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Wed, 30 Jan 2013 02:07:12 -0500

braiker: illtronik: Jesus and aliens run the Internets. I knew...

Tue, 16 Oct 2012 12:46:48 -0400

illtronik:

Jesus and aliens run the Internets. I knew it (Taken with Instagram)

i want a framed print of this. on my wall over my couch. yesterday.

Miss Jersey Girl

Fri, 28 Sep 2012 22:50:58 -0400

I

The flush of blood in your cheeks
when Paul Frenson cuts a slab
of gouda and screams your number,
like he screamed at you in high school
when you dated so naively,
like the Satan in heaven dancing wild child
to a corrosive rhythm undulating.

A grocery store has never been so cancerous
until the year you stoop back in, knowing
Frenson is watching you behind the mustard
on his break, while your feet jitter on the
linoleum and your wrist watch shivers
not from the quartz, not from how cold
the dull moonlight of a forever store is
over the walls of prepackaged chips
already starting to crackle and break.

The parking lot: the Satan’s shit hole,
the gravel wasteland between the road
and the wheel, the metal campus of cars
where no one lingers too long, as you
find your small Station Wagon, as you
find yourself twitching again, creeping the
pocketbook over your shoulder again, and
feeling around the humid air so soggy, and
gripping the moonlight in the forever store
with your drifting sight, as it’s drifting light,
and you startle yourself
when the fluttery bags in your arms shift from your forearm
to the corner of your frozen hand.

II

They mention on the news, they they they,
about the crack heads rising in Jersey be-
cause the cows are injected with strange hormones,
brothers to Zeranol and Trenbolone,
fixtures within the macabre. They they they
always talk when you flip the switch,
forever creep around the static,
it’s like an erotica for them,
to watch you as they pray their speech
of violence and rape in the streets.
It’s here and all. Tread below.

Jersey girl, they wore you like a jersey,
girl, sported you in the bleachers, skin-
bleached in the white sun, hair blonding
in the donning of a radiant apollonian scar.
You were beautiful, weren’t you
Jersey girl,
they they they always want to know
they they they always want to know more
they they they always want to know more about you,
about you.

They were strong when they held you, lived long
when they held you, spoke wrong in the football game
and you weren’t a person to them. And you weren’t be-
cause the cows are maimed by bulls in the fields,
and that’s how it is
in a South Jersey town.

III

More groceries two weeks later. Sometimes
strong arms aren’t good for the farmer. Some-
times when you pluck a pepper from its spout,
you need the subtlety. You need the subtlety
when you pass Frenson, big ol’ boy behind a greasy counter,
he’s a man, now, better than before, new and improved,
state-of-the-art Paul Frenson, football guru, field warrior,
condom savant, his parents forgot to lose him and they were
given a sow from the fields to play with the other bulls, that’s
your Paul Frenson, miss, he’s a pepper, a flippant spore of spice
floating from his teary eyes, now he’s cutting pepperjack, you see?
Now he sees you, miss. You’ve always wanted strong arms
but a farmer like you needs the subtlety, you need to
watch out for Frenson. Weren’t you his Jersey girl?
Weren’t you his “be mine”? Weren’t you his mistress of the field,
courted queen to his jocky harangues? A harem of footballers
at your knees and at your breasts all the same,
Jersey girl, big world for you without strong arms. Without a husband
you’ve been so alone in the south of this small peninsula,
nothing new about the plains, the fields, the cities, the chaos
that beleaguer you everyday. You see the subtleties in the landscape
that tyrannize you. You see the mystery of the on-sale fruits and vegetables,
papayas from countries you can’t see, melons from a south you’ve never seen,
peppers from plants that grew under your feet and screamed to be plucked dead,
gnawing at your galoshes dirtied from the mud you’ve cried for and about and
“Dream eyes! Take us down around, Miss Jersey Girl, tumble-
twirl, eat some Trenbolone, pickle it in your arteries so we can consume you
and make you ours. Dream eyes - strong arms - eat us, little girl.”

IV

The gravel lot. 7 ‘o’ clock. The quiet town. They they they
haven’t seen you in some time. You’ve stopped listening.
You’ve removed the TV portrait of its power, and you’ve
heard their ties and petticoats cringe and criminal minds
gallop across the timeline of South Jersey for too long,
and and and
visions of good things to come, good beaches to explore,
good farms to support in the warm August growth, the
in-between of the renewal and the harvest, when cows are
plucked from their virginity for their ovaries and bulls gorge and gore.

