A MORNING DISTANCE rags a fissure, umbilical tugging starts a harp glissando, trilling shadow grenades the pellicle sky. moulting bulbs glance epithelial evening. I said, I run away. I said, I don’t want to hoard the breath. I answered in tight, stingy hollows until I thwanged the silence with horrible neon noise.
QUESTION: what’s the tide of a pair of abandoned corpuscles turning around in a bible of lonely things? answer: all I want is myself filled with silent chimes and covered lanterns. the same toxic spots planet across my tissues. I am sick. my husk is a touched nest.
MORE WORK BY JAC JEMC (including fiction)
The Rejection Collection
5trope
PANK
La Petite Zine
Spork
La Fovea
Dark Sky
No Posit
Front Porch
Truck :: n. a self-propelled vehicle for carrying goods
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