I am an aborted fetus

Wednesday, 1 July 2009 • Zeal • Comment

I am an aborted fetus, but that is not an indictment of my character or my looks; just on TWITTER666, new journal from cool cats, Sam Pink and Martin Wall.

Kill some time, kill some twitter, kill some children. Here are some of my favourites so far:

an_atm: Giving out money. Grudgingly.
a_big_sandwich: i want to go to africa and jump into a child’s mouth.
a_face_tattoo: am i fashionable?
creepy_old_man: if there’s a better way to spend your day than sleeping in a tube slide, well shit, i haven’t heard it.
fetus_aborted: listening to nirvana’s in utero album, feeling emotional
a_movie_extra: Practicing crying. At least I think I’m practicing.
lionelritchieCD: Those bastards are listening to Faith No More.

Sir?

Monday, 29 June 2009 • Discourse • 4 comments

What’d you doing sir? Excuse me? Excuse me, sir? What’d you doing? Sir? Sir? Sir put that down! Sir what’d you think you’re doing?! What’d you think you’re doing sir!
Man—
Man fuck this shit.
Sir! Sir come here, sir! Oh my god. Where is he—
Sir? Sir? Where the fuck are you going? What the fuck are you doing SIR.
Sir. No. NO, SIR. NO.
SIR?!

That air of feigned indifference

Thursday, 25 June 2009 • Maladies • 4 comments

Excuse me? I beg your pardon, but what of the beauty? They say they saw it here at some stage past. Previously they’ve seen it wandering these very halls, but we’ve seen nothing of the sort. Nary a flicker idles by nor does a flash of sincerity do create that which is beauty. Nor does itself, beauty. Or even a beaut. Or a beau, I dare say we’ve not seen one of those in ages. We sit poised, our hair is well coiffed, our noses upturned yet only slightly as in an air but not overly so; our clothes are neat and clean and pressed, our nails trim. And yet here we sit and here we shall remain and none but pain does pay us mind.

Barthes Baby: A Play In One Act

Tuesday, 23 June 2009 • Zeal • 4 comments

Interior. Night.

Ani: Barthes, baby. I’m pregnant.

Barthes: I’m dead, yo.

Ani: What do you mean you’re dead?

Barthes: (silent)

Ani: Ay, me! I am bringing another fatherless bastard into this wretched world.

Ani: Your words have fucked me.

Curtain.

[Translation: The one about the bus stop is in > kill author, issue one, the Barthes issue. Fuck but its pretty. Alongside: heart-stabber J.A. Tyler, fierce Barry Graham and my favourite irreverent fuckers, Robb Todd and xTx — AND a bunch of people whose writing I didn’t know and now so much want to like Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, Sheldon Lee Compton … ]

Don’t fuck

Sunday, 21 June 2009 • Crap poetry • 5 comments

not picking up anything
circling and not picking up anything
why is it that whenever there’s a word
that word is to give to you
as if I weren’t enough for flowers
now you have to have my buds

the sort of self-involvement you’ve come to expect (now with added links!)

Wednesday, 17 June 2009 • Zeal • 5 comments

there’s this mysterious place where all these people are poets and one of them a really nice one asked me to join and I did and I don’t know who anyone is but they like to play with the words and I like to play with the words too so I did but hey no value judgement and oh and this mysterious nice person is also in Robot Melon Staring Isadora whoever she is which I am also on which is a big deal for me and there is this thing about this owl which I really liked too and one from my favourite poet yes I have a favourite poet and I put a U in it and laugh because all around I am excited and much less suicidal than yesterday oh my god i love it so much

When things are most quiet

Monday, 15 June 2009 • Maladies • 7 comments

How do you teach a soldier to stand down? A fighter when the coast is clear to let down his guard and conserve energies at an opportune moment, like when there are no more bumblebees in the bathroom. But what if one should appear? Should you get caught in the bathroom with your pants and your guard down both, should you worry.

Inimitable concern. Unmitigated concern. And a facility for pronouncing neither.

And a propensity for overblown savagery.

Here in this eight-by-eight room of halves and three-quarters sits a stoned and weathered you. A glossy mirrored you. A you of little faith. A misunderstanding. No one leans against a lamppost to watch. Your thread of word being too hard to follow. I mean swallow. I mean I was almost in there without the first person. I mean I was almost in there without the cruelly amateur attempt at post-modernism. Oh, look. She said post-modernism. Burn that bitch at the steak. Do I have to sic it or will you not believe that whatever I can will do say what what.

Ex-Boyfriend Letters #15

Wednesday, 10 June 2009 • Ex-boyfriends • 5 comments

Dear Ex-Boyfriend,

The present is to inform you that I have found a boy willing to grant the curiosity-appeasing pleasure of allowing me to hold his cock while he urinates. My only hope is that you, too, may be encouraged to conquer your own small, yet long-held dissatisfactions in the very near future.

Delightedly,
Your Ex-Girlfriend