by Olchar E. Lindsann



“illfully subversive protest against the typical, class”

          – Walter Benjamin

“zine that fucks with your mind ’til you come t”

          – Reverend Suzy Crowbar



It slithered like a snake skin slips from the envelopes the cerebral cortex in a kind of tingly haze the new recruits most cruelly for that’s how order’s kept in some distant recess of nerves and microtonal foldings of time collapses into drowning signals to the avatars of power some buzz awry in the machinery’s running fairly well though there’s a slight buzz the fields with percussive thumps of strafing the ridge of your back like a swan neck in the back seat crouches the man with the hook in the first paragraph seduces the reader feels the slow pale buzz beneath the syllables were becoming slurred and the world was flickering between abjection and revolt melt into each other text in the chapbook was dedicated to a distinctive among all the phyla in the ridge of the basin was overflowing with passion and tension built up their defenses and stripped off their high horse to dally in the fields where the bees who are so rapidly dying off buzz in the ear drum beats harder and faster than flashes of thunder your name from the mountain tops spin dizzily lurching through every limb is strained through linen for the shroud in mysterious buzzing at the door by the postman hands are motionless and feel like wax seal is broken with pleasure you which ever way you’d like them that I think it’s filled with chapbooks are traded in for a newer model is equipped with free spyware installed in the deer blind to what is coming hearing only the buzz cut to the bone is broken record but it is the truth is broken down here in the forest and the snow drifts away and I gently part it with my fingers tingle and buzz in the chill and shake and the cover was printed on cardstock and blazingly blazingly buzzingly yellow.

door Olchar E. Lindsann


tekstbron: inzending ontvangen op 26/10/2021
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