Rin Johnson




RIN JOHNSON is a sculptor and poet. Johnson has shown sculptures in many cities and read poems in a few too. Johnson is the author of two chapbooks, Nobody Sleeps Better Than White People from Inpatient Press and the forthcoming Meet in the Corner from Publishing House. Johnson founded Imperial Matters (a space for liquid poetry) with Sophia Le Fraga. Johnson lives in Brooklyn.

Carleen Tibbetts


free of memory and desire
the #1 choice for sleeping happy
what can be held
in the eye comfortably
fatal brightness
nostalgic keening
undone green



half-dressed threats
an argument at the ready
flesh plushed &
flowing back dead
any situation can be
perfectly explained
to human is to wander
in the psychotropics
of tender wonder



black is the new black
a grand plan’s adjacency
with randomness
death proposes life
as if you had permission
to begin with
psychic baggage
needs complicating
outfit-repeat syndrome
is totally OK



beauty as ritual as terror
the structure of breath
its echo in the body
pyro sumptuous
idealization of the face
the original language goes dark
such flowers of diction



code: more
the opacity of the
reassuring void
please reconfirm
the shame index
the trace of gesture
what the story leaves out
the word is flesh and yet
a treasure is not worth this



the gleaming place
the damp where
bodies come together
stupid with hormones
we all eat the same fruit
how will it salt you
suck out the hurt
paradise demands attention



a disease of more
a mystery collapse
a river of zeroes
an eye roll for desire
the unmyth of cutting
you out of you
you’re preapproved
ready set GOLD

CARLEEN TIBBETTS is the author of the chapbook to exosk(elle), the last sugar (Zoo Cake Press, 2015). Recent work appears or is forthcoming in The Journal Petra, H_NGM_N, Forklift Ohio, DREGINALD, La Vague, The Offending Adam, Reality Beach, Deluge, jubilat, and other journals.

Enzio de Kiipt (trans. Michael Anzuoni & Kit Schluter)

Romaunce of the Abject Apiary, Book One
By Enzio de Kiipt, trans. Anzuoni & Schluter


Beneath the trees cinching the seaside garden, the limestone tables were heavily dusted with pollen. Yet Tho’rakyn, insouciant as a well-sated lion cub, took his seat among them without bothering to brush them off. He untethered the length of emu leather that bound his chinchilla-skin parchment, and let the crisp scroll unspool before him. From his satchel he score-and-thrice produced glass flasks of myriad-colored inks, and quills of many gauges. The inks he spread in a great arc on his right-hand side; the quills, upright in a tall rhinoceros-hide cup on his left. Heavy were his sighs, but concentrated his rumination.

The morning mists were quickly burning off in summer’s faint breath, grown pestilential with the warming of the nigh ebb-tide sands. Long had he read the poetry of Can’throko, She-Bard of Ichn’ion, but this new commission to illuminate her verses had drawn the Ursine Raj closer to the exquisite language, and affixed in his heart a longing to meet this illustrious woman. What wonders lie ahead! Tho’rakyn mused. Dreams swarmed through his mind of setting keel to the Mer de Schyt’te breakers, trading parchment for lodging in the many fine cities along the Orthracian coast, and weathering the chill distances of the Blúddeï Plains on his way to the overgrown forests of Ichn’ion, where he would meet the ensorcelling Poetess herself. Ah, Imagination! My fairweather friend. Pray, how might I afford the supplies, let alone the men and the time, to make such a voyage. How many times must I remind myself, my heart is frail, and overexcited by these invitations of yours! Feeling the possibility of his dream diminish, Tho’rakyn pressed his hand to his forehead in desperation, and ran his fingers through his buttery mane.

From across the garden, in the shade of a holm oak, came the indolent snores of a child whom Tho’rakyn, loftily swept up in his artistry, had failed to notice. Squinting, he made out the peripubescent face and slack posture of Ingror, son of Luxomn Tun-Churdt.

“Have you seen my vermillion-plumed fedora, young sturgeon?” Tho’rakyn asked the boy of twelve or so, whose circlet haircut indicated that, per rite of D’urstian nobility, his testicles had been chosen by lot, summarily severed, and fed to a pack of wild dogs shortly after birth.

“Nay, me liege. Puhhaps Zir Duane of Reade seen it.” He motioned to the tableau that spread before them, from lolling hill to burbling estuary of the dale.

“Fetch it me, child––and a rack of emu while at it! Should you return e’er light falls upon this parchment, a quarter of the rack be yours.”

“Aye,” said the young cuck.

“Make haste and err not!” Tho’rakyn cried, though the boy was already well out of earshot. “Don’t give me reason to inform your Maester of the lazeabout ways in which you pass your hours of toil for him,” he nevertheless continued, “whoever he be!” Long since had the child run off in pursuit of Zir Duane of Reade, who could oft be found tut-tutting amongst the manifold lollygaggers and shitlords of the swamps.

Turning his attentions once more to the parchment before him, the artist selected a fine-toothed ave del paraíso plume, submerged it in an ink of royal purple, and began to give color to the iris of a kÿklops’ eye. No sooner had he begun drafting than he found himself lost in a dark reverie. Through his mind oozed inky visions of a kÿklops’ night-black cave, wherein a quint-eyed maiden, surrounded by legion Long-Tailed Widowbirds and Royal Flycatchers, had, upon the monster’s own request, lashed his wrists and ankles to his Devonian bedposts with lengths of his own excised eyelashes. On this bed, where he expected to be ravished, she had long machinated his demise: and whilst she mounted his massive chest, and he closed his eyes in anticipation of the coming rapture, she sicced her many birds upon his sweat-sopping flesh and rendered it so until he was no more than a meter-wide eye mounted upon a stunted throne of steaming carrion.



The cucks and the knaves lay idly about the marsh, masturbating at the sight of crabs and other unsavory creatures, as was the passing-time for this hamlet. Tho’rakyn, using his profound psychick aptitude to steal the light from the castrato’s eyes, shook his enormous head at the scene splayed before his eyecones. “Bairns these days…” he reflected, “like so many sheep without a hound to guide them… So this is where the adolescent came to sniff his crocus, rather than run my errand.” Duane of Reade was nowhere to be seen, and Tho’rakyn discarnated himself from the young cuck’s eyelight in disgust. Where could the Zir be?

