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Put your Rizla papers, dope stash, tobacco and lighter in the large kimono square pocket. Sling your camera bag over your right shoulder, the raft over both shoulders. Pick up the holdall. Push your feet into a pair of hotel slippers, which sit in front of the bedroom door. Swig back the last dregs of coffee. Put on the mirror shades tucked into the blue chain covering the front door. Struggle to exit as the chain gets wrapped around your neck.
Short fiction from Andrea Mason.
In the mornings, I leave the red house to find my blue car covered in a hard sheet of glossy ice not yet ready to melt. I close my eyes and turn my face away and throw my weight behind the sharp end of the ice scraper as my red-hued lover sleeps upstairs. Something like photosynthesis, like breath or music or grace. Sure, there’s life all over. Life’s all over. Life’s over.
An essay by Emmalea Russo.
He lowers his bottom jaw until he feels tension in his eardrums. He’s a Burmese python, a rewilded descendant of an exotic pet discarded in the swamplands. Opens wide and inserts the first of his Jersey corn-cobs longways in. Clamps his teeth down when the gag reflex says present, pulls the cob back and scrapes the kernels offworld into his mouth. Golden popping rows.
A short story by Tom Laplaige.
Holy fuck! Are you still fucking here? Why haven’t you fucked off already? And fucking hell, aren’t you fucking ashamed of the way your fucking “Firm” treated that poor girl Meghan? Fuck off with asking what skin colour her child would be. What the fuck is that? What the fuck is wrong with you all? Actually, no fucking need to answer that. We fucking know. We even saw you shielding Prince fucking Andrew for fucking noncing. So we know exactly how fucking low you can go and it’s the fucking bottom of everything you abusive bunch of absolute fucks.
Sam Jordison celebrates the British Royal Family.
The poems are taken from a series, Adverts for Actual Hats, in which William Repass and Dan Ivec observed a number of Ivec’s illustrations – all featuring a hat of some sort – and dreamed together prose poems which act as deranged commercials for the hats seen in the drawings. If the reader is understandably covetous of such headgear, they may direct queries via Instagram: @escalator_harrison
In the 19th of the Duos series, new poetry by Dan Ivec and William Repass.
Paula
Rebirth
Destruction
Wisdom
In the 114th of the Poem Brut series, new poetry by Pascal O’Loughlin.
Given the unique elements to The Moon Down to Earth, I opted out of a traditional review. Instead, I gave another voice to its conversations through the format below — assembling a cut-up into Jace’s bicycle wheel/the pizzas he delivers, the spokes/slices representing the book’s eight vital characters.
Gabriel Hart reviews James Nulick‘s The Moon Down to Earth.
Like Francis Bacon’s ‘Furies’ there are moments when these tales are bent out of shape, by history, or by the sheer cumulative weight of their own melancholy. But then someone will stand a round, or Frank Begbie will fleetingly renounce violence, or Fossenkemper issue an unexpected sexual directive, and a more fluid commons will once more find its feet.
Koushik Banejea reviews The Seal Club by Alan Warner, Irvine Welsh and John King.
In September of 2003, during Scott’s first year of grad school, two years after he’d set that dumpster on fire, a young undergrad named Millie Dufresne set off a series of pipe bombs on campus, shutting down the school for eight days. Scott had seen Millie almost every morning, as she worked at the coffee shop right off campus. She was a friendly girl who’d always smiled when she asked how his day was going, which had always seemed like a stupid question, as it was 7:30am and the day hadn’t even been given a chance to fully develop. But she’d always smiled and said Awesome! every time he told her his day was going okay.
Read an extract from Jeff Chon‘s forthcoming novel, Hashtag Good Guy with a Gun.
We can then see MF DOOM not only as a fiction, but the universe of that fiction, and how the tenets of that fiction reflect/refract the problematic fascinations of our reality. DOOM is then, within that definition, a pastiche, a costume, an ethos, a topos, and in that, a literature.
An essay by Eric Tyler Benick on MF DOOM.