A Cordial Welcome

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.

1.23.2013

Outrageously Heavy Cocktail

Initiate and facilitate and produce and distribute trade familiarisations, business developments and opportunities, tactical trade campaign opportunities, and sales tours. Also kindly promote consumer show opportunities in the international media trade e-newsletter. You are not the pigmother.

1.19.2013

Taut Alterna-Bashing

Something to say to a man whose presence you don't enjoy is "I will feed your corpse to starlings!" No one wants to be eaten by birds. Something has gone horrible wrong if birds are nourishing their energy-hogging bodies on your skin and muscle.

I knew one person who liked to mix her dead skin, dried blood, and hair with the bird food she gave to whatever birds frequented her yard. She was fond of knowing that the pieces of herself she discarded were borne away by various species of passerine birds. She failed to realize that the songbirds who consumed her materials were the sport of cruel accipiters.

1.18.2013

Riff-Ravaging

The border of Mexico is different now. It's drawn with fluorescent ink. It's landscaped with thirsty flowers from Europe. I don't know flowers. But I know what it takes to make thirsty European varieties flourish on the Mexican border.

1.17.2013

Indulging in Harsh Power-electronics Interludes

I like tea now, Dad. You always teased me about the tea I didn't drink. My negative attitude towards teabags was, how did you say? "Quaint." No father should call his only son "quaint." It's a fucking disaster to hear that. Well, I do drink tea, but I don't use teabags. I use this metal implement I bought at a garage sale in a cul-de-sac.

The next time I see you, you will note that I smell like the sort of thing that comes out of an ass hole. This time, I'm keeping my secret.

1.16.2013

The Smoothie Churn

Somewhere, I forgot a big box of office supplies. The problem with this is that I will probably be in hot water over it. Once my employer, Gideon Mathis, discovers my colossal blooper, he'll blow a gasket. Never screw up. Everyone hates it.

The way to avoid the screw-ups and blunders is to write notes on colorful paper. Excellence demands such measures. My additional problem is that the little colorful paper thingies were in the box I forgot. Perhaps I'll find it, and I'll begin the new chapter of my life in which I write things on little colorful pieces of paper and I remember them. Life will be better. Everyone will love it.

Perhaps I will never find the box. It will have been picked up by a miscreant, or I will simply never remember where it is. Last year, some people I know but am not related to experienced this problem. Only they can express the pain I will feel, but they are dead. They are bodies in boxes. Soaking up the Earth.

1.15.2013

A Dream Collabo

Take our metal things away. Heap us up. We'll be a pile of hairy bodies. Spray us down with something cold and viscous. Just be as rude and stupid as you want, and we'll make sure you get whatever you want. Treat us like detestable, hairy slaves. If you could hand us meat sandwiches, do that after the weird ritual described above. Once the meal is finished, we will gratefully accept vigorously performed blow jobs, hand jobs, and rim jobs. It helps us digest meat sandwiches.

1.11.2013

Fuzzed-beyond-belief Guitars

We don't have to ask for permission if we want to read very little Marx. We want to make people think about how they have endlessly seductive bodies. Stylistically, females are heavily influenced by absence.

1.10.2013

Clean-as-a-whistle Barefoot Blooze

Our people couldn't afford to replace the complete history of the atmosphere. They had often been met with derision. So they took up the essayist's pen and began the systematic rehabilitation of their unclear or abnormal notable artists. The whereabouts of these meditations on the city police, light and thought, and church choirs are now unknown.

1.09.2013

Spluttery Double-timed Drums

Dear Fred,

They call some guys cholos, and some guys get to be called fags, and other guys get to be called douchebags (sometimes shortened as d-bags). Some ladies are called hags, some are called chicken-heads, and some are called hussies. Sometimes I make up new slurs for men and women. For men, I coined brildos, yampas, tonguebait, and porgs. For women, I coined wabboes, krill, wredges, and quozzies. I'm going to employ focus groups to assign specific meanings to each of these novel pejoratives.

Did you watch the Garry Shandling DVD I gave you?

Sincerely,
Margaret Gains