June 2012
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bonus
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The Elvis Club Will Meet on Mondays at Hakuraafiya
This is what happened one Friday in 1989.
The bed is purple and hot like a bruise. You are on it. Asleep, then awake, and the night’s knowledge is a warm almond of satisfaction somewhere between your throat and belly.
The smell of onions in the morning, weekend voices like ropes in the sun. The run of the motaru, then the wake of Old Spice and the closing of a door. Hallo Silence. The...
in a thousand days, buhparaas has given six thousand speeches, an average of six a day, where he clears his throat, a hallway full of phlegm, and spits out a fucking lake of slime. he adjusts his tie, which is reminiscient of toenails and cow dung, like they have been mixed up together then rolled up and cut in the shape of an isosceles triangle garnered for reverence, and painted in this...
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gnasche
dictionaryofobscuresorrows:
n. the intense desire to bite deeply into the forearm of someone you love.
mahpiohanzia
for hanzi
dictionaryofobscuresorrows:
n. the disappointment of being unable to fly, unable to stretch out your arms and vault into the air, having finally shrugged off the ballast of your own weight and ignited the fuel tank of unfulfilled desires you’ve been storing up since before you were born.
anchorage
dictionaryofobscuresorrows:
n. the desire to hold on to time as it passes, like trying to keep your grip on a rock in the middle of a river, feeling the weight of the current against your chest while your elders float on downstream, calling over the roar of the rapids, “Just let go—it’s okay—let go.”
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