I beseech your forgiveness
Roaming your holy land
Plaguing your pearly gates
Staining pure glass
With nefarious glares
Unwated in the bosom
Undesirable in Elysium
Sick, grotesque, frail
As they feast on grace
Wandering with no destination
In a wretched bottomless pit
Helpless yet adhesive
Wallowing in their indigenous creation
Butchering their infants
Who are micturating tears
Will be none
Wistfully they will not cease
Witness our hand-crafted misery
Where benevolence is a disease
These feral beasts
thirsting for fabricated divinity
Fasting at no time
Gluttonous in perpetuum
I plea for departure
I beg for salvation
Deliverance from this infernum
Thus father you shall see
Thus father you shall hear
This spectacle which we created
Will fluster Satan
Force him to relinquish in defeat
This gala of filth is blooming
An everlasting contest of deceit
Where the victor is doomed
And Forgive me father
We must breed
As hell is a garden
for every plant
There is a seed.
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There’s something wrong with him, the girl thought. Her mother had told her to never go near him, that he wasn’t all there. Her mother didn’t elaborate, but the girl knew. They were neighbors, and the boy lived with his mother, a woman who drove an old car. The woman didn’t work – there was something wrong with her, too, and she didn’t work. Sometimes the woman yelled at children on the sidewalk, calling them terrible names. The words coming from her mouth were shocking. The children would scream at her, taunting her, calling her old and fat. The woman once threw a mop at one of the children, a boy, but she missed.
He had a very light mustache that was trying hard not to grow, more a suggestion. There was sweat caught between the fuzz on his upper lip, he looked nervous.
Your mama’s hurt real bad and she needs you at the hospital, he said, her name twisting in his mouth. The girls around her parted, calling her name, waving, telling her they hoped her mother was alright.
You gotta come with me – your mama asked me to bring you with me, to the hospital. His words didn’t sound right, sounded like he wasn’t comfortable with them.
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Hey buddy you’re sitting at the death desk
the apocalypse will happen
In over/under a hundred years
a hundred years
I take out my wallet take
a sip of hot coffee bite
of doughnut scratch
a lotto ticket
thought I had a five
got a K-A-R-M-
A cop walks in a circle
Around an abandoned panel truck
With “Juan 3:16”
Written in spray paint
On the back
Flies from the telephone pole to the street
And the street to the telephone pole.
Unfulfilled lust for the unreachable
Screams tearing my lungs apart
This sea of pleasure will never soothe my numbing heart
An incestuous relationship with both parties’ disagreement
Constant struggle for everlasting fulfillment
It’s not sadness my darling, it’s nothing
A moon-sized hole carved into my soul
This lust for something
Something i can’t recognize
Something i cannot fathom
A spider shaped creature pushes me around
Forcing me to submerge in my sins
Am i the one to blame or is it the damned beast?
Give me armies of men
Give me a harem of women
Give me oceans of wealth
Give me something i do desire
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My Only Friend
I call it “Puttyface.”
It’s a hominid-shaped protein
Pushing mass up a gradient.
My friend Puttyface was strange around sleep.
The water-glass-bell alarm clock—
Does this imply it looked forward to bed?
Baroque masturbations, two cigarettes
corresponding to its sacred integer.
Yes, Puttyface had his human.
The hobby was movies.
They often advanced the one
with the symmetrical visage
and never failed to succeed
to fail to appreciate what I assume were the
But speaking of Puttyface,
here it is right now
come to tie me up again.
‘A Higher Form of Necrophilia’ (translated by Slava Faybysh)
Ivan and his babushka sat down in a dusty, half-deserted bus. It smelled of exhaust fumes and singed pigskin. Ivan and his babushka were lucky: they had a whole seat to themselves, where some rust-blond foam padding was making its way out of a hole. Ivan was tearing at the foam and putting bitter little pieces in his mouth. Babushka was looking out through the scratched-up window remembering her youth. They were headed to the last stop, which was called “Brick Factory.” Until then, it was traffic jams, red lights, road rage and hundreds of people who weren’t wishing you well.
Just beyond the gloomy factory (which looked like a medieval fort) there was a graveyard. Whenever babushka walked past the concrete pipes and inhaled the scent of burning pitch, she always had the exact same question: “How can anyone work like this?” She had spent her whole life working with biological materials behind closed doors at the state research institute.
Well Ivan was thinking about how he didn’t feel like visiting his dedushka since he could no longer whittle him a pistol and a walkie-talkie out of wood scraps, which the repairmen would leave lying about the driveway after a visit. Ivan didn’t like Chinese pistols in colorful packaging because all the kids had those. The boy just knew that more secret knowledge was within his grasp, so he wanted absolutely nothing in common with anyone else. Babushka did not support this tendency of his, and periodically she told Ivan he was egotistical. The boy didn’t quite know what that word meant, but just in case, he would get angry and try to appear as unhappy as possible.
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My wife and daughter had left, returned to the city, but I still kept watch over the house. I took a post on the back stoop, behind the kitchen, facing the orchard. The dormant trees had come into a sudden flowering. The garden hummed with returning insects, tiny life among the daffodils and tulips, among the blood currant planted beside the door. Its crimson flowers rustled in the wind.
Across the orchard, through the neat rows of trees, I could see freight trailers. They had been parked along the gravel access road. A team of forklifts were unloading pallets from them. These pallets held stacks of beehives. Vague human figures moved about the heavy equipment: the beekeepers. They wore the baggy suits and veils of the trade. They had been at work for days. There must have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of hives, arranged into a pyramid shaped mound that overlooked everything.
I was growing tired. I looked at my phone log, at all the unanswered calls made, just checking on the family. The night and the morning had passed without incident. But I was afraid of what would happen if I dozed. The beekeepers had stayed to their side of the orchard. I made sure that they did. A shotgun rested across my knees, ready to fire, should anyone come forward with hostile intentions.
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