TRIPTYCH VOYEUR, CONCUBINE BLOT, EVENT HORIZON & F[]licks BY JOSIAH MORGAN




TRIPTYCH VOYEUR



i’m on my fake account

@gmail.con

i can’t spell for shit i’m so soft

i sign my real name

signature ? scribble ? whatever

@gmail.com

washing my hands

we had an accident

fuck

.con     punch me         public NOW

      first in first                        served

i fucked up

i’m on my real account

everyone knows who i am

i’m not anonymous fucker




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CONCUBINE BLOT


a ghost star in the night

terrors

i realise this is blood on a

switchblade.

when i’m dead bury me with all my dead

memories

i don’t wanna be

i’ve become.

lugosi my life story

something like a ghost

lurking in that special someone i

came back haunted.

Is that you succubus?

I’ve been waiting, i sol-

d my soul for love but that fucker still hasn’t paid.




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EVENT HORIZON


it is hard to see

in the unfurling absence

in front of you

when the mantel dust springs to life

just a little and all at once

images spill in from outdoors

bringing the unfolding rose along

and inside it a letter

you thought would never come

folded furling and hard to read




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F[]licks


In the mutest: Araby alive, nightly outlining only faint sounds of nursed contemplation, accompanying pillbox faces and erosion tongues.  Warm homespital orange juice welled up inside stock plasper cups a uratheter later expels. These aesthetically inclined mutations per centimetre of vision manifest as phantasm in leftest vision field.

   – How long’s he been

                                           sleeping?

   – Some time.

   – It doesn’t seem to pass in here.

   – He passed a lot of things in here, you know?

Crass revisionism. Unsmiling polaroid wrist watch reflecting Elkins’ ugly laugh. Maniac. Jackal face.

   – A will?

   – Too young. They couldn’t find one.

   – They?

   – The last group.

Mourning alonely is etiquette for departing. Jesus, I’m in a train station. Lonely mornings: out-the-door etiquette. Cleansmell weekend vacuum roster sewing up future dirtscars. Leave Aroomby alone. Latch latched shut. Lights outed. Clickkey turned. The mutest Araby breathing every airspace; in residence. A shame.

   – He can’t keep ticking too longer.

   – He doesn’t tick.

   – O! He ticks me off sometime.

   – O.

Growing piss pool. Good way to go. Drenched and drowning. Puffy and pussing.

   – Used to be beautiful.

   – I’ll believe my eyes.

   – No funeral.

Jesus, I’m in a train station. Rubber neck praying, yellow Santa crying brandy water, widower unseen in haunt of roofcurve, together. Black spiders webs croaking millionaire memories from podiums wound out under jesuit order. Joyce reads Solzhenitsyn in limbo. Secretly secreting hymns on papers for geriatric boxes. Jesus, I’m in a train station. Our father, who art in–. missed–. ssive really, we knew it was coming for a long time, years reall–. can’t be sad when things like this happen–. macarons and portraits of Christ lining kingseats. A king eats. Forgrozen bodies in dirty coffees.

Rolex onrolling.

Emphalactic shock oncoming. Highstacked carway prying moneying shortcuts erect. No, the green’s not around here anymore. CCA smoked it all. Stock value increased ten points. Fumes enter nostrilic. Gaslight empty.

   – ikissedagirlandilikedit/thet

   – ticktockonthecl

   – sundaymorning/skeletontre

Red door. Color of bline. Binary nodes. Myes cataract like the ocean’s salt after deep breathing.




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Josiah Morgan was born in Christchurch, New Zealand in 2001. Josiah has been involved in the Aotearoa performing arts scene his entire life; portraying his first professional role in Carl Nixon’s ‘The Raft’ in 2007. He has danced with the Royal New Zealand Ballet (‘The Nutcracker; 2011) and now dedicates most of his time to physical theatre. He is a member of the 2019 Court Youth Company, a founding member of Rangatahi Theatre, and studies English & History at the University of Canterbury. Josiah is a monoglot, but would like to speak Māori and German fluently soon.


*Image credit: Still from Kenneth Anger’s 1947 film ‘Fireworks’.