Burmese Python Girl

California

Edward McCartan.

buzzing and whirring: servos swerve and shift my hips sorta to one side —hey baby,, do you come often?

Crows

by Mary Oliver

It is January, and there are crows like black flowers on the snow. While I watch, they rise and float toward the frozen pond, they have seen some streak of death on the dark ice. They gather around it and consume everything, the strings and the red music of that nameless body. Then they shout, one hungry, blunt voice echoing another. It begins to rain. Later, it becomes February, and even later, spring returns, a chorus of thousands. They bow, and begin their important music. I recognize the oriole. I recognize the thrush, and the mockingbird. I recognize the business of summer, which is to forge ahead, delicately. So I dip my fingers among the green stems, delicately. I lounge at the edge of the leafing pond, delicately. I scarcely remember the crust of the snow. I scarcely remember the icy dawns and the sun like a lamp without a fuse. I don’t remember the fury of loneliness. I never felt the wind’s drift. I never heard of the struggle between anything and nothing. I never saw the flapping, blood-gulping crows.

omw

Karim Abu Shakra (Palestinian, b. 1982)

Za’matout, 2020

Oil on paper

my favourite King Crimson album

Customer: HUSBANDS  BAPTIZED NAME AND BELONG TO JESUS DMV: DD-SEXUAL Verdict: DENIED

i would suck and fuck (ess and eff) your corporeal form. i would enjoy flesh, for sure