Oh, crazy speech, liberated from the cause itself! Oh, human clamshell still slippery with the grease of sex! Oh, heaven-bound ephemera above our houses like space junk built from a much needed summer rain! Oh, telltale stain on the soul! Oh, ghost of Otis Redding! Oh, cheese course!
We, and by “we” I mean Ghostfuckers, are a paranormal organization started by me, a part-time gym teacher and my cousin Jerry, a full-time manager at Bob’s Big Boy, who came together for one mission and one mission only: to fuck ghosts. Why ghosts, you ask? There is nothing wrong
and I do creep into your weird grossness. Although I reel at the absurd, the anthropomorphic: when you unify jagged things, I spasm. It’s not that I fear the tentacles: nor that snakes, slinking, or the buttery gut punch of a jellyfish hold jurisdiction. I don’t mean claws—gruesome, stark— can
in your shadow gallery where the forms escape their frames, formulas flow, feed, and breed and play their wicked games. in your cellular library where the numbers on the spines indicate taste, shape, and fate your index will be mine. i’m born again every now and then where my invisible
When the stars began to wink into existence across an inky night, the earth stirred beneath a Glastonbury field and the first few inches of a finger birthed through. One finger was followed by others, pale towers rising from the underground, until a whole hand emerged straining for purchase in
Seasons are changing Temperatures dropping The last stick of incense burns on my altar Smoke fills the room slowly Like a spell But this story isn’t about magic But bodies My body A cave to my hibernation Insecurity floating toward balance My hair growing out I am growing out Of
By day I spend my time like any regular human would. I have a dead-end job (that makes me feel so normal), a small apartment and I might be able to adopt a cat if I can manage not to…anyway, by night I sing at a local bar. It’s such
A new job, a new journal. If found please bring this journal to the police, for it means I have been killed by less than normal means. Through my sources, I heard there were some missing people in a small town. People no one would care about in a dead-end
We left town just before the riots. The TV eyes, big and red but discreetly placed, caught it all: Tear gas and faulty fasteners. In that little village of longer shadows and taller trees, we hid. We disguised ourselves as Madame Hydra and Ego the
Piers Rippey is all about dogs these days. He draws dogs, thinks about dogs, walks dogs. He is a bookseller at Powell’s City of Books where he helps run the Purple, Red and Pearl rooms.