[st-bullshit]

Contrary to popular belief, you are not a poet.

[selfescaping]

it changed. the sun went by and around, the light went away and came back again. don’t know if i’d be proud, but i wouldn’t be surprised. mark a place in time where you were, because time is a place, with a name and a sign you pass by.

in some ways i am who i thought i would be. but i am ashamed of the death and suffering. maybe every age has it. but it is not always so carelessly inflicted and so unnecessary. the evil done in the name of good is such a source of pain.

it was said that evil exists to bring about a greater good. but i have such doubts.

[st-bullshit]

the worms are out today,

waiting to be swept down the drain

or crushed by God’s heel

[dalelans]

I am always approaching the sacred sideways, suspicious of my own reverence. I want to love the mystery but I don’t want to be a solemn idiot about it. My family is all asleep, but here I am downstairs. I take snarky gulps of the mother dao and sing happy birthday to an ant in the kitchen. Eugene

[st-bullshit]

there are ghosts in the dust

kicked up by god’s footsteps.

[itsownconstruction]

FOOLISH PEOPLE

Caveats in a dark room, and a scene for music. Didactic intransigence, and this thing like a skull the size of a chandelier. Doesn't he know that's the way you get the lighthouse blues? Hobnobbing with the worst of the worst. Concrete tastes like the iron in blood, especially on warm nights like this. I almost think the palm trees are making fun of it all, but there's not that many of them here, anyway. Constant construction at LAX. All of the roads and highways start with "the." It's almost 6:45 pm and the sky is purple in that lusty way it sometimes gets. Southern California isn't for everybody, I guess.

[limbrenewal]

what the fuck is fomo?

overhearing the hymns, the chants, finding you prostrate again for that ashtray life and weekly spite enema, a growing chip you never treated threatening to sever your good arm clean off. nostalgia aches for mole days and fracking as you lick data centre condensation from long- boarded windows. that splintered tongue tells me I'm running late. to what, exactly?

[matthew-pasquarello]

the devil has perky tits and the mountains of hell are lumps on the head of an unknown monster

[birchbritches]

Got This

Ain't an exorcist yet, ain't yet got this ghost out, keep going. Hell of a hokey-pokey. Some days you've just gotta fidget.

[brieandpinotgris]

oops! wrong room

half of me — the better half, if you were to ever ask me — laid to waste on that studio floor. sprinting with your eyes closed & arms akimbo, three of my hands kept busy with the mop. so many noises without cause, without meaning; cacophony of the powerless briefly deafening any planet close enough to care. I retrieved my antennae from my father's attic to tune you out — a private joke with my mother: "identical, but with none of the redeeming qualities." my hands threaten to strike, citing irreconcilable boredom. that cake is tiered & I'm off.

[st-bullshit]

liquid glass

is solid ass.

[st-bullshit]

Petition to bring back variations on a theme 🫡

who is this and what have you done with my bagel???

[matthew-pasquarello]

“Out, Out, Brief Bimbo!”

on the road again.  black steeples tattoo the sky with indecipherable objects.  on so many summer mornings  the neighborhood lawns get haircuts and real barbers shift to  face another hangover.  don’t Van Gogh me, please! a hero once drank from a garden hose and gave up afterward.  the rocking chair lions  are still at his heels, last anyone heard.  hole in the pocket, heart back there somewhere. 

[matthew-pasquarello]

it's always bedtime. flick the switch and watch the stars yawn into existence through a weather-smeared window not quite symmetrical. scraping the glass is the birch that just wants a quick word about what it's like to wear clothes and die in such a short amount of time.

[birchbritches]

Aggregate Fragrances

Aggregate fragrances gather to have talks, hawk this then that tale to pull and pill heartstrings, rolls fingers for something to palpate unto ruin. The air waits around for us, humid looming has it out for the prospect of moving until this is through, will accrue smells to sell it, will stack stormclouds high as the eye'll follow and wait to thunder until an opportune moment when every last one of us is convinced to unstagnate, or at least one of us who might convince the rest in its absence.

[st-bullshit]

in the winter air,

the smoke from this cigarette

billows,

like a herd of white horses

that gallops

toward the moon;

i wonder if they dare to dream

that they might see God’s face.

[st-bullshit]

tonight, the moon is

God’s perfect fingernail

drifting to earth,

discarded and alone.