Born a slave in the Lower Riverlands, Zir Duane of Reade yet possessed a keen awareness of society and so was able to exploit its foibles to establish himself in court, becoming a cherished Zir of the Palatinate. His eyes smoldered like char as he served witness to the world through the leaded windows of his beloved Tackleberry Keep, where he so often could be found striking out lines of verse from the Imperial Library, just as now:

“Bah! More idle fancying masquerading as fancy idling. Bah! More puddle-deep Imagisme. Bah! A dactyl here, but a trochee there? What good are the lives of folk if recorded in such a dreary fashion?”

A trumpet trumped in the brazen distance. Five murmurations of starlings took flight, and a a septicentenarian crone sniggered to herself as mercurial smoke soured the skies. Zir Duane of Reade rose from his creaking wooden desk and peered through the window. “Ah,” he mused, “it seems Tho’rakyn, Milker of the Golden Goat, has lost his fedora… yet again.” No later, he recalled of a line from that hallowed natural philosophess, Bodacia Minima,

to remove the white wine stain, simply pour on the red.

Wending his way through the architectural vagaries of Tackleberry Keep, Zir Duane of Reade arrived at the great portcullis which separated him from the commoners, who gathered at the gate hoping for the occasional bolt of cloth or scrap of paper to read. Literacy was high in the Palatinate, but skilled writers were rarer with the fortnight, and peasantry grew quickly bored, self-
loathing, and indolent––desperate for fulfilment beyond ‘chiseling pipe’ by the swamps, however popular such a passing-time was and, hélas, shall always be.

Duane hurried past the hoi-polloi and mounted his gilded carriage. Before taking flight, he churned the dairy in his cervical bucket and then, inspired, threw open the doors and cast with aplomb great sheaves, freshly torn from his journals, into the crowds. The thronging wretches shrieked and tore at one another, mother and daughter alike clawing at the each other’s cheek, yearning to take home to their families so much as a story, a poem, some tusk-and-bone pedlar’s discarded inventory record––anything to ward off the malaise that defined the peasant life in the Palatinate. A meager cuck, his pants still stained from the ordeal, took a stone in hand and bashed in the skull of an old man, whose corpse was promptly trampled underfoot and drenched in some stranger’s spoiled wine as the carriage started off. “How life begs us to note its fragility,” brooded Duane.

Tho’rakyn smiled blithely as he saw the familiar lens flare which premonitioned the arrival of the shimmering carriage. Now there’s that lowborn, thought the Milker of the Golden Goat, the Mountain Who Moved the Sky. He Who Shall Walk Beyond the Gate gingerly placed his finest kookaburra quill in its respective cup of alligator hide in order to align them astrally with those of emu and rhinoceros, and rose to greet Duane of Reade, whom he hoped would not only know the whereabouts of his fedora, but could also offer remarks both wise and critical on the High Raj of the Many Unborn’s newest, most daring and conceptual work of verse to date. Or perhaps he could simply lend a comment or two upon his illustrations of the Poetess’ verse…

The two met in a burly embrace, the damp of their respective bodymeat commingling through their garments. “Duane of Reade! Such a pleasure to see you. May the Goat climb your mountain!”

“And may the Many Unborn forever turn on the spit of your womb!” They both laughed heartily at Duane of Reade’s incredibly clever quip, whose intricacies, no matter how deft the translator’s hand, are impossible to represent in our common tongue, and thus shall forever stand lost, a testament to the palimpsest that is history. And lo history is written thus, again and again upon its own flesh, and yet, somehow, it is read. When you hear laws read by magistrates and profiligates alike, do you see the soppy old men who wrote them, or the soppy old man who recites them?

“Tell me, Zir Duane of Reade, do you, pray tell, happen to know the location of my fedora, the one gifted to me by none other than Eidolonia herself, Queen of the Harpies?”

Duane chuckled softly, like a bird coughing in its egg. “Why yes I do, High Raj. The Manchild Snock has it.”

He Who Shall Walk Beyond The Gate raised an eyebrow, “The Manchild Snock? However could I be so blind?” He walked over to his knapsack of megalonyx leather and ruffled through it, producing a small seven pointed star with a Toadstone affixed at its center. “Tell me, Zir Duane, have you ever…stolen light?”

The Zir shook his head, “I have not, My Keeper and My Liberator, but I have endeavored to do so for well nigh my life entire. I believe it might aid in my understanding of poetry and the written word”

Tho’rakyn bellowed deeply, his sable laughter pealing with the temple bells. “Always thinking of poetry, you are! Zir Duane of Reade, you truly are one of the few marvels left in the palatinate. Now how many degrees do you possess? Seven? Perfect. Here, put this on your forehead and read the best gorramn poem of your life!”

Zir Duane did as instructed and felt the strangely warm metal move in fashions which you, dear Reader, would more likely attend from palm-warmed beeswax. Swiftly did it mold to the curvature of his forehead, settling comfortably amongst the ridges of flesh which had been carved out by wind, water, age. The Great Tho’rakyn smiled knowingly and tapped the third finger of his left hand to his right temple, as the Toadstone smoldered with unnatural verdant light.

Suddenly, Zir Duane could see the Toadstone even though it was on his forehead. Eternally, Zir Duane could see forever. He saw The Mountain Who Moved The Sky stretch from here to each and every nether. And no later, all the perspicacity which Duane of Reade had once contained within his skull burst out before him as clay from an inadequate mold, this quicksilver-like emulsion which swirled and radiated with a disquieting throb. “Oh, dear fuck-unto-the-Rotten,” murmured the Zir, as he fought to maintain his balance. “There go my humours…”

The world poured mercurially out of the Zir’s eyes and into Tho’rakyn’s. A great luminescent band wavered between their heads, vibrating invitingly. The Soothsayer and Doomsnatcher laughed harder and harder until only their humorless guffaws filled the aether between Zir’s lapsing mind and the swirling dervish around him. And suddenly––not unlike a wild yakling giving birth for the first time––it stopped, and all became still.

Zir Duane of Reade rubbed his eyes. They were thick in a sort of existential sucrose. To peer through them was to submerge one’s orbs in a honeycomb filled with will o’ the wisps––orange smears, flecks of sticky iridescence: Absolute Comprehension.

He saw clearly there, on the massive, creaking ottoman, the Manchild Snock inspecting a cheese curd perched at the tips of chopsticks, which he held aloft in the air as though some delicate (g)astronomical instrument, their ebony shafts glistening with in all their unctuous glory. Tho’rakyn squealed like a tethered prince in heat, for cradled in Snock’s lap like a kitten slumbering after its noontime romp was the fabled headgear––the selfsame hat bestowed upon him by the Queen of the Harpies. The Manchild Snock was eating oleaginous cheese curds out of Tho’rakyn’s fedora, and he did so without grace or restraint.

