Cute like Chernobyl
A place where the whole world is watching. Turned upside-down in a topsy-turvy fashion. Poems, essays, blurbs, stand alones. It's all the same. So look around you may find something kind of cute, but cute in the same way an exploding reactor may be.WiredJawTubing - Ticking Package (torture comedy hour 3)
The small clicks of each second passes in
nonchalant huffing frustration. The
little boy staggers back and forth in the alleyway
as the shadows lurk and call names out from the darkness.
Her face appears on shards from broken bottles in urine puddles.
Stumbling from shifting reality to otherworldly madness.
The teeth she once had resemble dogs’ and their piercing
bite that lends itself well to predators. The boy meets a
man whose beard is made from human bone, missing
slack jawline but has a disturbing sense of self. Copper wires
running throughout his arms and legs, tubes to tie together
bodily fluids as they pass through the clear plastic.
Vomit smelling workhorse with mechanical anti-freeze eyeballs.
Waking up from coma of sleep, closer to death, turns over to grasp
the gravity of reality. Small ticking sounds from the hallway
in a time-bomb orgasm launching into full blown chaos.
Getting up to make more bouquets of fleshy pink
flowers to hand out to strangers on the street, hoping that one
may be the girl made of glass, and she’ll tear into his flesh one last time.
CarcassDerrickDroplet - Thus Swings the Meathooks (torture comedy hour 2)
Focus. Focus a little harder as the lines blurred
together and the lungs filled with thick black powder,
the ashes coughed up when he spoke your name.
Little stains culminating on the leather as the tiny nails were driven
through the holes in place. There’s that little boy, groping longingly
at straws dangled in front of him by a woman with no mouth.
Cackling demons floating in the Martian atmosphere that is the back door.
Staring into the kitchen window as she morphs into melting shapes
Not sex. Not quite.
She used to be to sweet. She used to be so quiet. Now her breath
stinks of hatred and sweat and salted wine. He breathes her in
the stench suffocating and gnawing and tearing.
The alien foetus inside the brain.
She used to be so sweet. Now her hair is made of snakes.
And her eyes, from marble.
JunkVulvaGod- Stained Glass Teeth (torture comedy hour 1)
Longing little boy with the skin made from paper
is in love with the girl with the glass teeth.
Lovely the way he wears his skin with tattered shredded bits
of heart on the sleeve and the elastic bands hold his brain
together and melt and twists and pop like kite strings
and magmic heat intensity. Starfish in the belly
of a nuclear holocaust survivor. It’s sexy the way she
devours flesh and can’t speak coherently without
constant shrieks and cries of pain that circle through her subconscious.
She thinks it’s hot when he falls apart into crumpled bits of string at her doorstep
holding dead flowers and rat skulls, sobbing like an infant for wanting to reunite.
The Whaler
On subjects of intense and hearty objections,
on modernism and the feminists and the fags.
On apes and evolution and Jesus and Lady Gaga,
on Burroughs and Derrida and Harvey Milk.
The Whaler (that’s what the boy calls him) sits
and writes about very strange things, drinks
fiery brown water with little bits of ice and sits
and sits and sits and sits and thinks. Writes.
Thinks again. Sometimes on culture and men and
women, sometimes on bioweapons and women
with CAUTION tape over their crotches and
chests. Red blinking lights line his windows,
strange armless creatures walk around his liv-
-ing room and he doesn’t go down there too
often anymore, leaves out the window.
They have no eyes. Freaks him out.
He goes to sea to hunt down white salty
whales and wails about in his ship straining
and wondering if he’ll die out here looking for
some sort of fish. Maybe a fish. Mammal? Yeah
I think it’s a mammal. Purely mammalian.
Smoking and sighing, not wailing anymore.
Gave up on wailing, but still needs to kill
that slimy mammal son of a bitch. He’s
everything these days. Goes home
through the window and sits down,
that little boy may come back to visit
again and that’s ok, he never harms anyone
sometimes he asks too many questions about
stuff the Whaler writes, but that’s not bad.
He’ll write about men in prison tonight
probably. Probably about independent women
and their love of submission. Maybe about
how all poets are faggots. He doesn’t
know yet.
