Cosmik Wolfpack is a playground and laboratory for flash-formed poetry and nanofiction written by The Debtor, a white cisgender male and citizen of the United States.
If you have something to say to the author, send it to cosmikwolfpack at gmail dot com.
I cough cheap linoleum perversions into this retail crypt. The webs dissolve, speedily!
Flat phallus clocks sponge up the conversations of the clerics below. They're laminated by their own aerosolized saliva. I don't know how that happens.
The clerics collect their wages from the radio administration, enough for a humble meal of celery lint and cabbage rolls. My curse, apparently botched, is forgotten.
Pimples of light in the black face of the sky and the moon like a kaleidoscope's tongue: gently throbbing with stored secrets. The whistles from the surrounding vegetation seem to give names to the sky's scars.
In the bag at your feet, some hot screaming candies shaped like fisted cones begin their inevitable sublimation; the vapors escape their containment and enact their brutal fantasies upon your flesh.
You strip the tacky film from your face repeatedly, to no avail. I'm deeply apologetic. I should have warned you about the candy.
Offered fragrant cabinets, the town's eldest Realtor swaps clamshell rubber for stubble stones. In her coastal chic jumper, she sweeps her fingers over a porcelain dog belly. Punk. Private dialects of desperation.
Every afternoon, she jettisons a measure of her ornate martyrdom. Rigid miniature planks of cellulose inserted under the neck skin prevent the dissolution of innate hubris.
Discounts on epithelial brown cakes at the drover's antique market draw a good big crowd from the hinterlands: stout folk with a keen focus and oaty grimaces always.
Stewing branched flotsam in inauthentic canopic vessels, two sisterly ladies in mutton scented bonnets give flirts to guys with big rifles and tattooed guts!
Plumbing as an action, a collaboration, isn't really a thing you ever considered. But what is more satisfying than the efficient movement of potable water, and what shared calculation could be more mutually fulfilling?
There is a pigment derived from the rust of certain cylindrical conveyances—proprietary, naturally—which many of my elders have learned to use as a horrid cosmetic treatment. Faces become amulets. The witless music they once heard so clearly now becomes an attractive craquelure upon each exhausted visage.
In each, a hollowed protrusion becomes the sole admittance of nourishment and hydration. It may be a nutritive slurry or sweetened fluid; each travels adequately to the oily lips and leathery tongue beyond.
In the zebra stink town the cold language of capital eases from its dormancy, a rehydrating leather tongue. It could be mine, a private terrace with false mirror.
The diptera, confused and hungry, evert genitalia in a choreographed perversion. There is a remembered colonialism in the involuntary trajectories.
A false mirror in the light of dawn tips amber. Its value has admittedly been diminished by the repeated pummeling of decades of everted dipteran genitals.
Your sweet sizzle, invisible, easy to ignore, masking the oil horizon. It isn't enough to whisper in the dead yard now. That grief is dry like bundled herbs, neglected.
Volatile compounds in their slitherings punish and comfort in equal measure. I am comforted by punishment and punished by comfort. A twist of a molecular riddle and a satisfying resolution becomes a burnimg accusation.
My imperceptible groaning draws my muscles into new configurations, an early harbinger of the public torments to come. Behind me I feel the tickling voyeurism of the gallery.