at the present moment. These pitches encapsulate your affect, your relationships with others (and with aspects of yourself), and practices in which you are engaged (or not engaged, but remembering). There’s a tremolo effect on the note for your very good friend whom you haven’t seen in the past year, though they are thinking of you now. You’ve just been to the dentist for the first time in ages so a high note has been added to the overall texture.

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Imminent Connoisseur of Heavens and Abysses 𝑏𝑦 Rus Khomutoff

to Jean Luc Godard

These are the days when anything goes
christ like capitulation
daggerplay cherub sly suspicion onto
chronic twilight foxrock demands
new beginnings
beneath the gravity kill supreme soft cartel
a black menace
gestalt wicked rainbow benediction
these violent delights
in the nameless city of waiting eyes
a fossil of unreason
the sprawl of new immaterialities, interruptions
ruin, allegory, melancholy
annhialating the real
venus impossible fathom lines
of a mystery front
flux, disruption and emergence
the future is a wound
heavenpunk of shadow’s stillness

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