“Bleugh,” spake the Milker of the Golden Goat. And the image dissipated like the smoke of Agarwood incense, leaving only a frail memory in Zir Duane of Reade’s mind. “I’m hesitant to see the Manchild now, myself, certainly after that display. Perhaps a pageling can retrieve it for me.” The Soothsayer and Doomsnatcher shook his ragged curls in distaste.

“Whose light did we just steal?” Zir asked, a little afraid of the answer.

“That of the cuck Grayling. A dear chum in youthdom, but he neglected his Studies and is thus bound forever to the bunions of the Manchild. A most exasperating fate.”

Zir Duane nodded. “Exasperating, indeed.”

The Dogstar was saddled low in the sky. The hue and cry of young cucks and their Mæsters could be heard along the path of the gushing estuaries.

After a brief respite of recuperatory silence, Tho’rakyn spoke up. “Tell me, Zir Duane, The Slave Who Became Maester, what know you of the works of Can’throko? Have you heard more than rumors?”

The Zir’s eyes burst’d open so wide that it seemed the inner and outer canthi alike might suffer irreparable damage – but lo, his flesh, under the manifold lingering influences of stolen light, was abnormally supple.

“The She-Bard? Why yes, she is one of the finest to ever put an emu quill to lambskin. She wrote some of my most cherished lines. To wit,

‘Life is a cloud of mist emerging from a mountainside cave
Death is the pale camel that kneels at every gate
The ever-turning wheel
every day is the right one.'”

Each bowed his head in grave renown.

“Wherever she goes becomes a rarefied place,” The Zir said below his breath.



In Zone Hydra, the hazel, cthonic fragrance of ass-scat clung to the flaring wings of the She-Bard’s very nose. And yet, Can’throko persisted in her ascent up the slick marble steps, which formed the aching spine of the winding Zon Temple. She rounded the corner, and beneath the wiry fig tree a beggar strummed a gittern in a profoundly uncautious manner, and proceeded to vomit into the basin created by his own crossed legs. So this is the Realm of the Old Gods now, she was musing – the material of her disgust coated with a demi-glace of satisfaction she dared not voice – when, suddenly, she found herself brusquely pushed aside by a jogger as he bounded up the stairwell. He was clad in pristine braided emu leather Orthracian ‘Minimus’ boots, an elite, Mi’chörlinh-manufacted pair, which provided the perfect amount of arch support, while being neither too constricting nor too sweaty, enabling each foot to follow the other in a disciplined, steadily cadenced stride up the gradations to the temple’s grassy ruins.

She watched the jogger disappear over the hazy zenith and continued on her lopsided way, staggering over stones slick and rubble loose and itchy, buzzing grass. Slinking through the mossy crenelations of igneous stone were innumerable stray cats, the better part of them gone blind and deaf from the rough port life of Zone Hydra. These must be the last adherents of this old-time religion, thought the She-Bard as she slipped on a loose rock and sent a dust devil down the steps to greet the pilgrims following eagerly behind her. The cats did not stir, but stood like a thousand sentinels above her. She was the mouse in their maze, searching desperately for the cheese of Inspiration.

At long last she strode through the threshold gate, and the marble steps gave way to a weedy potsherd-strewn path lined by imposing, nonetheless teetering, columns. Zon temple: once the seat of gods called upon by billions over millennia, and lo, now, at the top of each pedestal there squats no more than a once-sacred body of marble, visages inscrutable, postures weary, power obsolete, and presence marketable. The She-Bard sauntered through their complex with ratite neck outstretched like a dinornis’, trying to discern any detail from the queer carvings. Gazing at a particularly craven one, she bumped into a merchant’s table, scattering and shattering his tender loot of bay clams painted to resemble famous actresses of antiquity – resemble, in this instance, meaning to have googly eyes affixed with dried boar-semen and red clay smeared across the inferior half of the face as lipstick. He harangued her in an unknown tongue and she backed away gingerly, bowing incessantly, each obsequious bow closer and closer to achieving the ground, until at last she lost her balance and tumbled into yet another stall plying likenesses of the unrecognizable old Gods. Now a whole gaggle of hockers descended on the She-Bard, screeching at her in a bouquet of tongues more colorful than the heralded natures mortes of Ecg’nion Mathorkhin the Younger, and the She-Bard, once dubbed the “Healing Listener” by Lux of Tewk, covered her ears and burst howling through the crowd, causing souvenir gods to her left and right alike to crash agonizingly down upon stone, sending sightseers and rubberneckers fleeing into the tall grasses, where hidden scarabs eagerly awaited their tender flesh. She stumbled down the terra cotta pathway to the lower temple complex, which had been used in actual rites until quite recently, and thus possessed a dingier, much less touristic, aspect. Panting, she ran to a forsaken cloister and collapsed against its sagging wall, sighing heavily. She clutched her knees and began to weep.

Not two tears had streaked before she felt the presence of Another. Piously, she looked skyward into the eyes of a frizzled orange tabby cat espying her from a garret. The She-Bard squealed with delight, to which the cat mewed and retreated behind an ivy curtain. “No! Come back!” she squeaked. She sank against the wall and yet again set out weeping, when nearly three dozen cats came doggedly rustling out from the weeds, forming three concentric semi-circles, the emerald, jade, and agate eyes of the felines fanning out before her, transfixed on the Poetess. And as one began to mewl, a weak faltering tone, many a mouser from among the glaring joined in harmonic counterpoint, and as hither they chimed in with a rising tone, and yon in their cascading arpeggios, each caterwaul danced with each in notes unfamiliar, yet of an unmistakable human ache. No, not human, she thought, but in a manner we have now merely appropriated as “human.” Can’throko began to understand, through this song, that humankind first learned how to attain its highest achievements neither from its own example, nor from divine edict, nor yet from some inner soul. – No, it was from animals wiser than us, whom we, in our humanity, enslaved, relegating our Teachers to the undignified stations of pets, food, mere beasts of burden. Indeed the She-Bard vowed then never to claim these, nor any other beast, as pet again. These cats, she now clearly saw, were far above her in matters divine. And as their mews settled, she prostrated upon the dirt before them. A few licked their paws in abject blessing.



Zir Duane and Tho’rakyn raised their heads. “Would you like to see sketches I’ve made toward the illustration of her poem?” asked the Milker of the Golden Goat.

