Papier Mâchismo

Papier Machismo

[puddskullman]

[papiermachismo]

Mercy

I foam at the Mouth from your touch Been kept bound too long Can’t stand the thought You’ll hurt me

I scream in the Dirt under the sun Only know the dark It’s not your fault I’m ruined

I furl at the Mouth from your touch Been kept bound too long Can’t grasp the thought Of mercy

I flinch at the Weight of the sun Only known the dark It’s not your fault Who I am

[papiermachismo]

sadboy bops

[papiermachismo]

"we're God's only pets / that don't do as we're told"

[papiermachismo]

my debut novel, BURY YOURSELF SOMETHING PRETTY, is officially out

Hey there, folks,

BURY YOURSELF SOMETHING PRETTY is officially out via Heirgloom Press (2023) in both paperback and ebook. I’ll also have 30 copies getting delivered to me on the 31st in case you’d like to bypass Mr. Bezos and buy directly from me:

"I was perfecting the art of losing myself, to myself, as to become a nobody. I was doing all that I could to leave no trace of me behind."

Barely into his mid-20s, Yancey Pudd has already given up on growing as a person. Now he just wants less of himself—his body, his thoughts, his presence in a room. When he isn’t dodging calls or weekend crowds, Pudd is discovering ways to vanish privately in place. Sometimes that means seeing how long he can go without eating. Other times, it’s drunkenly shaving his body from head to toe. But after a freak virus devastates mankind and its ways of life overnight, Pudd finds himself thrust into a world in which he finally belongs: one that rewards those who go nowhere, see no one, do nothing. Trusting Pudd’s already reclusive nature, Duffy Phillips—an ongoing fling with a myriad of health issues—urges them to “pod” together, convinced otherwise that spending the lockdown alone with make her go insane. As for Pudd, recognizing this moment as only a temporary fix to his most permanent problem (i.e., himself), he adopts a new strategy to his self-vanishing act: Pudd will lessen himself by becoming more like Duffy. Equal parts tender confession and pitch-black humor, Bury Yourself Something Pretty is an intimate exploration of the claustrophobia felt inside one's own body.

BURY YOURSELF SOMETHING PRETTY on Amazon: https://a.co/d/9S3cvUa

BURY YOURSELF SOMETHING PRETTY on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/154013990-bury-yourself-something-pretty

<333

[papiermachismo]

it’s been a minute

i’ll be self-publishing my first novel in a few months

for updates and nonsense, follow the twit/insta: @stephen_wack

<3

[papiermachismo]

"Skincoat" from my chapbook Loneliness & Other Human Endurances (haha, etc.) was recently featured in the March issue of b(OINK) zine. You can read the piece at the link below:

http://boinkzine.com/2017/03/01/skincoat/

<3

[papiermachismo]

I wrote our names in a snowbank that melted, that must have blended together before soaking into the street. 

[papiermachismo]

[papiermachismo]

Voicemails

Hey Stephen, this is Sam. If I say, ‘He should’ve told a real lie,’ how would you interpret that? I’m writing a poet based on something I overheard. Um, so. Get back to me whenever you get a chance, I know you’re busy or whatever. And uh, hope you have a good Saturday. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.

Hey Stephen, this is Sam again. In a situation of family . . . turmoil or agitation, separation . . . i.e., all under divorce (laughs). Um, in your opinion, without thinking about it too hard, who would say rational, legal principles in the field of animal law—like, would it be your brother-in-law, or your wacky little brother, or like, the deranged mother. Right now, I’ve got the wife and husband who are divorcing, and a mother-in-law who is gonna pitch in stuff about . . . fair decisions in cases involving equitable distribution of property and divorce. You know, like . . . um. Fair distribution of pet—quote, un-quote—‘pet custody’-ish—custodian—cu— . . . cust-todie (licks lips). Excuse me. Anyway, um, gimme a call or shoot me a text or whatever. So. I’m gonna be working on this for a while. Um. But yeah, enjoy Saturday and the weekend, and whatnot. Um. Hope you don’t get wet, you know, just drizzled a little bit. But yeah, shoot me a text if that’s easier than calling. That’s fine. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.

[papiermachismo]

Sellout

If you wanna follow me on twitter and read all my bullshit: https://twitter.com/papiermachismo

[papiermachismo]

Neighbor Boy

Mom calls and says the neighbor boy from down the street put a gun in his mouth the other day and the whole neighborhood has been shooken up ever since. 

Mom says, “It’s just such a shame. . .” and then asks, “I mean, how can somebody ever think to do that?” and I have to stop myself from giving an answer to what must be a rhetorical question.

[papiermachismo]

New Year Publications

Happy New Year, folks. Here's to some shameless self-promotion: some of my work from my chapbook, "scalpy" was recently published in two January issues of online literary magazines: A Quiet Courage and the Linden Avenue Literary Journal. Per usual, depressing/dark comedic stuff. If interested in checking it out, here's some links:

https://aquietcourage.wordpress.com/

(”The Mouse,” “The Toddler,” “The Tourist,” “The Ghost,” “The Football”)

http://lindenavelit.com/

(”Brain Retainer)

Cheers, love you♥

[papiermachismo]

Myrethra

I have been blotting the tip of my penis against a crumpled-up paper towel leftover from dinner for the last eight hours, intermittently wiping away dribble from its little, swollen mouth filled with pus— is it chlamydia? gonorrhea? the rarity of a male UTI?

The doctor tells me: “There is an amazing amount of blood and leukocytes in your urine,” and it sounds like she’s impressed, like maybe my body should be researched on, should belong in some sort of museum— should be sent into outer space.

Proudly I answer her that I am very safe, very adult when it comes to having protected sex, and thus haven’t gone without wearing a condom in, “…probably, like a year,” to which she says, “Uh huh,” marks it down, then asks, “So what about oral sex?”

The doctor administers a needle-prick of Rocephin in my right buttcheek, massages the flesh with her fingers like she’s turning open a door—somewhere inside me there is a residual bond left behind, a lingering share of body warmth growing cold.

Your hair left in my bed, your belt on my desk still fastened like it might still hold you in all that empty space—outside of me where it continues to seep, to spread, to stick and crease in nebulous red clouds (dark and ominous) on my underwear.

But for what it burns, a part of me is relieved just to have an excuse to talk to you again.

[papiermachismo]

no pashion

your mouth is small and disorganized like a closet and from behind it you make a noise like a wince a ribbon pulled through clenched fingers down your throat into a vast unknown of bodily frictions and bodily functions into a dark town visited by many local names I’ve never heard of but maybe should have and I don’t know how I even got here and I don’t know how long you’ll want me to stay.

[papiermachismo]

swinn

moving through the days like honey in a dark room, waiting watching anime smoking weed to put me to sleep I just want us to share things, you know? to have something in common and you liking me for who I am is yet another thing we differ on.

[papiermachismo]

Your mouth was full with the scent of the streets of tongues in each other’s gutters and cleaning supplies I’ve now tasted in every stomach ache of ammonia mixed with bleach since the night you left your belt abandoned on my desk still fastened like it might still hold you in all that empty space