The Gorelets Omnibus
Michael A. Arnzen
Armadillo Fists
Carlton Mellick III
Anatomy Courses
Blake Butler
Sean Kilpatrick
Doom Magnetic!
William Pauley III
Fill the Grand Canyon
Andersen Prunty

Donna Fleck
Pink Nausea
Gary J. Shipley

Possibility Spaces
Lance Olsen


Untitled Chapter
Blake Butler & Sean Kilpatrick

The device could not control my anger. I felt thirsty to throw up. I bit my eyelids, shitting yearlings. In the cornea, the blood.

Among the antique air our skins were leakage. Our house gyrated unasked speech, squirting peals from glue-shaped daughters we’d surrendered. Bright days made crystal bodies of the sound inside us and spread them through anywhere we slept: massive ash closets stuffed with hungry sons and wives sporting Daewoo; fat phantom-actors who loved this land. I’d hid the father’s evening costume in every flame again.

Sourceless throblight through my private window made the room tonight decide on gone.

I held my glee. My hurting anus helmet. Gold robes of sweat and hussy cake dumped from the date. I scrunched inside the coronation mattress, asking where where was. My ovum bubbled. I spread my holes an arm-width each, saying pristine in the accent of the snitch: our lord is both our lesion and our lung.

Sweet cream erupted from my slits: in slaving whips and older hours already lard for our Alzheimer’s. The father’s tongues had reamed in me another child. A child of leather, also preggers, unglowing limbs of gas that rose and fell and rose again, and killed again and filled my lengths and made me simple. I’d freely sold our sorrowsleep for ass and Pablum.

Between such shapes my colors gored. Where had I been since you were in here, I asked each passage. What fields of you where all around me days rained face. I felt our generation bloat and kneel inside my pork seeking its dogdoor. Beyond the door, a decade’s wait unto forgetting—dressed now in the down of breath of dying hitmen kissed upon my muff in christened glyphs, and every hour so Corroder. The mother-graft of me grew underneath us modern—and into you again, sewn for no mourning. Our herpes moan gushed up a high and crying wind.

Full moan for throblight. I milk myself alive. Pap smears anoint me. My area code is SIKE.

I lugged the father’s ringworm. Under his crouton, prolapsed juggle, gagging for subpoenas, ground in weave, chromosome fed, the device sagging. I cuddled the father’s fleas, webbing my switch, jinxed the whorl: Coin that cootie. Our lipping bacne through rooms askance. Birthcurd delivery, I hutted so veldt. The father taste-tested how hung.

Pray for balloons during the father’s placenta. Jump the kiss right out of his flay. How he was born made a toy of the ghetto. Such skinny lotions douse his sway. Howdy ya’ll.

The mother flaring wrinkles, pressing cysts inside, huffing cilia, tomahawked my dung across her woof. She spoke for Iraq, plucking her frown. She screened my whole peepshow. I tapped her ribs yellow, ballad of collapsed lung, dangling from what was.

Gimmie boo boo honey. Gimmie change for whitey’s dump. Gimmie clothes-pinned poots the mother memorized as me. The fat child gleaming, needstunk, yikes and whim.

Though I swallowed exits in the womb.

Blake Butler is the author of There Is No Year, Nothing: A Memoir of Insomnia, Ever, and Scorch Atlas, which was named Novel of the Year by 3:AM Magazine and a finalist for the Believer Book Award. He edits HTMLGIANT as well as two journals of innovative text, Lamination Colony and No Colony. He lives in Atlanta.

Sean Kilpatrick is the author of Fuckscapes. His writing has appeared in The Evergreen Review, Columbia Poetry Review, New York Tyrant, Caketrain, Dzanc Books Best of the Web 2010, 30 Under 30, Fence, The Collagist, La Petite Zine, Spork, Tarpaulin Sky, The Lifted Brow, Jacket, LIT, 5_Trope, Dark Sky, Juked, elimae, Word Riot, Exquisite Corpse, 3:AM Magazine, Bust Down the Door & Eat All the Chickens, Cthulhu Sex, and many other publications. He lives in Michigan.