Moonstone Bloodstone by Chris Moran

“Through advanced spellcraft, listen to this
Through memory. The spirit that I will now

Be turning into is a phantom of air,
Is a shard of star shrapnel.

My friend, may I shed
This light

Into the circulatory matrix

That was a digital
Fabrication

Brandishing a dream into
The wild moonlight

Hypnotic techniques of clouds
That leveled the shores

Of Lower Saxony

No source of space
Surrounds this light

Hovering over a glade
A meadow spurned

The wine of my sorrow

A hologram beamed into the
Mind of the people

Infraterrestrial altered state
Rituals, mind powers
A blending of parallel realities
The moonstone, the bloodstone.”

These words are spoken through a filter. They are modulated by topaz. Neon clouds came in with the storm, the sandstorms and cyclones of the nether-regions. The wasted world fed on despair, magnetized to the remote parts of the psyche where negativity corrupts all natural desire to transcend the personal, the limited, the visible parts of the self and go deep into the invisible, the second sight where ordinary awareness gets left behind.

Interstellar owls assist this operation. An interstellar owl is hovering overhead, the oversoul and spirit of the land. It provides something like a conscience. And the alien trumpets, the devil’s trumpet announcing the darkness of Arioch, lord of the seven spheres. The old lord’s skeletal frame and the balance of elemental stones is at hand. A mist passes through azure fugues and carnelian quartz into the crystalline shield. Blood rains through the Shade Gate and into the chamber-sphere of the moon lord, this infernal and decadent canticle,

“May he who loves the abyss cease to exist,
May he who gains the scepter be enmeshed
In bloody waters and infinite darkness!

Leaking vitality and ulterior dimension
As in the way a star imparts its light
To the darkness, to the void
Unimaginably vast, the macrocosmic
Enterprise mirrored by the emptiness
Within our hero, mad Arioch

Host of the iron crown
Cursed by the carnelian quartz

The talisman magnetized to the lunar,
To the unknown, to the second sight”

Soaked in the ashes of long dead enemies, the fire spheres rotate telepathically. Gazing into the crystal as a method of knowing and singeing the impulse for fear, for eliminating all traces of doubt. In the mind of the dreamer is the resolution of a young warrior. The moonstone radiates a chemical atmosphere. The bloodstone seeps into peculiar auras. These floating orbs act as a walkie-talkie to the nether-realms.

“The shape-shifting multiplication of elements,
The werewolves of infernal Voltrex,
A nebulous wasteland and purveyor
Of the gems that are sought,
The moonstone and the bloodstone.”

A current of dark air whispered epic poetry in a dead tongue. The telepathic air had froze the mind of Arioch and in this moment he knew –– his thoughts blackened by fear, that he had gained the second sight. Through the essence of suffering, the darkest star had begun to shine. The star lodged in his heart, implanted at a young age to siphon his desires straight through to the dead had blazed. The void within him pulsed to the current. The nebulous regions through a forgotten haze. The vibrating bloodstone. The supernatural moonstone. Surrounding the topaz throne are the hellhounds from the infernal regions.

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Series of Dreams by Kagami Smile

Your breath punctures static mirror. I look at it and watch the glass shatter into a moon that dissolves and evaporates into discarded memories. You had written numerous things in an obscured chat box, your silent form dwindling into dusty cracks of a silent room in an apartment.

Your dialogue made my retinas squirm. You typed a sentence that blew a vacuum of digital and imagined pornography into my mind and tore off shards of my eardrum.

“We did erotic things. Having sex underneath an enveloping moon. Can’t you feel me? Swimming in your brain, attacking your neural net, sharpening my passion in your heart.”

I fell atop a discarded moon. You had eyes that pierced the twilight and sank into my fabricated heart strings. The last time I heard your voice, it assaulted me, a form of digital bliss. I suck your static breath and watch it leave the fabricated moon without a trace. You begin typing to me again. I’m aware in my moment of half realized reverie, sitting alone in an office building with lights continuously blinking.

