"Não Gost" by Tomas Boudreau
1. Amen to dead kin. A tiny star wages war with all the others. Goddess Durga plants her ass on a hotel sofa. She multitasks a cigarette and vodka-vodka. Daydream murder eats up the daylight hours. She sits sexy, sits thin to compensate while he makes graceful moves toward locking the door. He says something stupid like "love without reason is psychopathic" or "Apollo by day, Dionysus by night" or maybe he just says something novel with the intention of summing it up, of earning her body. Topics outside this moment, beyond this page. Subjects of feeling, of knowing, not of breathing or or touching, but of sensing and anticipating claim textual holocaust on the plot, shaping like weeds to choke the story. White sage, crushed indigo have burnt up and filled the room with smoke. Fiery towers will commiserate with the heavens. Godhelpusnow. Cut to a man dragging a scalpel over his loyal cadaver. Scene fades to black.
From "Quotidian Deformity" by Mike Thorn
"I was inside metropolitan intestines, sloshing through the entrails of a world that spat me out. The presence exposed itself as everything. Corporate rapists with thin hair and sloppy smiles peered out from corners, their eyes bleeding black sludge. Housewives maimed their screaming infants with curling irons and santoku knives. Academic tyrants hurled tomes soaked in gasoline, glasses spattered with slime and defecation. I manoeuvred through this nightmare for three years, wanting nothing but a clean break. Although I made it out, there was no real escape."
The Typist waited for the story to continue, but the Medium offered no resolution. "What do you mean?" the Typist pleaded.
"The ghosts still talk to me. They never stop talking."
