Everything was hot:
the tea you brewed,
this flush you didn’t
notice or notice you
brewed. I’m with the
tea leaves, a bottom
too dark I sank to.
I strolled into a cup,
thinking you’d drink
from it. I’m sorry i’ve
added a dose of tears:
you weren’t eating nor
drinking well, either.
Category Archives: Fiction
Suiteroom – Take 1
And once you strolled
right into the dark of
my eyes. Two points:
you didn’t notice this;
or I needed to weep
something sharp, like a
teardrop. Seconds pass
like the daily dose of
longing. Hot iron is all I
cry nowadays, the kind
steaming on your table.
Your gaze found a lamp.
12/06/2019
This is what Hauntology does: the endless consumption of remakes and reboots even after your biological death. In ‘BR: 2049’, we see holographic renditions of Elvis Presley – who’s to say in 30 years you won’t be presented the option to consume commercial facades of David Bowie, Mariya Takeuchi, or Keanu Reeves. Every generation had, has, and will have an ‘Aladdin’, a ‘Frozen’, a ‘Lion King’, in exploitative tradition. The next generation will internalize the same media as personality, have collective memories of a magical past, where all there was were similar conditions of wage-labor and replicative production. In this, the nostalgia economy runs efficient, haunting each generation for their productive energies; a ghostly Soma that distracts from the rise of collective class consciousness, alike how a B-grade Horror flick uses jumpscares to evade a shell of a plot.
Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 230118
Maybe when I am eighty i’ll dye my hair white, for it might have lost less darkness than I have gained in parchments – Wrinkles, memorabilia, thousands of ancient PDF documents. When i’m hundred i’ll whisper to the stars that they can be young. Two hundred years of age, if attainable, will be an incentive to sleep with machines and love their groaning, creaking, and the scratch marks, paint spots on their synthetic skin. A thousand years might pass and my bones might scream, about having too many descendants to able to donate bone marrow to – But technology has long superseded my emotional capacity, and I start to hear the lunar soil croon from a long slumber. Ten thousand years of age and i’m gas in Jupiter’s stratosphere, turbulent, in love with Brownian motion and its assurance that what goes around comes around. Spread my consciousness to the filaments and the voids once I become as old as humanity, for there is no End to Greatness, no end to beauty and the memory of life and death, the warm hands of either.
Lune L. 