American Means
This land is a lonesome town whose hopes are hung on a clothes-pin wind, chafing, binding, ideals tied to the forsaken roots of what’s been. Come up dirt, a farmer’s dreams, a rusting bloom in the back yard, Blossom can’t bring herself to rise above the morn, wide awake in the listless heart of pre-dawn. Her ankles awash in dust, devils skittering across a mortgaged floor, a drought of inspiration, broke expectations, breakfast of lassitude squatting, swatting flies inside a living-room of coffined smoke. Twisting on a sofa, stale, remiss and lacking the will to seize a rising sun she leaves rot at the back door, clunking on the moldering frame, gently rising, the padding feet of apathy through the screen.
By D.E. Oprava.
ampere’s and
Today’s quick lit [& alt.cult] links from around the web: David Lynch shares his artwork on Twitter & Tao Lin interviewed by Dazed Digital & Fictionaut, a literary community for adventurous readers and writers & Nick Cave: “I have a problem with the word “redemption” because it’s a Christian notion. What I wanted to try […]
Five for: Jovanka Vuckovic
By Alan Kelly. 1) How difficult was it for you to become editor of Rue Morgue in what is largely considered a ‘boys’ den’? I had known Rodrigo [Gudiño] for a long time and would travel to conventions with the Rue Crew, working the booth. I was working as a digital effects artist at the […]
Four Poems
our lives
are nothing but
can openers.
love
and all its
gratuitous machinations
simply illusions
to propagate more can openers.
this kind of nihilism
has clogged your mind
since the age of nine
standing on your toes
your grandfather’s cheek
a stone
inside his casket…
By Justin Hyde.