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.
5.14.2013
Crease the Morning
I delight in reconfiguring this cosmopolitan group for sexual escapades, as they break off into couples, triads, and occasionally larger groups to explore the breadth of their collective sexuality. Light-headed with the product of profusely lauded local wineries, my former teachers become students: students of each others' tenderest physical needs. Among my favorite conjurings is a multi-function dildo called The Laughing Giraffe, which serves as a sort of relay stick in one of my scenarios.
I should mention that my teachers have all booked rooms in the largest bed and breakfast in the region, which - in addition to its considerable historic charm - creates an ideal setting for the kinds of erotic adventures I have described above.
5.13.2013
Black Snap
You'll give me a cigarette. I'll tell you that the lies slip from my lips as easy as breath. That reveals as much about me as you need to know, I imagine.
You'll leave that stupid hat in my room, not realizing it's the last time you'll see it. Eventually, my memory of you will be the hat you left, the weight of your tongue, and the intricacy of your eyebrows.
5.09.2013
Drawings of Leaves and Hands
or a fish lover
or the kind to look at a mushroom
and feel any kind of
kinship
I never knew the scent
of a gerbil's
breath
or of dry blood
or of a blanket reeking
of skin oil
and rain
I kept love
I kept it like time
I slept in it
and never
dreamed
5.07.2013
Skull Missing
Women with promises and gallery tickets walk through the pediatric damage zones. I fixate on one daughter of a moist realm and imagine her with the hair of a seemingly charming Muslim. I fill her heart with cold animal blood and steal her genius ideas about soil potential. The women keep coming and I lose track of this one I chose. They keep coming, stuffing the throat of our city.
5.02.2013
Shame Cell
You remember the game we played. The yellow yard, the outboard motor, the piles of rebar. You remember the damp masks we wore when we crossed the clothes on the line. The crying doves, the kidney-shaped watering can, the place where we buried the rabbit when its fear settled into its flesh and brought it into the cold. You remember the taste of the pennies we found in a jar under his tools and his ashtrays.
3.01.2013
Searing Splatter-Rock Tantrums
2.28.2013
Drum Machines at Their Fartiest
We can exchange photos.
2.27.2013
Double-Album Whippet Fantasia
I call blood muscle juice. You act on malicious impulses. My weakness in my hands is fully crippling.
You win all fights. You work in the world with ferocity that blinds me. There is a heat in me that never subsides.
2.26.2013
Goofy Faux-Symphonics
2.22.2013
Barfy Growls
I found very little record of partners in industry who can help make these voice commands swirl in wild ecstasy.
1.23.2013
Outrageously Heavy Cocktail
1.19.2013
Taut Alterna-Bashing
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
1.17.2013
Indulging in Harsh Power-electronics Interludes
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
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
1.11.2013
Fuzzed-beyond-belief Guitars
1.10.2013
Clean-as-a-whistle Barefoot Blooze
1.09.2013
Spluttery Double-timed Drums
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