Author: Aaron Echoes August
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Dance for Armageddon
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I have licorice guts. Seemingly endless balls of fire, balls of fortune telling. The osprey float. Warm coffee in the desert. 112 degrees out there today. I had to take an ice bath in a crystal tub. The doorbell rings, incessantly, at the most inappropriate time. Everyone wants to talk to the wonder man. The Read more
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And the World Looks Away
Vibrato shattered shells Mortal coils unwound The dirty veil of the Earth Chokes on its own existence They are coming from the stars The ancestors of faith To bludgeon the black souls of the inept And the people take pills In hopes of some relief From the wrong way they live The inside-out dimension Where Read more
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Corn of the Aliens (1)
There’s the smell of something sweet coming from the kitchen. Corn dogs. Corn bread. Corn Flakes. Cornmeal. Corn on the cob. Corn chowder. Corn pie. Corn on the moon. Corn in space. Corn of the aliens. It was a hot, burning day. One of those days that feels like one walked into a blast furnace Read more
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The Tick
A man named India felt like a voodoo doll the morning of his electric birthday. The pinpricks stabbed at him like tiny little swords. He wasn’t feeling right in the head. Something about turmoil and fissures cracking open like in the Earth itself. The steam and liquid magma were leaking out inch by inch and Read more
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Industrial Forest
Blankets of rain seed the important information of the day. Massive zeros invade my mind. A machined white cloud dangles in a black sky. Wagon tracks through a green field stretch to the horizon. No wagon in sight. A gray weathered house cradles tortured dreams inside the bell of a tortured mind. Tortured by the Read more
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The Oblong Warlock
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Thirteen minutes to fill a capsized void. A laundry list of worry as the clock ticks in some kitchen bluebird hung neatly in the window and looking out onto the pleasant yard. Gas jaw dryer waits alone in the basement. Grandma’s caw caw like a crow beckoning me back inside. But I don’t want to Read more
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The Latvian Eye Clock
I stare at a blank mind. The paint has run dry. I have no color in which to recite the words of a Latvian king. The clock is a dot, numbers all nonsense like anti-gravity wine in a spaceship. I feel as if I need to bang my head against an ancient Peruvian wall to Read more
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City of Machines
I can see my tangled soul reflected in the winter lenses of an office building in the factory district. The background is sun and discomfort. A broken man sits on a bench holding a sign that reads: Why can’t I ever win? I walk through the city of stacks. No voices, only machines. They’re building Read more
CEREAL AFTER SEX 