khashayar mohammadi
A Stupid, Blue Day
great expansion of ethics:
a pill,
a pill to stop it,
by pull of the happy tendon.
sexual wherever
our smell Prevails
the smoking landscape
of ur beloved hometown,
in the map
the weather does not count
as material
soft, is the duration
of regional peace and calm.
liberation is a blur.
all i remember was a cock down my throat.
a grave of caught meter.
fear,
of the payday.
and rhyme.
Ryan Hooper is a Cornwall-based writer, artist and sound maker whose mixed media work explores the intersections of memory and landscape.
The Spirit is a Bone
“the bones of this Me piece” -Ali Pinkney
my comrade in being
identical. my fellow
thinker in italics.
my deep deep pocket has
its mice. my interrupted
sentence has its deep
deep compromise. the
winter exponentially heats
up because a flood can
legally take ur house. when i
see a cigarette I smoke it.
no questions asked. big boi
love has its big boi costs.
in the café I remain
consciously prominent.
that old ideal of purpose:
to pretend at the chain but
grind teeth to tune the guitar.
YOU HAS NO BIOGRAPHY
YOU
start the sentence by force
of formula. in a sense: morning
coffee. in a sense: lunar cycles of
Scorpio. catch that flat word
into paper. then wash that
interplay until current like
RUNRUNRUNRUN. YOU
sums up the cost. logs in the hours.
stands barefoot on jagged rock.
it costs my horizon a stick-
figure diver at the limit of the
horizon to look at... YOU. out
there with all the big fish. in
the water’s tug and pull in the
hug of a slimy wood column
holding up the region’s most
celebrated Bar & Grill in that
lantern-light-leaking shack
floating right above. where are
YOU? and how come without
YOU its no fun???