“Not now,” answered the Zir, “I’m afraid I’m tarrying. Must get back to Tackleberry to audition some new clerics. I do say your reforms have made for a great population of readers but, ah! where are the writers, my friend? Where are the writers? Ichn’ion boasts of Can’throko; the Othracians have sung for centuries; why, even the Zones are inventing new forms, the meters of which our clerics can barely scan!” He shook his curls, flicking pollen into the sunlight. “Oh, need we simply time? Or need we more? Our library is flooded with mediocrity, and yet, My Gate And My Key, there is a lingering realness beneath it all, as though an immaculate voice is desperate to free itself from the horrid chains of verse that bind it.”

Tho’rakyn nodded as though dipping a hawk in bronze.

“Truly,” the Zir continued, “it sends an unreal chill down my spine. Alack, such pleasure to see you, always, Tho’rakyn. And remember, a heart is full of dust, and the mind is wind!”

They clasped hands, and the Zir clambered off into the carriage and gestured to the High Road. The Milker of the Golden Goat smiled at his tapering friend and then returned, with intense scrutiny, to the syzygy of quills upon the limestone table.



Though the Zir’s carriage wheels were greased with the shed fat of perdition, little could be concealed from the quartz-like ear of a young cuck.

“He’s a-comin’! Call me a dunce, and know me a dimwit, but I swear it, He’s a-comin’!”

A female guard on the street looked up from her precious scrap of paper, “Who? Who? – The Zir?”

The young cuck leapt upon the hogroof with delight, mud licking his ankles – “Yes, yes! It’s him in his carriage!”

“To the gates, then!” she shouted, and with great hauls of her arm she steered the crowd towards the portcullis of ol’ Tackleberry Keep.

The Zir watched this whole commotion with some amusement through his spyglass. He collapsed it into his palm and raised the tinted carriage window, letting privacy wash over him as he sprawled out in the roomy cab. An amaranth narghile bubbled dankly in a red-shaded cabinet. Somehow music was playing, as if piped in from a great distance. After ten minutes of blank rumination, he sighed and pulled out a long scroll of verse inscribed with yet another entry for the coveted Gläscoch prize, an honor which the Zir had inherited from his companion, Gläscoch Petersborough, as stipulated in the Poet-Merchant’s will after he died of fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva. That was nearly thirty years ago, and Zir has only handed out the award on three occasions, two of which he later renounced in scathing letters to the Othracian press, which commonly boasted of a literary corpus that greatly overshadowed that of the Palantinate. This notion, common among the administrators of the awards scene, aroused the Zir’s continual odium. He thus felt validated that this poem was written by an Othracian, for it was absolute trash – seething garbage – its only redeeming quality being that it happened to make him feel a bit better about his own homeland, the simmering low countries, where the river heat made it impossible to think not three sentences ahead. Even the drunkest kelp-scraper there could write a better poem than this, he hissed, though not without the tickle of laughter at the base of his throat. Maybe I should try asking Odessus next time I go down there…

Without warning, the carriage slammed to a halt, and the Zir was dumped off the couch onto the shag carpeting.

“What the hell – ”, he brushed the dust and weed crumbs off his monogrammed togs.

A tinny voice chimed in through the speaking-web: “Apologies, Maester Reade, but throngs be gatherin’ in the hillocks. Would ye that I ram over ’em?”

Throngs this far out of town? The Zir was confounded. “No no, let me take care of this,” he said, straightening his epaulets before unlatching the roof hatch and clambering out atop the carriage.

As he rose into sight, the throngs exulted in throaty ululations. The Zir spun around. Throngs, this far out of town…surrounding him entirely like how the Aether completely envelops the lightfeed, as illustrated in his rare Physickal Studies manuscripts…the magnitude of the crowd so large as to demand comparisons to macrotopological geometry in the Zir’s mind. But no sooner had the Zir raised his right hand that the hoots, claps, and whistles fizzled to silence.

“What is it now, throngs? Haven’t ye enough bread? Sufficient beer?”

The crowd exploded again in crossfaded gibberish. He saw wretches holding up scraps of parchment no larger than a young boar’s tongue, a crone with verse written on a morsel hardly larger than the torn corner of a tissue a hasty day laborer uses to tamp the blood from his shaving wound. Yet some close to him were waving meatier pieces, fine-gauged quillscript on emu-skin parchment, much akin to my own journals…

My Goat, he thought, stunned at the realization: they want more of my writing!

He smiled broadly. He motioned for the throngs to part and they gave him a narrow lane. He bent over the frosted railings of the carriage and shouted to his driver, Eberyos: “Take me home, old friend!”

The Zir’s old Riverlands chum wiped a tear from his eye, “Can do, Maester Reade. Can do…”

As the carriage pulled down the hillside, the Zir waved his parchments in the air as though he just did not care, tossing sheaves, leaves, and folios alike to the screeching throngs. He reached into his hand-made, imported Yobian man-purse and cast off his last memorandum just as the carriage trudged up to the portcullis of Tackleberry Keep. Feeling the void in his man-purse, he paused – what now? Around him, reverence boomed. I must give them something, the Zir Who Once Was Not A Zir mused, I must fly to the Keep aloft the highest of tones. Singed with the sable touch of inspiration, he balled his fist and thrusted it into the sky above the throngs, who shouted in endless affirmation and in turn raised their fists, clutching the now-wrinkled parchment from the cahiers of a one-time Riverlands slave.


He held up his hands to dismiss their call, but the whole crowd went silent, ready to throw themselves upon any phrase as a starving giraffe upon the virgin foliage of the acacia. The Zir’s mind was racing, desperate to return to his beloved bartizan, but he could deny neither the throngs nor his ego, and so, fed by the electricity of this newfound fame, he quickly generated a final poem in the freest of styles:

The bedroom’s paper flowers
fill up with dew
The scarab wakes the rose

The red sun rises
The red sun rises
Ogres will be everywhere

Madness of the King
with blue eyes


An ivy hand
Parts a curtain of trees

The throngs stayed silent as the Four Moons. With their fists still raised, they bowed their heads in the deepest of comprehensions. Without another word, Zir Duane of Reade took his leave into the Keep.