“When can we meet?” she asks me in riddles. “When can we meet under the dying moon? This archaic way of meeting, when my form can disappear in your dream and we can meet and let our bodies aglow.”

I stare out the window of a windowless room. A digital screen for a window. The silent pixelated grass and the smell and auditory sensation of insects chirping their mechanical whirrs. I have neighbors but they exist outside of this box. They call it a digital hell.

I escape during boredom, up at 1am for lack of sleep. Suffering paralysis from the screens but being sucked into the screens just the same. I met her under the rubble of the screens. She said we could destroy the screens together.

Every scene would change. But she would leave me, and I’d feel our meeting was left in vain left to rot in the digital hell. Have you heard of the Deep Blue? She once asked me.

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IT WAS HIGHSCHOOL by Emily Guro

stifling frailty with new skin,
i yearn to feel the concrete
snot like resin crusts my shape
i don’t recognize this person

and that was the plan, sure,
to reconfigure, re-adapt
mixing and matching false solutions
to this chemical puzzle

but i run my teeth across steel
in agonized reluctant sacrifice
i’m biting the edge of my life
every time i try to mold

i break glass with flesh
slashing tendons loose
smearing myself cold
lost in strange reflections

i will never recognize this person
and i refuse to participate
the form is rejecting itself again
and it purges itself

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PsychothrenodiK by Will Bernardara Jr

Meandering under a greasy moon
An unctuous lunar ellipsoid
Baleful and buttery
Up: pustular corpse-eye
Down: polyvinyl fondlings
Rubber bullets; wobbly bass
(Read: pert tits; glitch)
Blue attic nights
In which the blue glows sexily
And drones ecstasy
We know weaponry
We throw destiny to the loups-garous
Sensors and metrics and Fidel Castro
Are the future
Arm the neutered
Sepulchrally reboot spongy gray operating systems
(Or?)
Or snort rails of Haitian zombie powder
While watching Roller Blade
On VHS
(Or?)
Or The Undertaker and His Pals
(Reading?)
probably Beckett
(Or?)
Or Peter Scully’s appeal

Fuck the lot of them
Their sad sacraments
Blue attic
(The blue of video stores circa 1994)
Barthelme smeared the moon
He had issues with the moon
… (Why?)
Our only jumbo night-light showcasing
– illuminating wanly –
All nocturnal earthly horror and miracle
Waves and menstruation
Asylum foaming
What a meddlesome cosmic ovoid
Coffins rattle around inside my skull
Like a maraca of bone
Let us prey…
On our natural satellite
[DONALD! FUCK YOU!] Star reference: 27 and 1/3
Diameter: 3475 meters kilo
238,900 miles from the blue attic
(Mean)
And still a motif
At that distance
About the girl in the attic: she appears ageless
90 or 9 – who knows?
Anemic and elfin and polyvinyl-hoodied
Likes kitchen-sink magic realism
From Massachusetts probably
That’s only speculation though
She could be made of porcelain for all I know
Green brie/celestial bod
And elegiacal brooding
Brood king elegy
The gradations of an outsider art –
I would read suicide notes as verse
Natural disaster aftermath as organic installation
I would read a schizophrenic hobo’s lice-mealy handscrawled autobiography
I would watch amateur porn and look for fluky symbols
Unintentional abstruse subtexts hiding in rutting creeps
Do not suffer pitiful mannerists like Lin Tao
Anyone can do Lin Tao: e.g., I need to check email… this is stupid… a koala ate Chris Penn’s chin off… I laugh and feel bored
(Scoff)
An antidromic hike into an ahistorical past is needed
Aikido for rapists; destabilization happens, essentially
Dissociation, Inc.
Detachment LLC
Campy blue UFO light
Looks like a straight-to-video erotic thriller from the ‘90s
Life does
Fafnir roars in UHF
I want death by band saw
No
I demand death by band saw
Yes
Goodnight, you pursuers of jackal delirium

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David Rothko’s Remake of the Bible

You might remember how within hours of David Rothko’s Remake of the Bible being released, everyone was asking each other who the lover he had named “Melissa” might be, this openly acknowledged pseudonym weaving her way through the rise and fall of each chapter. All the sensitive young men (as well as a good number of shit-headed ones and more than a few lesbians) were ready to fall in love with her, which felt like an implausible but statistically mentionable possibility for those in social circles adjacent enough for her to have been cast into, since of course Rothko had had to promptly shed her the way a red carpet dress must be discarded once the commoners have glimpsed it.

