Drone
The weird passed again into normalcy. There were meals. The exercise was good; body was juiced at the lack of dope. I shared a triple bunk with Wilt and Johns, who were always together and much alike, so I never clicked who was who–we were pals. After we’d got some shape back they fitted us for flamethrowers. It was fun torching the straw men, but our fuelpacks weighed a motherfucking ton.
Job was to penetrate some pines and flush out the ferals who lived there. Halfway through, the officers stopped calling them “ferals” and said “mud-eaters.” The mud-eaters, inbred trash that went into the swamp a century back and walked on all fours, had killed a resource exploration crew. With rocks. The story made us mad.
By Miles Klee.
A dog shot in its face
Trakl tried and gave us twilights and poppies and celestial vaccines, and those toothless angels, poisoned, their useless wombs reconstructed from blue space and bloated with rats. And Klassnik? And Klassnik?… He’s here now to reiterate that having your cake is eating your cake, and that the cake is made from cum and from blood and from shit and from urine and from all manner of excruciations, but that still the cake gets baked, and that therein lies the flaw, and therein lies the dream of us, and of love, and soft grass and flowers and a moon’s silence.
Gary J. Shipley reviews Rauan Klassnik‘s The Moon’s Jaw.