In Carrie Lorig’s ‘The Blood Barn’, a hidden thesis exists. It is not ourselves that tell stories to ourselves in order to live; it is stories that live in order to tell ourselves.
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‘Body High’ is my new favorite LA novel. It’s a postcard view of the city, but a postcard that’s for sale at a sex shop and has been smeared with jizz from from a sleezy methhead leaving one of the backroom peepshows.
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I am not transcribing the sunset because the colors do not replicate. With every pause I miss certain words. In my next dream, I will apologize to the landscape.
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We pierce oblivion & in turn summon a violent blood from its breast. Siphoning as the lamprey, with rotund teeth & vampiric want.
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I raise you from the bathtub
like a doula
crying and kissing
and wet
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