Worst Things First, by Mark Bibbins A bag of thank-you notes fell on me and that was enough art for one day. Culturally speaking, it was more like a year in the floral trenches, kicked off with a single boneless kiss. Poor sad demon in his poor dead tree— or is it he who pities me, cockshy quasihero with a latex lasso, taking forever to measure the dimensions of his confinement. Some other demons have smeared a flock of sparrows on a blanket, the full filthy price of a sky under which they smoked their names. My prize is a set of teeth, striptease at the nude beach, audio files of decomposing stars telling me, if they’re telling me anything, that theory’s just another word for nothing left to like. Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike this:Like Loading...
And You Thought You Were the Only One, by Mark Bibbins Someone waits at my door. Because he is dead he has time but I have my secrets– this is what separates us from the dead. See, I could order take-out or climb down the fire escape, so it’s not as though he is keeping me from anything I need. While this may sound like something I made up, it is not; I have forgotten how to lie, despite all my capable teachers. Lies are, in this way, I think, like music and all is the same without them as with. The fluid sky retains regret, then bursts. He is still there, standing in the hall, insisting he is someone I once knew and wanted, come laden with gifts he cannot return. If I open the door he’ll flash and fade like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds one summer night at the edge of the world. Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike this:Like Loading...