You settle the bags in your arms. You do not jitter. You do not
fret.

You settle the bags in your car. You do not shiver. You are not
met.

You fumble for your keys and in the moment there is a breeze,

sometimes ghosts are not too far away from the town they devoured

but some ghosts are new, freshly dead, wont to be eschewed.

Gun muzzle in your back,
your blouse feels like the jersey made from your farming clothes
when you were just a small girl, when you were playing football with your eyes
and with your knees and with your breasts, when guys were gods,
and there’s a gun in your back, neckline of a thousand pins breaks
as it’s cocked. When you turn around, Frenson
is just a memory compared to this girl. She has blue eyes, and in the solemn light
of a lamppost the veins pop and spark along the cornea, through the aqueous;
her tank top reeks, her skin festering, her under pits reminiscent of the Satan
as he rolls along 55 South for weeks without retreat, with a howl to dismay
the listening trees that sway in the aftermath.
Another girl is a shadow
with bigger eyes, night eyes, owl eyes, her greasy hair crusted cheese,
her hoodie a skin she forgot to keep clean, a despondence in her pose
that makes you think about strong arms, lacking strong arms, lacking what
they they they always said you had in your mystery voice.

“Give me your pocketbook, miss,” the girl with the gun whispers, and
all the trees hear her, the gravel is still, the chips are still, no crackling tonight.
The shadow behind her pulsates in a velocity unbound. Tread below-

Looking for a sound, you scream. The girls run.
The lights in the forever store flicker.
Paul Frenson hears you all the way in the back of the deli.
You’ve made it this far. It’s here and all.

Mentioned on Samantha Henderson's Blog!

Thu, 20 Sep 2012 11:08:48 -0400

Mentioned on Samantha Henderson's Blog!

Jarret McClough

Fri, 10 Aug 2012 16:54:02 -0400

Jarret McClough:

Got another story published. Check it out!

The wheat rustled for the wakeners/but they were already gone

Wed, 01 Aug 2012 23:30:13 -0400

The wheat rustled for the wakeners/
but they were already gone

War Chief 2098

Wed, 01 Aug 2012 11:05:26 -0400

He breathes diatribe
through his red nail-studded pipe,
plots why no one joins.

Grendel's Unimportant Cousin

Tue, 31 Jul 2012 12:05:42 -0400

I eat with disgusting flickers of the lip
and salivation my salvation from the aesthete.
I laugh knowing I am the Halloween witch,
the purple freak with the black hat and the nose wart,
the wooden something between my legs,
the awful stature and opinions of an evil hag.
I know I’m a grotesque corroborator
of the horror story life we all enjoy.
I know how I appear before my peers,

but I just can’t stop.

eatsleepdraw: “opera” by bytuesday

Tue, 31 Jul 2012 11:49:25 -0400

eatsleepdraw:

“opera” by bytuesday

The Dog of Man

Tue, 31 Jul 2012 11:40:19 -0400

Big Crane,
Great Dane,
father of the groundlings,
pumping, halt,
iron beams sprouting like fennel,
foreground to a cool jetting,
terrarium kennel,
the sky that heels cranes
to the ground and,
crumpling, halt,
heals us with the hand that
holds the machine by a collar,
enveloped by the sweet smells
of licorice and carbon dioxide.

The ground is so tender.

eatsleepdraw: “Frogs!” By Rose Kalogerakis Follow my TUMBLR!

Thu, 26 Jul 2012 10:49:08 -0400

eatsleepdraw:

“Frogs!”

By Rose Kalogerakis

Follow my TUMBLR!

