Art

I Do Not Consort With Facts – Eris Mohr

well really there is absolutely nothing going on except i am dying i am dead
it’s hard to say it’s even easier to mean than it is to say although i have no strength for either anymore i was as clear
as i could possibly be which is i was prone to tremendous focus but now this has all but destroyed me

.

dear aliens,

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Art

Sink – Eris Mohr

What will be better than this bliss?
The instant aaahh of dissolved tension,

muscle giving into hot water. But, this will be a dry bath,
bitter-tongued. Smoke and skin will lay heavy on the rug,

our listless bodies sprawled out like starfish. We are
apathy without the misery, we are ability without obligation.

The room will be painted peach champagne and candle-lit.

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Art

Brain Penis – Eris Mohr

who is this how do i say who is this midthought snare simple worthless guise specious guise
sugarcoated the insoluble emblem of the gordian knot this was my doing a footnote in simian
aesthetics a long since forgetting

we stood casting our eyes about for better places to affect an illegal transmission in a public
place, the advance decimation of the thousand yet unborn yet this was not a backalley abortion
no but some amorous foreplay,

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Stories

Fuck Formica – Eris Mohr

It’s in these spit-soaked upper limbs that I find the greatest form of contortion. The pull of bone and sinew, sex-rocked and worn-out. The strain of brutalized muscle. Muscle that could only wish it had worked as hard as my feet. Those feet that pitter-pattered, a prostitution cacophony. As if in warning. To tell of my coming. The money was easy. The drugs were easier. A shot, sniff, swallow… a three-way assault into modern heaven.

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