By Mathilda Cullen
It was an hour chewed by the clock, days 
wedged between the brain’s teeth. It was
             this mind fastening to another in an attempt
              to overwrite its history. It was 
                            a world I’d never
              birth, please don’t 
                      mention it. It 
                      was how the midnight 
              put itself inside you and said work. It 
was a town called Hauppauge 
              and the land was all flat and
swallowed. It was
              this fact I threw at every other
                                          moment of my life. It 
              was a sapling pushing up through 
                           concrete, the waking up 
              at the bottom of a fall. It was 
how the ground inverts as you pass 
              through it. It was
sitting so long in the dark our
              landscapes rendered bare, our
              landscapes not our landscapes. It was 
                            the sky, someone’s property. It was
              another collage against wasteland, another
nail in his fucking cantos. It was a mind and the mind 
is not capital. Listen, we will 
haunt you into memory of this.

Read Issue 17