Diving

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 20:57:00 -0400

We dove down
with scuba gear,
nearer to a
distant chasm than
to the brightly
blue top. We
sunk down, slowly
moaning our fears
through our bubbles
and mending the
troubles of what
we faced on
the very surface.
As we lurked
there in the
dirge silent dripping,
pressure on our
eyes and ears,
we found the
color that veers
most friends and
enemies from any
course. The dark
blue, an acidic
drowner of memories,
numbed us well
to each other,
to the ground,
to the flippers,
to our minds;
and when we
reached the hole
Neptune called cancer,
we weren’t really
ourselves anymore. We
were deeper than
we’d ever thought
we’d get to
be. We weren’t
in love with
our ideals, truly:
just knew that
this man and
woman couldn’t last
too very long
at this depth.

imgfave: See more on imgfave.com

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 20:30:33 -0400

imgfave:

See more on imgfave.com

eatsleepdraw: Run Boy Run

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 18:14:11 -0400

eatsleepdraw:

Run Boy Run

Mimir's Fumble

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 17:49:38 -0400

I would like to receive
signals in my head.
Not exactly from

aliens, but

definitely from a
a classical and jazz station.
Just to hear another human being
catalyzing a tenor sax to a
bossanova beat,
to hear the concerto
play the elephant wings
of my memory
from a hundred miles away —

or a talk show,
to feel the sad tales
of my brethren, of my sister-folk
who can’t find my brother-folk,
to enable my link to
sorority and fraternity,
to cry when no one should,
to listen when there is no sound,
to hurt when the pain is invisible—

or a religious political debate,
the perfect content of the radio,
the anger filtering through brittle teeth
into microphones that resent the sound
filing into ears of the wanting,
those who want to mutter bigotry,
those who secretly disregard and scrutinize
the masturbators and mutilators,

oh we love to hate them, oh I’d love to
receive those signals so I could
hate hate hate
every second,
oh, it’d be lovely to hate
at the helm of a classical recording,
our recording,
the people’s music,
when no one thinks I’m even breathing.

Maybe the alien signals would be better—
though I pity the alternate design
that freely chooses our minds to contact.

oldbookillustrations: There was an owl lived in an oak. From...

Tue, 24 Jul 2012 18:56:58 -0400

oldbookillustrations:

There was an owl lived in an oak.

From Mother Goose’s nursery rhymes, published by George Routledge and Sons, London, New York, 1877.

(Source: archive.org)

Cup of Java for the Cyber Soul

Tue, 24 Jul 2012 16:21:00 -0400

I listen to the music of printers
and
I watch the dances of fax machines
and
I’m not so curious about the human ways
but
I do find my metal heart and plastic veins
in germaniumite and siliconian prayers
and wonder with faith tallied on my debit card
when my body will assimilate with my favorite binary-fed
inanimate animated.

Terror of Mechagodzilla

Mon, 23 Jul 2012 19:04:27 -0400

‘Terror of Mechagodzilla’ (1975) is, in my opinion, a classic film demonstrative of so many staples of science fiction that I can’t contain myself. I would put it up there with ‘The Time Machine’ and ‘Metropolis’. Some may disagree. Though it is of questionable quality, and though it is not the progenitor of monster movies like ‘Godzilla: King of the Monsters’ was, ‘Terror of Mechagodzilla’ contains an immense proportion of science-fiction conventions:

1. A giant fire-breathing, radioactive monster

2. A giant robot replica of said monster

3. Aliens that control the giant robot

4. A giant aquatic prehistoric dinosaur

5. A telepath who controls said prehistoric dinosaur

6. By the way, said telepath is a cyborg

7. A mad scientist whose daughter is said telepath-cyborg

8. Impossible, though improbable, deus-ex-machina-esque technology that saves the day

And holy shit, the aliens have rad helmets. If you ever want to delve into the miniature-Tokyo-destroying carnage of a Godzilla movie, ‘Terror of Mechagodzilla’ is a great first choice. All it’s missing is time travel (which you’d find in ‘Godzilla v. King Ghidorah’ (1991).

Demon-fingers

Mon, 23 Jul 2012 15:25:33 -0400

two mirrors facing
and I see the infinite reflection

but I look closer
where the reflection begins to bend
and darken
and the repetition of structure
starts to fade
and I see teeth and fur
and a shallow whisper
that speaks of the warp

oldbookillustrations: Walter watched over Hildegund’s...

Mon, 23 Jul 2012 14:22:34 -0400

oldbookillustrations:

Walter watched over Hildegund’s sleep.

From Germania’s Sagenborn (Germania’s folklore), by Emil Engelmann, Stuttgart, 1889.

(Source: archive.org)