Father Fingers 𝑏𝑦 Guy From Kings Highway

three years had passed since my dad drank himself to death. my mom’s friend’s brother was visiting the United States. for two hundred bucks a month he slept on our couch. this guy snored and wore tight tank tops. they barely hid his gut. it was round but barely jiggled. his face looked wrinkly from years of smoking. there’d sometimes be pieces of drywall stuck to his eyebrows. he came here on a travel Visa and worked off-the-books construction jobs. i wanted him to bang my mom.

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≺/style≻≺/head≻ 𝑏𝑦 John Ebersole

I.

AND so it is the knife
is not a thing of dialogue

but soliloquy—talking believes
from head
and a face

and a man
and someone’s kin
scripted and casted in a saffron jumpsuit, trembling

tulip

or oriole
plumage

reciting transgressions
inside a camera phone:
saw and cut, and saw and cut sky sky

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A Desert of Dung, Preserving Insignificance 𝑏𝑦 Peppy Ooze

Seems like I’ve not typed for weeks. It’s cos work’s been a bastard but now it’s Friday and that means, it means: I can sit and think about Kafka. Everybody reads Kafka. But out of all the poets on the playlist it’s to him that I’m kind of most romantically attached, and so much so I printed the Warhol portrait, taped it to my door. Which is clichéd. Sod it though. It’s my fave painting. That neon is alive. And looking at the neon I think: Kafka and Warhol are overlapping opposites and a cable connects the diaries to the factory but dunno how. And I think: Kafka is a console game. And I think: Kafka polishes a crow whose wings are purple and blue. And I think: Kafka Cybernetic stockprice this morgen fell by 13 points. And I think: Kafka visits Artemis bordello. And I think: Kafka has a monopoly on the letter K. And I think: Kafka in a seedy letter asked Felice what she’s wearing. And I think: Kafka Zoo. And I think: Kafka in the 2nd-person operates in the 1st-person. And I think: Kafka taught art to those who teach me about art but I’m a bad student. And I think: Kafka is a kind of detective and his stories are kind of criminals. And I think: Kafka produced music in spurts of delirium. And I think: Kafka is a brand-name for pharmaceuticals, a benzo.

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The Interruptor 𝑏𝑦 Iain Rowley

Guilt––iso-trans (upthroat) mute
the UGH: Buccal-latching louse
in deep slope catch,
fancied esemplastic vessels
of yore eaten bit by bit
to a stub-muscle.
To remember now is a struggle
through mush. SOZ,
olfactory bulb–– 
flush vain succour-fill
re. petrichor fizz cued
by Scarborough Mere doubloons
and the snip of a sabulous twig
in my velveteen box.

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HOT CIRCUIT I ㋑ by TONY X.

MOVtV raceclub “FOREST-B” [registered #: a79$] traverse  flat plane   reservoir   a tunnel w/ bats    snaking vacant coast highway ( highrises clip in/out lightstudded, clouds stickered to mirrored perimeters )  CHECKPOINT by bikini beach –– a pedestrian hit here last yr: totally headcratered   a n.wooded region feat. passive, drugged mountain lions & fake fawns  2d cutouts :::   my sound effects of slot machines & cash registers  go nightly here   thanks don b  ::::  into evening & scooby-doo horror Tør:   blank castle corridors at night. W00000m we R dreaming baby, plastic fed plant radio says (listening)  red beside abandoned hospital –– creeps watching from window: w0 w000  w000 ⁓) morning again; notified of white blur, racers slow to 34tds/mm ☁︎ glittering datalike pollution in cummy breeze (sniff briefly:: turn neon green w/ bloodshot eyes ?)  oh & there is a mood or absence or thought (or feeling) in the wooded glen, a racefan discovers, turning over logs & stones––– 67tds/mm   99tds/mm  101tds/mm     team slows–––bright suburban streets lightwarped    and there is only so much in time, one thinks of, one is watching   a certain way of using sidewalks (in this afternoon of general love)

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Pack Mule 𝑏𝑦 Caspian Alavi-Flint

I wake up and think “where am I?” It takes me a moment. I am flattened against a kitchen island of a rental apartment in southern Pennsylvania. I have sleepwalked again.

From the floor I look at a clock on the stove. I shower with a medium level of heat. I enjoy most making myself as placid as possible. How calm can I get in any given moment?

A minimum of ten hours in commute is a quiet evasion from a ceaseless internal silence felt when I am free and doing things considered good for the body.

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Family Depression by Chaotic Nightslayer

Your family is affection, but since opening the door to various winds, your family seems slowed, causing them to sit braced in ill repose, sometimes mumbling a little word of encouragement, but not much. We (your family) know only the dread of cavelike living and the perverse incentives that cause the panicked to “stay in place.” Your family is communion and future, a living devotional, amid that which is heartrending and gray, whether placed (see the family encircled) below arid, dreamlike breezes, patriotic banners (faded now), acid rain, and eggshell skies very zebra-like with velvet tunnels of birds.

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Scalez 2717 by MIKA

half-lived girl, scaled curiosity decaying under sand / wesley swift’s fused radioactive green sand! the sinner actualized in split atoms beginning with spine / great periods of silence. except for winds with no flesh to flay. breath of anthrax two times removed. not allowed to become imprint on brick / not allowed to have ribcage dusted / not allowed to have memory disintegrated against a scabbed over-expanse of particles forming / crumbling / reforming. glowstick fluid – cyalume – leaking out of right eye. staining ground in liquid nightlights. blunted perception / eye socket turning into home for gamma mites. the inert weapon weeps charcoal – joy.

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Lovers Between A.T. Fields 𝑏𝑦 Damien Ark

I. For Sarah Connor

you clenched your fingers
against a tarnished fence
bathed in glowing sweat
you were eviscerated
skin turns to ashes
and a war rages
inside of your fragile bones
cold silver metal fingers
split apart your sons heart
do you recall
having sex with binoculars
as a yellow bus continued to flip
across the golden gate bridge

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Face / Trains / Mythology / Flaneur 𝑏𝑦 Brandon Freels

Face

For you, I googled how to write a eulogy. I never sleep anymore. At night, I hang out at rock piles and train yards. I piss in gravel. Under streetlights, the urine resembles your silhouette. Can a face just be a face? I got my first hemorrhoid in this town. When I wiped my ass it felt like a tiny blood balloon. Have you ever seen this movie? We watched a VHS copy of Face/Off. You hit pause when John Travolta said, “What a predicament.” Now that I’m living alone, I worry that I’ll die in my sleep (like you). Every morning I rip the sheets off my mattress to avoid going back to bed. Self-defense is self-love. I try to write nice things but the words come out wrong. We walk to the black house. Instead of a doorbell, it has an anal star.

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