No more-cum-forever
all i could produce
after getting the news
was shot through with blood
i earned but didn't save
no white cotton briefs
-cum-air to breathe
not a drop for your beard
no signed letter marks
nor for sofa pillows
check your bucket seats
for the dusts of time
my-cum-yours
and this always was
every iteration
even the invisible ones
counting off elations
i still subscribe
at least in my
heart-cum-mind
by Jan
At some level they all knew they were bad and that the only good would be to wipe each other out and to enjoy doing it.
There was also thanks to the shiv an intense respect for the individual spirit in each putrid violent body, sprites who were challenged to but could not become angels and were unavoidably and irredeemably sucked into the gravity of their hollow pelves, long fingers, and tiny manus.
"List of lists, I've lost my license." Jan spoke with her mind only, but it was real language.
Peg: "You funny."
"I mean I really los... oh, damn."
"Ya they make them so thin they can get lost in a clump of pycnofibes on your ass."
Both: "Hahahahahaha!"
Jan: You know, Peg: I could just swoop around with you forever.
Peg: That's what this is, this moment.
Their wings were on slow beat two, three times. There were no peaked or valleyed panoramas, just some yellow mist and greenish floor which both stretched out and curved down as if over a globe through all the angles they could see out of.
My dorsoventral flap is really chafed.
I like the vet-mix salve down at Friends' Urgency Hangar. It's practically a spa.
Ya, I need to get my W.A.S.T.E. stamped soon anyway. I'll get the lavender. I know which one you mean.
The day they started giving out Waiver and Acceptance of Social Toxicity Estimates to K's was the day they say we got our freedom.
Better psych care anyway.
I say volca to that.
K's fly spread eagle.
Trans. by Phyliss (embedded)
au revoir dragon cracheur
poison divin de l'hypnose
fabricant de transe flamboyante
l'obéissance des zombies
impossible à domestiquer
en raison de la taille
sur le plan pratique
et pour lequel tu es destiné à errer
comme le coeur qui te remplit de sang
bat plus ouvertement que jamais
un jour tu pourrais de nouveau
poser une silhouette puissante
mais ils t'ont coupé la langue
mais vous apprendrez à exprimer votre
dénigrement d'une autre manière
par Santorabo
He was a greasy little aryan. During that first meeting at the goat ranch, I posed and framed in ways I thought would get his eyes to drop. Finally I realized he was more sophisticated than that. He used his peripheral sight, which had developed throughout his awakening years in a red state, to map every bend and notch of my visible surface and behaviors, to precisely gauge biological changes. We were alone in the bread shaped tube of a trailer home.
He rested back on the kitchen sink and looked around like a good worker still in task mode. I felt free to stare directly knowing he could see that too but respected feared men me too much to make a move to get to work on the project about which we were both entertaining growing visions.
He smelled like cooking and flannel. He was channeling desire into rage at the spitting llama he'd tried to shave that morning. He'd like to chop its head off. See it run around with just it's neck swaying about. I swatted the fly on my levi's with my hand and left it there.
We each had our end. Thinking about ways to get to the middle. The middle of his face was a goatee on a tan around a roomy mouth. Now he was talking about the island that breaks the surface of a bath, with the palm tree and grass. The center of the island. What had I missed.
When I looked up I could finally see his blue-gray stare right on me, waiting for a reaction. I just laughed and started unlacing my boots. Ya he says after all the goat piss and bullheads i bet you'd like a shower.
Naw, I'm good if you're good.
por Santorabo
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