REVERSE-PLAY [excerpt] – Logan Berry


I have no patience. The plans will occur in accordance with their own propensities, in stochastic biological currents, unencumbered by the funders and clickbait artists who will attempt to narrativize them by way of reductions appropriate to their respective vocations and political affiliations. The plans exceed economies of prestige, frugality, and capital accumulation. The plans will make absolute waste of us. Will render us freer than dung.

We will not keep budgetary paper trails, nor will we etch budgets into negentropic spreadsheet colonnades flickering ocular migraine fuel. This is neither oracular nor conjectural. This is reportage. The plans will throttle all precautionary impulses and hijack our faculties of discernment, wit, and politesse. The plans will overtake us. 

The books will not be balanced. This book will not be balanced. 

This play will be reverse-engineered. 


I say ‘plan’ for lack of a better word. ‘Bloodsucking’ or ‘spectral’ do not cut it because the plans do not feast on us, nor do they need us. We are incidental. A lucky get. 

‘Plans’ have something to do with inhuman planetary drives. Something to do with denuded nature. With violence.

We’ve returned to the forest.



Frigidity undercuts full inhalations of the early autumnal aroma, the leaves’ decay petrified in seasonally premature rime, as the seas of time ossify in protracted omni- rigor mortis,

our nostrils seared with ice. 


multiple stages:

grief stage
stone stage 
plant stage
stages of obsidian and marble
angel stage
larval stage 
pearl stage 
heaven stage 

glitter-dusted dung. 


The model wears zebra-patterned neon boots & a simple black slip to the fascist fashion show. She is sick and has the shakes. The caked-on greasepaint cannot hide her jaundiced face, but her contouring is positively skeletal. She smells like a dairy farm. She faints downstage center. She becomes a meme for the new regime. A signifier of lost hope and a sign o’ the times around the world in eighty Mbps.


The model is a monkey in a shirtdress and Noh-style theater mask with long, synthetic tresses. She serves the tourists flaming cheese and spends her breaks gazing out the window at the morning fog and midnight mists. She sometimes sees shooting stars. She fidgets as we’re all wont to do on shift, always on somebody else’s clock. Though she ignores the gawking tourists and gunmetal surveillance birds, she’s gone completely viral through the demonically connected apertures. 


DJ pulses green

DJ pulses green   heavy ____x x X  X X

DJ pulses green  heavy _x_X x X X X X X

DJ pulses green   heavy    underwater    saline swirl  thru my organs, 


rollercoaster ride thru my insides, thru my selves  


DJ pulses angelic heavengreen like drowning in the sea like drowning in a hot rank fish tank with eructateous growl bass & droning drowning, as in letting or surrendering — as in: dying, w/o resistance– accreting contrasts of stimuli intensifying ecstasy :: discrete blasts of icy undercurrent ::

body salt flavor and candy fluid from fleshy Gushers 
laced with Vicodin powder 

pulsate, provide ekstasis with stark relief in the flavor tension


disrupption of opssiotes 

hot rank fish tank opaqued by urine-green clouds of algal diffusion  

hot rank fish tank opaqued by red-brown clouds of bacterial diffusion
this carefully curated aquarium/Hawaiian reef simulacrum/prison of gorgeous flora & fauna :: teardrop butterflies, moorish idols, pinktail triggers, potter’s angels, achilles tangs, white-spotted tobies, yellow-edged morays, pebble collectors, pencils, lollies, starbursts, and giant carpets:: killed by the captor’s indolence.  

this into this 

this is where we dance 


“Please, continue eating our ordure hors-d’oeuvres.”