TRIPTYCH VOYEUR
iβm on my fake account
@gmail.con
i canβt spell for shit iβm 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
iβm on my real account
everyone knows who i am
iβm not anonymous fucker
βββββββββββ
CONCUBINE BLOT
a ghost star in the night
terrors
i realise this is blood on a
switchblade.
when iβm dead bury me with all my dead
memories
i donβt wanna be
iβve become.
lugosi my life story
something like a ghost
lurking in that special someone i
came back haunted.
Is that you succubus?
Iβve been waiting, i sol-
d my soul for love but that fucker still hasnβt paid.
βββββββββββ
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
βββββββββββ
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.
βββββββββββββββββββββββ
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 MΔori and German fluently soon.
*Image credit: Still from Kenneth Anger’s 1947 film ‘Fireworks’.
selffuck.help 