Into the revellion the ever astute demise of calamity the catastrophic meandering two-step I’ve-got-to-make-it-mean-more-than-this that your parents wouldn’t have wanted for your (but these are just borrowed words)
And these, in our coat pocket withdrawn at the cusp of an edge so lightly intercizing the skin rending in half
the forearm and the mains
I never know whether to mutiplex it or not but have at it in one go and remember your times
I will remember your times
There is no nasal spray but that we often get caught up in memories that are grotesque and try to clear them
So to make sense of it
But in speaking: There isn’t any
What were you looking for?
The arctan of a turned reversed dot-matrix
Pointwise colored black and white
I had no opportunity
They do the math
They do it
So tell me
Like, Do you
Do it like this?:
In out of the tree divine-side
Wanton slide off dumber said than done and I
Once led a coalition to the new rhyme why they
Went there in time to stay like there were no heathens
Selves and selves and cells of selves and
Others hitting hidden clubmen clubbing
Like love like lubbing and struggling to make do
In the streets with gash and bruise the politie
Of the times said No, of course, we did anywho
Where there were two and started the love royale
To stale-mate the lungs’ architect in other direction
Of the train that was bombed
And no one called it off so here we are
And I look down and see how far it is until my body hits
The floor, the ground, the concrete
Turn to stone
No other worry
When we’re all extinct
But does time sink?
And so time passes
But does it sink?…
I and want to like like
I want to like
I want to and like the people I am with
I want to want what I have
I want to like my best friend
Instead of looking for new people
Or pining after social media stars
Even the dim ones
I want to know my family better
Instead of making a new one
I want to love
Instead of craving
Should I not want white teeth?
I think, as I look at my yellows in the mirror
Should I not cut my nails short and prim when they are long?
Should I not want my mother’s dead brother
Back from the dead?
She loved him
I should too
We call him that
Not my uncle
Because that’s what she calls him
Should I not crave power?
Over others, the right to dominate and consume
Should I not support the autocrats, in jealousy and nothing but?
Should I wish for eternal life?
The truth is I don’t care much for any of these things
And I’m still unhappy
So if people say living ascetically grants happiness
Well, it can still be complicated, I’m sorry to break it to you
But do try anyway
It works for some time
And until it doesn’t
Maybe you, too, will preach of simplicity
In all good intent
Or is it that I still have my faults? Even with so much clean
And that there is a long way to go?
A drug addiction, front and foremost
The ultimate craving for cravings
I’ll settle for less
And less and less
Until I have none
And then I will have all
This won’t come off too kindly but, to fuck you, to fuck your race out of you, to make you go faster than your ejaculation to make you cum like a nigger on the street with blood splattering spewing in an instant out of his brains onto the concrete pavement like a work of art
To tell you I love you like his red hair now that it is stained with the matter of his prior thoughts to know that I loved you like I still do that this announcement
On the loud speaker in the bedroom of the police officer’s chambers came down on me like a hammer
And in his hammer I was still in pain though still knowing, still going, still growing…
His liminal-subliminal-superliminal sublimation of ideas in the lumen of his mind sent
cravings cross his dandelion heart
no abstract ideation in the lettering of his diary came through
but in the end his girl knew that they two had the left-handed gestures of pattycake pattycake
tossing the baby in the bathtub
drowning the noise in the light
and cleansing the distrust with candlelit vigils
it’s hard to say why they moved on but there were reasons
And the others knew them too well to say much more
much less than one another, the candles slowly waned
the space for their thoughts collapsed
and the lettering caught fire
it was an askance betrayal of love
they made clear of that
but in the morning when I see their faces on my mirror
I know that they love their family very much
and that is that
We’re still accepting submissions for issue #2 of alternate route! [ALTERNATE ROUTE] are creating a zine of poetry, prose, and art | Patreon, @alternateroute. The magazine is free for anyone to view, but donations on patreon are accepted. We have two patrons so far! =). Our first issue came out in january and we release quarterly, which means the next is end of april. We’ll be paying our contributors once we amass enough funding (that is to say, more than little-to-none thus far lol).
Feel free to check out issue #1 for free on the Patreon page linked above. More information about how to get in touch is on our Twitter Profile, including email to send submissions to.
We accept poetry, prose, art, photography–more or less anything aesthetically palatable. When in doubt, just check with us.
The pain of a dyspeptic diabetic interlude swing-song sway-on down the cruise to the river colluding with my mother’s–WENCH she was–last living brother
No jovial touch-down on this beach or that planet
Just juggling apples and twiddling thumbs as cataracts build in my middle school mathematics teacher’s eyes
She had surgery and told us
No, she didn’t lose her eyeballs out of ‘r eye sockets
Like a zombie
But I did attend Math Club
And it was just riddles
He, the brother, told me not to go too hard on my own
For they are your last
Psycho freak he is, I had to trust him
For once he was soft-spoken
My insulin comes in packs
They don’t mail it one at a time
You stumble on the stairs to your brothel in the sky. The cairn at the bottom rests as memorial to your emotions of yesteryear. The seasons change, wind makes due with itself, girls play in the corridors of the city streets. Not grimy, but definitely nothing rustic, either. There are ways to go about being yourself that, you say to others, a normal person could not feel without insect feelers. There are eyes on the underwater shrimp which emits supersonic pulses to kill crabs and open clams that sense 18 different photonic ranges. Science only knows.
But that’s the half of it. There are things in this universe which painters would love to get to know, darling, but darling, no painter will paint. The hue of the sky when you weep limits my personal damage to a min. and there are sweets on the table. I kiss you. Your eyes dry. There there, there there.
Simple patterns enter my mind and I whisper in your ear that the elephants can hear us from Africa. The glue drying on the chair to fix its cracks of age are disparaging to the elderly but beautiful in the mend’ment they bestow. Lye and rum all around the bar. Lye and rum.
Not sweater season yet, we must wait nine months to inoculate the generational gap between you and I. And were we older it would not matter the least. So take the stopwatch hanging on the wall and stymy gender, wage, and schooling disparities on the nickel, on the dime. Stopping a quarter past the wheel mistakes no sense to the courier. Stopping so fast does not do.
Lift your folder and smack me across the face with it. I listen to tunes of jazz and blues to lift the blow. Powerful candles hiss in the corner of the room but no one sees them, for they are hidden in jars of rainbow steel.
I left the era knowing some things change into things that victims of hate remember because some remember to hate. It is nothing new. It is nothing revolutionary.