Room-Hack-Flak-Mouth

Room Hack The room promised them things. There'd be windows eventually, and walls, and a floor. All they had to do was wait, be grateful that the sky was hidden, that their sweat glands weren't leaking bioethanol, that their words weren't naked flames, and if they could just forget what they thought they knew about drinking water and rehydrate as the room demanded. Things then would improve. New telephones would ring. There'd be hands they could feel inside the gloves of their bodies, and they'd ignore the screams in the street. Their faces would grow back again, and the eyes would purr like man-made cats inside their sockets. But first, the windows and the walls and the floor. And even before those things, the removal of a dozen heads.

Flackmouth. I flirt with the dogs without teeth. I don't run so fast. I walk as fast as that. I masturbate my message across pictures of women I see on the street. Pictures of women whose cone cells are made from pictures of other, different women. Women born folded down the middle. I troll my own disintegrated hunger. It's laser beams, a gag. The drains are shouting. The airways open and empty and polluted that way. I have all the composure of a ball gown stuffed with birds. These poems were written by Gary J. Shipley, illustrated by Saba Soleimani, and read by Peter Twall. This recording was brought to you by Para Graffiti.