Arriving at long last to his study, he gently closed the glazed baobab-wood door behind him and sank languorously into his favorite velvet chair, which was stuffed with the down of a hundred great moa. With a world-weary groan he threw back his head and stared over the athanor at the Herald of House Reade, an emblem which he himself had secretly, painstakingly, designed as a young slave. In this way he not only taught himself to write, but provided ample fuel for his abundant phantasies of freedom. From the torse, helmet, and crest, down to the supporters, compartment, order, and motto, each facet was affixed with labyrinthine allegorical detail. All the cardinals of the escutcheon, the chief, the dexter, the sinister, the base, the dexter chief, the middle chief, the sinister chief, the honour point, the fess point, the nombril point, the dexter base, the sinister base, and yes, even the seldom-used middle base, underwent Zir’s intensest scrutiny, as he carved out a sigil for himself on the floorboards of the boar hut he called home, making sure to cover it each night with a layer of sawdust and emu dung so as not to arouse the suspicions of the Magistrates who performed illiteracy tests on slaves – as once ordained by Palatinate decree.

And there it was, suspended above him now as a halo over the left buttock of a cherub, the noble hieroglyph which encoded his legacy – the two golden goats flanking the black shield, sprigs of virgin-leaf forming the verdant crenelations, and ah! there below it, in the glittering ink of iron salt and Ich’nian gallnut, the motto – the spell which valiantly bound together House Reade:

“Life is Lived Only Once”

“LILOO,” whispered the Slave Who Became A Maester as he shut his eyes in long-awaited repose, “Liloo…”



Adrift in reverie, his anxieties jettisoned like so much illicit cargo upon the sight of a constabulary vessel, Tho’rakyn sailed on the xybec of sonder with quill in hand, daring to manifest in the ocular realm Can’throko’s textual creatures, characters of such nuance and depth that several Zones, in an effort not to rob them of their literary dignity, had enacted blasphemy laws against the creation of idols bearing even their faintest resemblance. How many children have been weaned on the exploits of Mykono, the hero of Ichn’ion’s erstwhile imperium, a figure known in the Palatinate as the Mirror of the Inner Sky, and the first to ever dip a goat in gold? How many on the lore of Urthrox, Lord of the Half Blue Hawk-Hunters, who first settled the canopies of the Partchrox Forest and staved off a century’s worth of cultural invasion from the loathsome Pilks? The answers undoubtedly flirt with the tens of millions, and though it may seem unfathomable today, Can’throko herself, by way of singing crow, did petition Tho’rakyn, Hand To The Sarcoline Udder, to craft the very first illustrated edition of her contentious classic, The Kÿklops and Pseudo-Nyverene. How she knew of his secret penchant for the illustration of erotic texts is for ever a mystery to the Milker of the Golden Goat.

The sapphire ass of the Kÿklops were rendered with peacock pre-cum, the plum shading toward the center indicating the severe degree to which it was clenched. Tho’rakyn licked the tip of the quill and set about detailing Pseudo-Nyverene’s fist, the ridged knuckles tipped white with egg-ash, a rare and hallucinogenic pigment obtained in Zone Nereval from an unsavory ibis smuggler, a deal done in blood and never spoken of till now. He licked the tip again and felt the sparks flash across his papillae.

He worked adroitly in this way for those august hours leaning into sunset, whose easy haze was yawning across Tackleberry Keep and the township, and wafting down the Cyberon Way, which leads one away from the Palatinate and on to South Web and the few other Zones where, since the firelit nights of prehistory, the Dog Star has laid its third head. He Who Shall Walk Beyond The Gate yawned and stretched as well, the snapping of his extended flesh not unlike the echoey crack of an old cassowary leather-bound codex’s spine as a scholar, for the first time in nine centuries, parts its covers in the cavernous library beside the Chapel of the Sacrosanct Myrmidon, where Tho’rakyn first learned his tabernacular arts and physickal poetics. Of illustration, tho, he was a strict autodidact, unaffiliated labor well-suited to the ample free time he enjoyed as Patron of the Realm, the supreme title gifted unto him by the Palatinatial Congress after he negotiated their freedom from Zir Ratzinger and his Southern Web Hegemony during the Old Othracionic Wars. He was only one hundred and ninety-two years old then. How many fortunes had The Gate and Key squandered? How many thrones sat in and then neglected? Aught between seven and six, respectively, he thought. Truth be told he was growing weary of his post as this particular Realm’s Patron. He had come to understand it as a sort of honorific exile from the rest of D’urst – the Palatinate being one of few places receptive to the Milker of the Golden Goat after he brutally pranked several dozen Zone Magistrates during the Low Feast of Schneider, his bawdy tactics earning him the heart and respect of the erstwhile D’urstian multitudes, as well as the ire and contempt of the laws which hound them. Hence his continual nautical state of mind, as a sail for ever seeking new winds. Beautiful and resplendent as this sunset was, he could not help feel a longing for anywhere but.

Channeling the tempered manner of the Ichn’ion scrollmonk, Tho’rakyn slowly gathered his calligraphic apparati and illustrative instruments into his emu leather-bound quarrel which he slung across his mantle-like shoulders as he bounded down the hill to his dormitory in the Keep. His aurelian mane rippled in the settling night and, from a great distance, it looked as though a vagabond will-o-wisp was drifting into town from the wilderness.

As Tho’rakyn crossed the limestone bridge above the Cyberon River, a tall swirling shadow flew out from behind the water mill and hovered ominously in the middle of the quiet cobblestone street. The shadow pointed a smoky finger – “Be you the Milker of the Golden Goat?” came a baleful voice, chill as the Dodecacember wind.

Without a word, Tho’rakyn moved his left hand laterally from his left to right hip. The cloaking sorcereal shadow rose up off the small boy and quickly dissipated into the night whence it had come.

“Please don’t kill me,” he pleaded, tears swelling in his effervescent olive eyes. “I mean no harm, I jus heard, ye know, I jus heard all the stories bout you, O Gate and O Key. I swear it’s the only spell I know. All I’m guilty of’s having curious ears…Please don’t kill me!

Tho’rakyn did not stir. “What is your name, young cuck? Who is your Maester?”

The boy shook his long hair, “My Goat, I am no cuck, and I speak for no Maester, whatever that may be. Y’see I am not of this country. My name is Breghmehadín, and I am a messenger sent on behalf of Gohodrûn the Pigment Baron. Should you spare me I can show you his seal…” he gingerly tugged on a velvet pouch tied snugly around his child-sized codpiece,which was finely tanned in the Nymidian style and filleted with mirthful scenes from oral tradition.

