Who put this crown upon our heads?

Us.

in failing to receive the recognition, the french-kissing of models and the chortles of bearded pipe-smoking ship captains we believe we rightly deserve, we’ve turned our hunt for verification to elsewhere, from the virtual world of poorly-paid casting couch porn stars and neckbearded glass-pipe smoking insomniacs. Note that we said verification. Our crowns are self made, we wear them so that our heads may sag and our necks break, we wear them to remind ourselves that being part of a generation of wanna-be’s and posers is nothing to be proud of, indeed is something to attempt to escape from as fast as possible. We wear them so that our bodies break long before our flimsy ego’s built upon years of being told “you can be whatever you want” do.

Every artistic compilation project must have some goal, some nirvana to reach towards. Ours is simple, submit, for your approval or loathing, our creations, so that you may judge/enjoy. Anyone can wear the crown of a Peachy King, anyone can submit to our oligarchic asses their magnum opus or works of lesser opus, All we ask is that you read, you write, you play, you create and you be some version of our cult’s ideal member.

Namaste.

The Final Countdown (Short Story)

The emergency broadcast ran on this sort of constant loop, filling all corners of the room with the radio quality voice of Mr. Shuja Willow. I had tried to shut it off, but none of the buttons, remote or console, had worked. I basically had the whole dialog memorized by this point and had started adding appropriate chuckles and snorts when Shuja said something particularly cliché or blatantly false.

 

Attention all citizens of this great republic, I come to you today in what appears to be our final hour. After extensive analysis of reports from both the Apple Luna and Bezos Martian colonies, we here at MSNBC/Fox can confirm the presence of a large celestial body approaching on a collision course with both the Moon and Earth. The estimated time of arrival for this object is within [Two Hours, Thirty-four minutes, fifteen seconds] and current trajectory shows it colliding with the Western third of this great nation and vast parts of the Pacific ocean, potentially also hitting Eastern sections of the United Chinese Nations. The outcome of this event is… incomprehensible… yet hope cannot be lost. Congress and Commander Kennedy have begun scouring the dusty tomes of the obsolete NASA program for all records of deep space objects of this size and their last known position as well as opening up communications with all other major powers on the planet. Google and Musk Robotiks have dedicated all their AI bases towards calculating the impact and potential survival rate of such an impact. All areas not highlighted on our MacDonald’s Meteorology Maptm should be aware that while they won’t face this challenge to humanity directly, smaller meteors WILL break off from the main leviathan and ecological extremities will scour the land. Citizens are advised to do everything in their power to get emergency supplies, and, if you would, brace for impact. The only remaining option we have as a species is a swift response from the world, our leaders, and most importantly, our technology that has so long saved us from the attempts of Mother Nature to eradicate us. All YOU, the beloved citizen, can do is hope with all your might for your loved ones. Technicians save us all…

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Entry #19

Author’s Note: Blame Persona 5 for the delay in my publishing this. (God, but that is a very long and very awesome game.) Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Austin and me! 🙂 ❤

The slamming of the door served as an exclamation point on Big Mac’s dramatic exit from Reggie’s garage. Jackson’s whole body shook as he absentmindedly rubbed his hands together. He turned to face Ann Marie and found that although there was evidence that tears had been running down her cheeks moments ago, it appeared that they had now ceased. In fact, Jackson was surprised to find Ann Marie more or less collected. No running to the door in regret, no uncontrollable shaking; Jackson would have thought her to be in shock if she didn’t turn away from his gaze to begin removing the gym bag from Todd’s head.

When it was off, Ann Marie put her hands on Todd’s shoulders and bent slightly to make eye contact with him. “Are you all right?” she said. Continue reading

The Evernote Archives Pt. 2

Here, have some more of my unfiltered giblets. See the first post of this nature here. 


Even nothingness needs something to experience it.


