At PULP we love
LITERATURE!
I hooked up the Xbox I’d included in the hamper to the second monitor on the counter and spoke to him about limerence while I played Assassin’s Creed.
Hey you, you’re going the opposite direction I am. It’s 7:34pm on a Friday and your destination is Abbotsford? The bus stop on this side of the street is much warmer but you won’t give it a chance!
The ice is past my wrists, creeping up my forearms.
“You know it’s funny — I never realised how shy you actually are. I always just thought you were playing disaffected bitch for customers at work.”
Absent the comparative emotions of desire, intimacy of any kind is charged; nothing represents sex and so everything represents sex.
But when the Scholar goes home she thinks about the Athlete. She thinks about her while she takes off her skirt and her bra. She fucks herself with her fingers, and wonders what the Athlete is doing.
machine without a body, in and out, great free floating brain caressed, gentle movements across a neglected being, emaciated, feeble, shaking and quivering moanbreaths, in and out
Alpha widowed and exiled from a dream. Siberian winter delirium, or maybe just mold poisoning.
Let me elucidate: I know I shouldn’t be so comfortable sitting right up against strangers on the bus.
It is dangerous, to choke out their dreams in dirty water.
My following applauds, “found footage of griffins” and “me at the Shambhala store”, and that “the scallion is the best-known symbol of beauty and love”.
I stood in the kitchen again, above the spotless countertop.
Threaded through one is a strip of red satin, its loose ends unravelling, dragging on the floor below.
I am worried that we could lose and even more worried that the game will only get to day three.
Could the relevant Christina please return to collect their notebook…
In primary school I had a project on endangered animals. I chose the butterfly fish and made him the star of my live-action film.
“I hated my old job. I was holed up in an office, and all of the people I worked with only talked about work. Work work work. I hated it.”
Today, I have woken up in a woman’s body. I have yet to learn to use it.
So when I find my mouth drying up, when I want to substitute the sun for an egg yolk in the sky, I count it time to get to nature.
It exists inside sentences and Renaissance paintings; mouths prised open by angels, bodies arranged like furniture with the aesthetic restraint of oil paint.
My hand is pressed hard against the window, and I am looking at the bloodlessness of my fingertips and the soft cracking off-white paint on the wooden windowsill.
Maybe the changing decimal places send a buzz that fizzles down from the billboard into the cabling, through the machine and into buttons, shocking their paper thin flesh and pulsating through their nerves?
It begins inside me as a change in weather, a subtle dampness seeping into what I had assumed was stable internal architecture.
When my great grandfather died late in the night in Poland, we were pulled out of bed by our sobbing mother. Everyone quickly slipped into black clothes so we could comfort our immediate grandfather.