Tho’rakyn licked his lips, reviving the pulsatory sensation of the egg-ash residue. If Gohodrûn is sending a cloaked courier this far out from his dominion, then…

The boy produced the legendary seal – a piece of gorgon-skin parchment stamped with thirty-three different oath glyphs and signed at the bottom in bitterbeast blood, glowing a steady vibrant auburn, the name Gohodrûn in paenic script. Tho’rakyn nodded.

“He wishes to meet with you at once, and has offered to pay for your passage… He knows how difficult it is for you to travel through D’urst these days.”

“Did he speak to what this business concerns?” spake the Mountain Who Moved The Sky, idly fingering the amethyst core which lay many long inches from his skin on his thick bed of chest hair.

“No…please spare me! He didn’t tell me…he wouldn’t tell me! He only taught me that one spell…and it didn’t even work, ugh,” and the boy shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked at the mossy cobble.

“When need I to be at the docks?”

The boy looked up, his hope renewed. “He said to go to the Merkin Wharves. He said you’d know where and when to be there.”

Tho’rakyn nodded. And he did. “Thank you, feeble cuck! – Ach, that’s right, you’re no cuck. Well, you will be if you don’t scram! Get out of here, wastoid – you filthy, fart-huffing waste of air. Run boy, run!” and he withdrew his adamantine falchion. Screaming, the boy skittered between the Milker of the Golden Goat’s tumid legs, leaving a green trail of piss as he raced over the bridge and into the snoozing townships of the Palatinate’s middle country. The Milker of the Golden Goat chuckled to himself as slipped the blade back into its bejeweled scabbard and made his way to the secret portal behind the Reliquary, where a mercurial pool of synovial fluid at the end of an alleyway was hidden beneath a horse’s rib cage. Tho’rakyn set aside the ribs and had only begun whispering the onerous password, when the puddle began to hiss and swirl. He dove in head first and apparitioned over his bed, whose mattress was clear, and filled with bubbling rosé. Of all the wonders in the Palatinate, he would miss that one most of all.


ENZIO DE KIIPT is the author of several Romaunces, including The Romaunce of the Abject Apiary.

KIT SCHLUTER is a translator of The Romaunce of the Abject Apiary.

MICHAEL ANZUONI is another translator of The Romaunce of the Abject Apiary.

Jacob Brooks


Weightless breakfast congealing on the teflon. The porn-limits gorge with dayglow. In the Molson Canadian livingroom we learn to be grafted to the white-light, concept, macadam, and electric tissues that sustain this organ. Second-hand smoke body odor American Apparel brown carpet succulents and custard conjoined in the process of recording. The glass is open, a thirsty gutter. Into the throat of light pour gallons and gallons of data. Push down the five-panel over his face. The networks swell with anal. There’s no quenching these invasive vasculars, only appeasing them with an endless mutual seepage. I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna fucking cum.

Data Raptor

Radio makes a vector. So he crow-flies into my linted foyer’s lip. Basketball shorts undulate in clotting darkness, metallic odors billow from stripped feet. I suck the tongue. We wrap together and neb like eels. Pink Lemonade Burnette’s & pure spit miscegenate. Mouth full of paint. As he makes me the sky his ass stinks. It’s bitter. Google will build a new corporate campus near 2300 Traverwood Drive in Ann Arbor, MI. They’re thrilled to continue to grow here. I fall over him from the wind like a tarp, repeatedly, skimming his outer layers. Over and over I fly and fall.



JACOB BROOKS is a writer and office worker based in Michigan. He has collaborated with Maya Chun, Mac Porter, Alayna Baron, and Sean Horner on multimedia renderings of his poems. His chapbook, ARTPORN (2016), is published by Citizen of the World. He tweets @skinandimpulses.

Sarah Sgro

[If the future is a fetish]
excerpted from Without Them I Am Still A Mother

If the future is a fetish. If my pussy is a sick fixation. If my pussy can’t be fixed. For like the field
it has no doors. For like a business it has several partners. For like the future I’m a port. If the
future dreams of pussy. If the future is a tentacle emerging from my body. If the future is an
ocean floor. For X is a tentacle pulsing. For J is a tentacle pulsing. If I reproduce as a compulsion.
There is me & there is me & there is me & when my child finally arrives with organs pulsing. If I
have my child then tape up every hole. If my memory is a stranger. If they never leave me for
they do not enter. There is me & there is me & I will reassemble. If not all departures are
abandonments. If my child is healthy she will grow. If I am generous & recognize you thirst for
things I cannot know. I will reassemble. I am branded by no letters. If they leave. I let them.




[The jugular is a substantial vein]
excerpted from Without Them I Am Still A Mother


the jugular is a substantial vein I bring I bring a blade


I bring death is not a public space death is no one’s


private joke I will not condone you celebrating any decomposing body


or the recreation of a body like my own when I wake up


from a dream & finally I’m queer when I’m never going back to sleep


I will not romanticize the hollow of my throat licked


by Xanax 2mg like marrow from a bone the jugular engorged with blood


the testicles engorged my memory rejects your sperm


my jugular rejects the blade I pledge allegiance to tumescence


make my life a public space look my recreation


a parade I hoist my lovers like balloons reject the possibility of weight




Elegy For My Bush & Other Lushness

i love being thin enough to slice of course you die from the pocketknife slender

bloodline trailing towards the floor my right-now lover is a horse decaying in the center

of the road who runs over a horse who sucks the entrails from his butt leaving him

a tender husk we fall asleep carved-out we eat food that turns our feces green

we are very regular i carve him out of every private dream i kiss a girl he doesn’t know

i wake adorned in piss & can’t remember who i love all my former fucks refuse

to be decrepit they shed their hair inventively they buy silver shoes with no strings

in bed i map out ways to modify my body i’ll wear my bowels as a scarf i’ll wax

the backwoods of my crotch into a strip dewy steak to dig your teeth into

here is where the aesthetician skins my cunt with tiny licks here is where my lover licks

the puckered skin around my cunt a little too far to the right though i don’t touch myself

enough to be a guide if you could please ravage this succulent valley if you could please

suck this ravishing valley i value my rapture the curdled scum the female form

does not supply a fill the female form a bucket in the sand granules delicious wet

my lover’s penis swells inside me like a cheeseburger digesting painfully i vomit

