Come for me bitches.

Post apocalyptic is the new stream of consciousness. For all you 1980s fashion mavens out there, it's the new Polo or Izod or striped Zena jeans clinched at the ankle with safety pins. I'm so dating myself... and I don't give a shit.

I'm going to invent post-apocalyptic chick lit. I will write novels about a sexy heroine who finds the right man but he turns out to be a Vampire or a Zombie and she has to stiletto his heart with her Jimmy Choos. It will be so tragic.

Everyone will cry.

I am sick to death of bleak post-apocalyptic fiction. I am not sick to death of post-apocalyptic fiction. That is just my apocalyptic tumor talking. That is just my bile erupting and my pustules popping and like every goddamned pundit on the planet, my pus's gots opinions.

The new apocalyptic disease begins when O'Reilly opens his mouth and some of his undigested pastrami flies out.

Wait no, that's just an omen. The skies will then rain pastrami and pig innards. Soon we'll be covered in the fatty corpuscles of oinkers. It's not pretty and we'll all smell bad. We'll smell like coal mines crumbling and Freudian cocaine experiments.

Wait, I gotsa poem...


Hard crush love &c
A. Suitor
Inhale her scent. Vin Mariani
only to toast her health.
She smells of retina detachments and other disasters. Carl
Koller applied her to his own eye, then pricked it with pins.
(What he saw):
a red wheelbarrow see-sawing on a plum fulcrum
three corseted women eating madeleines
no Beatniks rolling Benzedrine strips
two Ibizan yachts, waiting, docked at Space
one peony’s whirl, he was
the small black ant in the middle

B. Girl/boy

Exegesis: these are texts written with different script
(read left-right and read down-up;
read horizontally,
read horizons, read the clouds and
squeeze them into tea cups: revise your reading on porcelain bottom:

rainrainrain

moisture always, anyways
dells and

he dew on a bee’s belly turns into the dew on her upper lip
into the dew on his mustache into dew glistening
his shoulders from early morning headspins into dew glistening her belly from pre-dawn caterpillaring

read

up-down, right-left, they dance across wet grass)

C. Slamp

Slam the piece
of bread into
French toast batter. Slam the piece

the piece slam the piece of pie
the piece of pie into Carl’s eye

watch vitreous and meringue combine
birth chickadees with floater-feathers

squiggly gel wings
these babes fly peripherally
always out of sight

in and out of night



It's not about the apocalypse; it's about sex. Maybe that's apocalyptic enough.


Yours in slamp,
Ry