Falling Out of the Sky
by Stephanie
There they were when we peered into the microscope at Future Laboratories:
Twelve thousand eighty-four of them.
Wriggling pupae, grey in their fragility,
frightened in a beige ocean.
That’s what I remembered strangely when your wrist hung out of the helicopter—
You dangled and sputtered,
I was a cardboard box
for the first time.
Misplaced Glasses
by Matthew
Sputter like a goat fuck gone sour…
Did you say pupae?
I can read lips.
If the wrist doesn’t give out first,
YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG!!
I don’t believe in numbers over 12,084.
They are just another gray day.
The Big Mistake
by Evelyn
I am not relaxing, not at all, not since the big mistake of 1284. I have been writing since then and my wrist is a knot and my crotch meats are grey and I have been a professor of 12 languages and pupae have chewed this paper into a mince.
The years have not been delicate with me and I sputter badly trying to redact the big mistake of 1284, a very big mean pornographic biblical mistake.
I Have Forgotten B’s—That is the Mother Thought
by Carla
My, before that, I mean in the beginning
there was man and god—or god and man
Twelve-thousand eighty-four was a number incorporated, purposefully
into the background of the mother thought—or what we like to call the target.
Long lean pupae scoot and pump
their way across the parquet
I hope they ask me—to take a wrist
to float in the grey, through the veil
into the land of juiceboxes
around which pucker the lips of the young
while behind the old sputter and flick.
Don’t Remind Me
by Adam
of a broken wrist I got one time
from a cruel and egotistical bully.
The illicit sputter of recreational respiration experiments
a horrible vision of acres of pupae
twelve thousand eighty-four writhing grey insects
awakening from dormancy
to seek the maintenance of their pattern.
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