Listening is like dragons on an uncomfortable day. Last night my feet were cold, biting, I think they bit me. Sunny Bono, but we’ve heard that one before. Yesterday I sold my chappals for an accent to wear in America. Those gay guys are amazing, look how they synchronize, blueberry cascading into millenniums and stroking rock stars. This old man makes sweet love with guerrilla soldiers while daughters smoke cigarettes from little bags of snowdust wrapping. Look to the sky. Nightmares don’t deserve discussion, but jugglers do. Sexual predators are all named Joe. What a coincidence! Travails of this sort prick at smugglers as they relieve themselves in corners and cupboards. Payals tinkle, legs stretch. Methane and carbon monoxide and castrol. Look, it’s me. No, nursery rhymes gone crazy. Children will jump from high towers – like Fine – and go splat.
Submit a Verbatim
- A Yoga Ashram, Donna Tart’s The Secret History, and Discobitch’s C’est Beau la Bourgeoisie
- Balls Dropped: Full Design
- Letter from the editor
- New Year, New Me / I Was Cutting My Fingernails and Eavesdropping
- Sorry About the Air Conditioners Being Off: Townes Van Zandt, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Aesthetic Signatures of Heat