Issue 2.2 Spring 2007

cover image

 

First piece…

Jeff Hyde

 

ejaculatory mixtape…

The conventions of etiquette preclude further allusion to debauchery, yet the Maenads must be entertained. The decay of my organs is peculiar to my body...and the acceleration is pure Nascar kick. The bulls are no longer fooled by the red of my cape. To abjure death: one part bourbon to two parts thaumaturgic obsolescence, add ice, and a scorpion tail. Coat a napkin with the blood of menarche, fold, place in your wallet, and spend it like innocence. Write the names of those you love on cigarette papers, and anoint each day with saliva and a match. Trust in the mirror.

 

I placed a card on the wall next to my bed with the word "immortality" written on it. Every night at two a.m. I awoke to my alarm clock and hit the card with a flashlight three times. The idea is to wake during deep REM and trick your subconscious into identifying with the concepts behind the word on the card, then go directly back to sleep. After performing this seemingly ridiculous act for two weeks I dreamt I was standing in a triangle in the middle of a desert at dusk. At each point of the triangle were two huge neon-orange tarantulas and a similarly situated scorpion. One of the spiders advanced toward me and I lost my balance. I fell backwards and caught myself with my hand, at which point the scorpion stung me and I awoke.

 

The Maenads are satisfied and the bulls keep coming and coming, till they get covered with cheese and put on a bun... but there's more to the bull; it knows the red is a decoy, it just can't help itself. Stick to the red, because to let go is nihilism... and there's more to nihilism than the absence of anything; it's relinquishing the right to don the cape

 

Second piece…

 

konichiwa, bitches...

Sunday, noonish. Learning to take quiet moments inside my head, even when I'm being talked to. I got nothin to wear and I can't remember the last time someone told me they loved me.

I wanna live clean, sterile. Can't stand emotional pathogens. There's this corner I know where you can get anything you want: textiles woven from spider silk, the cure for lycanthropy, mastodon tusks, perfect hair. I've stopped by a few times on my way home, I browse for a bit, flirt with the girl at the cosmetics counter and go on my way. I get home and can't find my keys, so I sleep next door. My neighbors are polite, and invariably treat me with dignity. I wake up, check the mail and read the papers. There's an obituary for someone I knew on page 3. I remember her from that corner; I think we met there, but I can't be sure. She used to buy these rolls of film that, when exposed in moonlight, would tell your future. I bought her diamond foot scrub and blood oranges. It's then I realize where my keys are. My neighbors ask me what she was like and offer me coffee and hashish. I put the papers down and everything gets hazy... I know I should go to the funeral, but apparently she's being cryogenically frozen, and I got nothin to wear anyway.

I wonder how she is, and think "...she must be cold."

 

 

 

Third piece…

 

 

Lo, though I am set upon by wolves, my breath lingers, reverberating through the axis of communion. Can I not hold the cessation of memory to a mere abstraction? Can I not endure, while the fractal symmetry of time summons me nigh? It is in the gale force of a kiss that the avarice of death is reduced to a pittance. It is in the hearts of those to whom the rhythm of our voice is a clarion. It is in spirit that lies the white flame of the absolute. Surrender yourself to the fire, and that which binds you to eternity will sustain you in oblivion.

 

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