Tag Archives: Post-Apocalypse

about a walkabout

Posted on August 25, 2021 by istsfor manity

press the play button above to watch my short film, peripeteia (4:11) peripeteia we dream about a walkabout. we exhume gutter politics before they’re buried in the rattle brattle bund. we sling jagged zeugmas. we qualify this and that—our words … Continue reading →

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saliva slings loosed

Posted on August 4, 2021 by istsfor manity

Her Midwinter Blues I pine for the days of guileless saliva slings loosed down to my toes, before the unexpected guttings and unremitting blood—ratiocination fading—eddying down the bathtub drain… “Every man you ever meet is nothing but the product of … Continue reading →

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soggy piss-chips

Posted on July 31, 2021 by istsfor manity

Building / SILENCE Building fictions is an addiction not easily quenched. A need, psychological and physiological that renders one a hamster inside the wheel—no stopping until you’re ejected into the corner where all the soggy piss-chips accrue. Bring pleasant talk … Continue reading →

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tang of petroleum

Posted on July 30, 2021 by istsfor manity

2029 The air is sharp with the tang of petroleum and machine fluids. Tendrils of perfume pin prick the air. You follow that scent to the end of a street where the bodies are piled chest high. “So here’s my … Continue reading →

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the pleasing dread

Posted on June 12, 2021 by istsfor manity

she was cut down by the heedless sun squamata lovers blister in the sun enervated by the humidity she sensed the pleasing dread of petrichor “If the world is torn to pieces, I want to see what story I can … Continue reading →

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holy by happenstance

Posted on May 5, 2021 by istsfor manity

Scything The difficult made holy by happenstance. She was delirious, but understood she’d make the first cut soon—minutes, perhaps seconds. She recoiled imagining the pain. The rain in Maine stayed mainly in her brain. She moved—graceless—in a fog. The reaper … Continue reading →

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eyeless in exile

Posted on April 10, 2021 by istsfor manity

EYELESS IN AND “All souls come here to rub the sharp edges off each other. This isn’t suffering. It’s erosion.” — Chuck Palahniuk / Haunted: A Novel

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