You’ll want to be able to Dr. Frankenstein a few of the more prominent takes on this matter together into something resembling an original one, so as to perpetuate the smokescreen the whole affair serves as, but should otherwise attempt to remain fully unconcerned with the gossip.

Your attention will need to be focused on posture. Whether on the bus, in the cafe, among socialites, in the bedroom, you must be able to optimally frame* the book’s cover, its wash of blue, green, orange (each in several shades) and most of all the incredibly chic reflective pink lettering.

*“Optimally frame” here doesn’t mean to simply draw attention to the book (it does that well enough on its own), but to direct this guaranteed attention in such a way that people notice how you’re reading it. The way the lettering brilliantly ricochets light may also be used for hypnosis or as a weapon, if one finds the right dark web tutorials.

Once you’ve fully mastered the work’s distractive properties, you can begin to drift through those subtle passages where Rothko threads associations between the crush of objects we all find ourselves surrounded with, building not quite a hierarchy but something not particularly distant from one either, undoing 1) Jesus’s dissolving of Hebrew law into an existential demand to love and 2) Peter’s subsequent ecstatic vision where he reinterprets this dissolving as invitation to consume every part of the world at leisure.

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EMITTER HUSK by Rachel Lilim

Colossal lifeflown forms hang
decomposing just below cloudlayer.
Needle scrapes through spine,
(Felt in teeth, soft hiss of administration,)
breaks vision into messy viscera.
Januarys voice degrades to tatters,
a static slush in your ear.
Eyes shutter to black, red sand
rushes to meet collapse. 
January is a hollowed icon imprint.
He wavers in the heat.
Head a cracked mollusk shell
blooming raw flesh.
Gore dripping up towards heaven.
Messy splinter of smile.
Full ironsmoke night when you wake.

The Emitter now glowing on the horizon,
teeming with life, slow bass pulses:
dragging sand behind them cross plains.
From every icy dot torn in the skies flesh
god stares hungry, pearl light batters clouds.
Start moving shaky towards heaven.
Small pillars grow larger,
jut from the desperate ground.
Grow into a forest.
When you reach the other side
Dawn is bleeding up into cotton fever sky.
The Emitter lies before you. 
Great hollows in its flanks catch the sun,
intensify it to melt-dripping glass honey.
White hot drool sears through eyelids.
Bent light, smeared gravity.
Isotope washed pulses pass through you,
feel flesh ripple, gods hand through
a curtain of beads. Your shadow printed on air.
Far above you the sun is grated
by lacy-thin fibrous lungs.
Each breath causes the shards of light
to flow across your skin, the stony landscape.
Each breath sounds like icebergs ground to slush.
January’s tongue billows behind shattered teeth.
Sloppy iron drools from the holes in his neck.
Words bubbling, messy clatter of ruined throat.
Your boot embraced by splayed ribs.
A circle of wings in the sun above you.
See the hollow light flickering above his eyes.
Behind your eyelids the Emitter blooms.

Quivering, a multitude of taut strings, high tension
Silver pearlescent tongues strumming flesh:
Ache, phosphorous, wet muscles writhe round bone.
Icy light envelops you, pushes desperate
through grain of iris, snakes down optic nerve
Sifts through you, your past, the belt snaps,
lays visions out, spinning disorientation,
tangled snapshots bleed color into the air,
moments hanging to be tasted.
The clouds pass before blank eyes.
Long moments stretch on the sand.
January’s voice still in your ears.

Continue ReadingEMITTER HUSK by Rachel Lilim