I’m pretty depressed so my poetry should be better, and I only know it’s winter cause of the beer bottles littered around my room and all this rain that makes me swell with joy, and the USPS is lying to me about delivering my package so I’m sure glad I pay my taxes, futility is being sent pictures of myself they year my roommate and I starved ourselves to afford weed and wondering if I could get back to that, I want to get back to that, and simultaneously I don’t care, I can’t care look at all this fucking hair, look at the constant bags under my eyes, so why do the online tests only ever grant me mild depression, I self harm just not with blades, it’s a long con, that’s how I’ll kill this sack that carries me, see im gonna milk my sorrow as long as I can, get me back in college man, do the work do do do the work yet I’m so lethargic and so middle, so bland, I want to simmer this fat and let it sauté onions to perfect brown, I want to dance on a grave to see if I feel bad, I want a fucking meaningful text back, I want less of these fucking breakup songs on my shuffle, I want to wake up three years from now and I don’t want tomorrow, I should meditate again, I should masterbate again, I should talk to more people who hate me, I should figure out if I actually love anyone, ever loved anyone, how can you know if you actually felt love(?), how can we drop the cliches, how can I further wrestle my hypocrisy and air my dirty laundry, how does this help, how can I help, everything I do is for change and all that does is isolate me, as I transition to smoke, transition to shadow and dirt and no new form relieves the hurt, and I’m making myself cry from the honesty, Jesus how long since you’ve been honest with me, everything I do to numb the pain is just vacuous now, recyclable me with recyclable vices and all the false nices, and I’m pretty depressed so why the fuck isn’t my Poetry better…


Everyone always covers their cameras on their devices, I don’t know why. Comfort in the notion that some cares enough to watch à la Truman Show, comfort in letting someone else document this moment and preserve it forever, me with a hat and hoodie indoors, drinking whiskey and reading The Waste Land outloud again while Sylvan Esso and The Velvet Underground and all that shit I collect to remind my emotions they aren’t unique crowds the airwaves, the disappointment in my eyes as I read my old annotations and realize I’m not that smart anymore, comfort in the fact that no matter how small we all are, they still have deemed us worthy of study and shots, comfort in the fact that eventually there will be a documentary about me.

Wolf Eats Midnight

Wolf Eats Midnight

 

Ever sink your teeth

Into the Moon’s candy coat

 

Ever exhale frosted breath

The color of cosmic expansion

 

Ever sprinkle sugar

Over your bowl of asteroids

 

Ever clean your plate

Of all traces of northern lights

 

Ever sip a cupful

Of black hole tea

 

Never ever eat

With a wolf like me

Prowling the Isles of the Muse Store

Prowling the Isles of the Muse Store

 

I’ve seen the looks I get

When I prowl the isles of the muse store.

Sloth eyes slithering stoned

Over packaged people

And dragging my lead indecision.

 

All the self-advertisement

Trying too hard to be a freak,

Individuality stamped right next

To the certified organic stickers.

 

Amble through the rows of

Manic pixies and strangers,

Running my hands across all the molds

Waiting for some sign of life.

I know artificial sparks by now.

 

The newer models, with their drawstring

Dialog and whimsical factory settings

Say it all right, and that perfection

Is the problem.

 

Of course, the clearance rack

And hand-me-downs should

Be where I find what I’m looking for,

And I’m fond of tracing the lines of scars,

Yet the familiarity scares me.

 

So instead I wander and touch

The cold plastic, double-checking

Price tags with the online retail prices,

Another shambling mound

 

I scuffle and shift, careful not to

Bump elbows with the others,

The Ginsberg’s and Whitman’s

And all them bearded poets

I see at our weekly meetings.

 

I’ve seen the looks I get

When I prowl the isles of the muse store,

Illuminated under that neon sign,

“Poets Must Pay In Cash.”

Entry 18

Hey reader. Few quick notes for you. One, this entry is longer than most, I hope it can hold your attention. Two, this story is a little over a year old now, so get your cake and candles out and send me presents. Three, Reese and myself love you all very much. 

enjoy.


 

 

Stop.

 


As he adjusted his buttocks, moving his phone from his back pocket to the front, the leather chair Ethan sat in squeaked. There were a lot of squeaking chairs in the expansive room, as the Largo family all waited rather patiently for the lawyer to return from fetching coffee. Although charges still had yet to be brought against the high school senior, Ethan’s parents thought it would be best to get out ahead of any potential allegations. That parental drive had brought them into the city, and the downtown office of Chas German, famous for his role in the city universities college football team 1983-1987 seasons, and infamous for his work following.

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