SPIV DRIVER #1 - SHINING A SPOTLIGHT ON IGNORED EXISTENCE
by Travis Jeppesen & Matthew Wascovich
COPYRIGHT © 2002, 3 A.M. MAGAZINE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Once home, cook up the rice and take it to the couch. Today's assimilation is bare. Turn on the zombie eye house alarm near the typewriter, 30 years old, and still putting out print. Woman in the bathroom, cake faced with her freshly tailored nails. Later, we will discuss moving out of the city but for now, eat, slowly.
"This apartment listens."
Echo. Models on the bed. Jewel drawer of rubber. Blondes cry like browns. Take a breath, Tremont Elementary school has little coolies in the front by the dumpster throwing rocks. Casing homes. They know my schedule better than I do. These might be the same three that tried to break in last week. I had my bat. A small slugger, ready to knock skulls. Infamous development cleans the sidewalk, and she does not visit bars anymore.
"I am here to stunt your growth."
Girl and boy on the radio deflate jaws. Gums against the microphone, playing compilations of Europeans independent of labels that stratify sound. Pulp is interesting to America, but remains to be answered as to why. Dress in black, come on over to the cowboy booth, shoot down targets. Get ready for it, for the big shoot out beating up on the small kid.
"Based on current calculations, the moon shall eclipse the value of natural resources on Earth in roughly 100 years."
On top of everyone's laptop, a sticker that says, "Smile, today is pending patent." Industrial dirge is a twin that is live rated 10-15, 15 is the best score. Feel up the computer, forget internet tripping on a rock, tooth punctures skin. "Thank you. Thank you."
He needs to eat just what he's asking for in Toulouse. Back toot singless isn't fair when frankenstein fucks out the toenail. I seem to not fuck off the monkey biscuit auf grenada insipid mediocrity or else that loyola can't win me satisfaction proof of friends. The mustache is pure. Creacher. The laze of orange saturdays, lookin outside to know what time it is, constance fried the disruption on down to four, I can't reorder the sensation. Neverending songstress thunderstorm what the transmission victory spinal spine cord spining you're? The lore of the dragon's hideous was a device used by capitalists, back before we abandoned the age. Now nefarious. But don't you go glean. Mushy fruits in the basket of my heartache, I need a new sun to have sex with - I'm sick of the old one, his crotch smells worse than these green walls.
The toothpick is a sweaty loss. Please don't expect anything to come of this. There are too many robot hairs in this world and not enough contact lens floating in iced tea. The temple of molotha offers services on Tuesdays at 10. Please bring all of your Japanese children, but leave the green ones at home. Some types of arms are never welcomed into the more divisive strains of such morose cabbage bickering. To float in a sea of discount carpet warehouses: the poet's wettest dream.
If only we could all pick flowers out of our arses, society would evaporate to the whiff of a gun. Like the girl whose telepathic abilities reduced her to barking at dollar bills, we don't need objects to torment our scrubulous lack of logic - the most humane counterpart would be to live beneath the penis chimney. Smoke is ejaculated on to my favorite lamp shade, I look to the sky worshipfully and a cloud crashes through the distance of my yellowest hope and regrets: artifice, artifice.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
lives in Prague. His writing has appeared in Bookforum, 3 AM Magazine, Low Blue Flame,
and Fish Piss
, his screenplay inspired by autreamont's Les Chants du Maldoror
, death metal, and real life teen killers, is currently in pre-production. Victims
, his first novel, will be published by Akashic Books in 2003.
lives in Cleveland. He edits the literary magazine, Flat Bike & Banged Head
and is a co-editor at 3 AM Magazine
. His book of poems, Leo in the Garbage Can
, will be published by Slow Toe Publications in 2003.