up the shape of a girl he doesn’t know how she tastes in a dark room

i am not the void i own nothing of the void i own nothing i have vomited it up

here our dwindled bodies here my skin recoiling here my puss a neat frontier





my rapture

mmmm a heath bar shake from Baskin Robbins

is the most

caloric beverage in America

according to Eat This, Not That

eat this: my pussy

on a good day

is still arid

edible matter

the most wholesome things

are not always the most toothsome

there is no such thing as an animal

not transformed

by all of its encounters

find me a body

still intact

YUM Kristeva

mmmm my mother

everyday i eat my unborn child

as a light snack




What I Mean Is Poem But I’m Sleepy

no one loves me so i’ll write a pome

got home drunk & wrote a pome

smoked a cigarette as an accessory

someone put my pome in a gallery

this pome in minor key

my heart a feral peach

this pome a fuzzy caterpillar

maybe just a worm

at the bar you’re sitting

with a handsome man i’ve never met

in the bathroom

i’m asserting how i’m ugly

lipstick on my teeth

lipstick on my dirt pome

no one text my pome


my pome thirsty

for a hunk of flesh

when i don’t eat

i want to kiss whoever

sitting next to me

at least i can come home

to write pome

i love myself

with a fresh hand

i taint my fingers

with tobacco as a fast excuse

to stand

my lips belooooooong

in a pome

my ass belooooooong

on your lips

i will violate myself

in every pome

& still be safe

no one sleeps beside me

but my words

i will fuck my pome

as you probably expect

i stay sadder

than i ever were



SARAH SGRO currently lives in Oxford, Mississippi, where she serves as Poetry Editor for the Yalobusha Review and co-hosts the Broken English Reading Series. She is from New York and previously worked as an editorial assistant for Guernica. Her poetry appears in Muzzle, TYPO, glitterMOB, Horse Less Review, Deluge, the minnesota review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Word Riot.

Dusty Neu

below genola


drift draft shifting & windows i

breeze coldly empty myself a

thin strip of sand & swallows

lapping high forceful lengthen &

with boots on i empty myself a

strip of late morning with pacing

be a bee box then in a dream a

dozen shivering silverfish


self portrait with softly obscured

genitals & little birds a bag faced

lamb another face & one on an

ugly pumpkin out in the swamp a

wandering confectioner often

petting a verdigris skyward &

teetering slack jawed thankful for

horse dancers & little soldiers


a banker chews my rind & faints

in the heat of the meat market

giblets & such the snakes the

sidle up the cleavers & such

music of the cleavers & such like

clusters of keys do suck up the

air & lull the softer types & such to

sheep softly & cheek stroking


that even what’s more that even

saltier skin which coming from the

salt pit so staring so stripped so

close that at a cork that a torso

fold itself torquing hillward

saber-headed & holy like men in

the tar pit & tacky like cognac

candied pineapple & swords


dream team of the extremely

elderly make entrance laterally

on dreamy littorals most sweetly

lector dryly windborne lacteal

night for city folk for tremors in

the people place yokes level out

the people place yokes folks who

swim out & peck at one another


then them tenderly up the ridge

& all in them were i think you

streaming steam seeing someone

drew a duck on a keep my eyes off

a tender hunk of hairy chest

lovelier melons than field behind

the market where i do soak with

feel soak how to you think you


DUSTY NEU is a poet and translator born and raised in rural California with an MFA from Brown University. He co-translated Alessandro de Francesco’s Remote Vision from the Italian (Punctum Books) and his poetry has appeared in VOLT, Pear Noir!, and 3am. He lives and works in Rhode Island.

Junior Dare


“Oh, how different the desert looks
when imagined by the well-educated!”

-Freddy’s third essay,
The Genealogy of Morals

epibiont smiles // white as hellscapes

grab yr damp shirt discrete
or just continuous
or just both
like a circuit

asynchronous speeds slow roll
& chosen collapse like
lets cuddle and share disjunctures

i fuck up again ducking a glare
off geography’s spectral effect on various racial lucencies spiral out n down to just
getting a hand job from a twunk whose shoes
match his lambo stitching

boustrophedon kisses down a #hairless chest
first we were a tile and now abacisci boi wounds
pretending something like mutual pattern recognition and
adjacent injury make zellige not just some
abstracted trauma exchange
healing is a masquerade daddy
Screenshot 2016-07-23 at 4.10.49 PM


my sweat is sugar sweet @ &&
a hot dawn,
dilute a few doses of clarity
tongue a gloriously decadent
focaline dance
adderall tomorrow’s parties promise
vyvantage point pretty
w/ abandon
chemical trick
late into the night

i like to close my eyes with just an ugly light on
alone in the bedroom
well-acquainted w/ my own darkness
comfortable trusting few things beyond crashes
beyond intimate constant returns






a l l a u d i e n c e s a r e p o s s i b l e

Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.47.19 PM
One of the seductive things about surveillance is that you know you are making an impression —as so much data —regardless of whatever effort you make or don’t make. You don’t have to try; algorithms will impute intentionality to your behavior without your having to taint it with your own willfulness. The behavior can seemingly remain pure

making an impression, realize you just summarized most of McLuhan’s career
w/ two big ass boogies in yr mustache
to someone who at no point cared about the content of the exchange
just the fact of its existing
stop misreading the crowd
willful taint in summertime sweatpants mid­-noon sandwich kissesdrooling the
sweatshop sublime

an old flame and a flicker shadow of conversations you remember enjoying
all life is conversation // if you expand the definition // generous information generation
a little transformation // an elevator pitch for the glitching globalization of visual language

you know

just one of those seductive things

Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.48.02 PM
choke me width w/ the seats down inside this suv
cum in the world killer cuddle the nonchild
cum on the world maker cuddle the oncechild

she says stop misgendering me // to someone else // inside their phone
comb his hair really nice say no anal just sit in my lap
behavior can seemingly remain pure behavior can seemingly remain pure behavior can seem
pure behavior can seemingly remain behavior behavior can seemingly remain can behavior
remain remain remain


Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.48.31 PMillegally parked on a farm
Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.48.54 PM

splendid unnatural acts

Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.49.04 PM


JUNIOR DARE is a crip abolitionist poet dreaming of the post-queer, studying the left of the future and the right of the present, tweeting @prismxp.

Nate Pritts


Such strong winds today
in this forgotten valley.

They come rampant
from the beginning of time to now
and the twilight is fading all around me.

I imagine heavy water
crashing against the shore
which is a sound I remember
from the many years I spent
on the coast of an imaginary land.

I could see villagers from my window.

They were like rocks
stoicagainst the recurrent battery
of time.

The awakened light of life.

And I have emptied myself
again and again
so as to be whole.
I feel this narrative chronology
my own life
like a dreama structure
that exists underneath

other more obvious textures.
But we were talking about the wind

and how my soul has become a stone
full of its own dead weight.
We do not live in a magical land.
When you come for me
bring everything you have
all your armies
every weapon at your disposal.
Because I am ready to die.
Butas I doI will sing such terrifying songs.

