They breed in drains. A tinful of groundnuts. Fist in the honey pot. Can’t. Cultured, in a bad way. And bloom into quintillion coils. Theft at midnight, errors in the yard.
When one thinks of a ‘game,’ hears its notes playing and effects sounding, Like a pot smashing or a brick bashing, When one smells a game, The cellophane of a case, or the rubber of an analog stick, When one … Read More
“5. Spot your ex-roommates on campus. Remember their erratic sleep patterns, what they looked like in the mornings. The sounds of their alarms. They’ll ask, how’s the single? You say, great…”
Something about the engineering of stairwells / makes you want to push someone down one. / Vertebrae snapping against all those / edges straight as rulers. Too violent,
Imagine horses at night, their terrible heat. A field torn open by hooves. Or slumbering in a great circle. Hair. Haunch. Lilacs moaning in the dark. Fires moaning in the dark. Morning gropes like a mound of hands. … Read More
