Collapseland
Miasma. Cold thrills. Impossible
crimes. Millions of tons of icy
cold water. Parasites burrowed
in strays. The alley littered with
cow bones. Carried downwards
into the gray opera house. Nonsite.
Nonsituation. Infused rubble
core, quisling hospital, crucified
pig. Shadow without a body
attached. Slow grid. Sacrifice.
No sign of dismay. Paint thinner,
wheat paste. The gas claws the
throat. Nonstatement. Planes
drop into the ocean. Scorpion
collar. Grainy mattress. Burning
chemical shore. The pale worm
divides itself. Stone against stone.
Shredded nerve enclosure. Weapon
infected with alien spores. Miles
of metal. Road ripped apart by
spiked treads. Nonshepherd. Dim
negative, tight grasp, hard wooden
tower. Backwards illusion. The
inner desert. The crumbling dead.
Wet implant. Cockroaches hidden
in suitcases. Pulverization with
lead. Stumbling out of the meat
locker. Siren incision. Asbestos
colony. Myth for an undefined
sky. Desperate slumber. Layer
of grime. Electric totality. Dread.
Special Mental Power Thanks to Disgusting Brain Parasites
Something has been appearing
on the lawn outside my house
at night I can’t say exactly what
because it doesn’t seem to have
what you or I might call a form
just pure energy standing on the
grass it’s easiest to see between
the sheets of rain when the mass
of droplets bends around it with
out revealing quite the nature of
its shape but I think it has to be
a fucking glowie it’s been raining
almost every night so I’ve had
lots of opportunities to study it
I stay up with my rifle the scope
pointed out the window while it
moves around between the drive
way and the hides tanning on the
porch if I try to take a picture it
always fucking comes out some
how corrupted like the sensor
has just forgotten how to see it
throws an error it shows me a
gray square of broken pixels
but I know the problem isn’t
with the camera it always comes
out fine when I want to take a
picture of some boy struggling
to breathe no the problem is with
the energy the fucking glowie not
with me I have a wife and family
the only thing that’s wrong here
is the rain won’t let up and I’m
afraid of what will happen to me.
Mad Panic Coaster
Peaceful water sounds. A dribble
sucks out of the boy’s nose. Spinning
beach ball. Angry hornet nest.
Grandma’s kitchen. Glue trap. Beaten
with the ugly stick. What a pity,
dude. Cymbal crash. Shed full
of sawdust. Stay completely
fucking invisible. Our tacky spirits
slip. Sunset hour at Hidden
Cove. Black licorice. Crate key. Grabbed
by robotic arms. Bound and tied in
the trunk of the car. Cattle prod
fantasy.
Blinking up pink runny eyes.
Chili cook-off. Public anxiety
convulsions. A non-specific sense
of loss. The jury waits outside. Plastic
firefighter toy. Tropical beach vibes.
“I wish
I could just breathe underwater forever.”
Cascade of cardboard. Formally requested,
a scar just above the eye. Everything
is constantly in motion
but the terrain is so monotonous.
— David C. Porter is a writer and photographer from the American northeast. He edits Keep Planning, and writes Garden Scenery. His work has also appeared in various other places. His first novel, NTTN, is available now from Organ Bank Industries. He can be reached on Twitter @toomuchistrue or via his website.