I see you cold
covered with severe reason
and an echoing glare
harsh refractive

too much logic
stifling the heat of your
forever ago smile
my understanding of it

your incandescence now dim
because it is memoryor because

you’ve let your compassion fall
into a simple patterned brain.

Whatever it was between us
I can’t see the traces
of some previous yesterday in today.

But it was real
would still be

except for the fact that it is not.


NATE PRITTS is the Director and Founding Editor of H_NGM_N (2001), an independent publishing house that started as a mimeograph zine, and he is the author of eight books of poetry, including the recent Post Human (2016) and the forthcoming Revenant Tracer, which won the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award and will be published in the fall of 2017. He lives in the Finger Lakes region of New York state.

Katie Hibner

A Brief History of the Manufacture of Symbols

The Allfather attempted to jolt
the sensory mailbox of the Arctic Circle.
He thawed the bridle path
with a hot rinse of embryos.
He scraped a spark from his flint torc
so he could bake
his timeless suffer-pelts.
He shuttled in orcas
to fatten up his homemade ship burials,
constructing them in ALLCAPS
so they could rise and be sliced
into future Valentine candies.

Later, presenting to a school group,
a tour guide shook down one of the ship burials
for fertility symbols.

A student rolled his eyes, muttering,
If I see another pomegranate in this gallery I’m gonna scream.




The Territory Speaks

I am this town
and its choir director.

I am a mellowed-out banshee of wonders;
I lend my digestive flume as a waterslide
for hard-candy toboggans,
topping it off with a doily half-pipe—

but my historian is a blinkered puppet.

He answers to a pink clown
who lives on a diet
of street corners and pepper spray.

They name my hoosegow “Sputnik.”
They educate school groups with a drone
that only talks in 140 characters or less.

They often reduce me to soaking their foam capsules—
they earn tax exemptions if they sprout into dinosaurs.




Big (Brother) Data

We attempt to pry the NSF-funded balloons
out from the centers of our hard candies,

so the government detains us
in their cream cheese fjord.

Just out of reach,
loaves of Big Daddy Data pile up.

They ask us who we bivouacked with last Arab Spring,
if they would find honeyed sickles on our pocket squares.

All I say is that I hope
they’re denied coffee boys in the afterlife—

they light us up
like twice-baked hot potatoes.




The New Fracking

They weave this town
to a loom sticky with zebra mussels.

Their centurions double as crossing guards,
some genuinely wanting to rocket-fuel our posterity.

For members of their two-bit parliament,
the coiffeur à la mode

is superposition, layers packed
with carbonated ram skulls.

My daughter runs off
with one of their androids.

We used to raise columbines.



KATIE HIBNER is a confetti canon from Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Bone Bouquet, glitterMOB, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Powder Keg, smoking glue gun, and Word for/Word. Katie has read for Salamander and Sixth Finch and dedicates all of her poetry to her mother, Laurie.

Porpentine Charity Heartscape



(rule for typing title: the exact number of letters doesn’t matter just type whatever amount feels good)






All animals were exterminated from the streets of heaven
I’m just a single mom trying to get by

I earn 10G sweeping cum from the palace atrium
I squeeze my eyes into the coin-operated binoculars pointed at hell
The bored haggard sluts with their cold sores
Pimples in their hair like the inflamed eyes of newborn animals
Scabby legs slung over the chasm, tossing rocks from their aching hands, knuckle-bridled

Throwing rocks into the bottomless chasm separating hell and heaven is like hurting someone
and never having to take responsibility for your actions

I want the bored hell sluts
to find a secret tunnel
so we can rest our tired slutty thighs together on the steps stained by soul rain
which is like normal rain except a little warmer.

I want to wring the grease from their hair and brush it.
They would be better daughters
than the children at the foot of my bed
when I woke up in heaven

They lay on the floor, eyes open, waiting

I don’t know how long they waited
Their skin is smooth and poreless like a doll

Time cannot act on this room
And anyone could have woke in this room
And disappeared from this room
We are poured through the bed









Angels glide across the city of Heaven
we run to collect the guano

The scouring searchlight of an angel’s stupid lazy gaze
Can’t help but burn a thing that runs across their path

We respawn in a random location.
When everything looks the same
it is emotionally difficult to find our way back
to the tiny parts of this mega stone world
we call our nests

I sweat massively
Nervously equipping and unequipping my [Common Stone]
As the background midi of heaven loops
16 seconds of unkillable noise
Like bricks of rusty honey

There is no sun here, only light

My children watch me tall as towers

I wish I was still on earth

AngelGuano 30g



An angel’s huge, blind, axolotl cock slithers across the floor
I bathe it in salt water
tiny hands, or fronds, or antennae grope mindlessly along the side of the cock

The angel moans in the other room
I don’t think it’s a moan of anything in particular
it just makes those sounds
crawling toward nothing
lodestone in its pigeon head like shrapnel

My hands are dish-washing hands
red and scalded

The cock roamed from the distant chamber
and found me




My purple mesh thong was smuggled from hell
in a picnic basket
and gives me perfect vision of sluts
so when my giant egg-shaped children have slowly turned their faces to the wall
the closest they’ll ever come to sleep
I droop my planemelting eyeballs through the thatch ceiling
of a hellslut’s house
and watch her stick her dick in [Red Potion]
tiny numbers crawling up her face like ants
my jelly hand crazy straws back to heaven
and crits my cock
hard enough to see the salt erosion on the inside of my own skull




practicing my special i was born
without a special. practicing my special
in the courtyard.

my children look older than i am.

the worst part of heaven is not having another world to dream of.

fantasize the perfect combo to tear a crack in the skybox.

practicing my special by the sole
functioning light in the 83rd stairwell,
the special that could be.

someone comes closer and I move away.



i have 1 memory of earth


PORPENTINE CHARITY HEARTSCAPE is a new media artist, writer, game designer, and trash woman, whose games and curation contributed to the contemporary hypertext renaissance and the popularity of accessible text art software Twine. She’s won the XYZZY and Indiecade awards, had her work displayed at EMP Museum and The Museum of the Moving Image, been profiled by The New York Times, commissioned by Vice, The New Inquiry, and Rhizome, and she is a 2016 Creative Capital Emerging Fields and 2016 Sundance Institute’s New Frontier Story Lab fellow.