1. maybe humanity in general sucks but you have to admit, they’re pretty fucking adorable

    art is supposed to bridge the gap between language and emotion…
    – but get this! mankind has been thwarted.

    under that bridge, there is a troll.
    he frequently quotes david foster wallace and often delves into rants
    about the death of post-modernism. he watches art movies
    and likes blink-182 ironically.

    he has no friends. he is severely depressed.
    sometimes, he does drugs with other friendless, depressed creatures.
    they all feel lightheaded and gratified for a few hours.
    the troll even makes knock-knock jokes.
    everyone laughs until the drugs wear off.

    after that, they go back to being friendless and depressed.

    one day, he gets bored
    so he kills God to make a statement.
    it was a publicity stunt, the critics start saying.

    they’re wrong – he just did it because he had nothing else to do.
    but that makes him sound like a bored failure
    who uses art as a pretext to waste his life away.

    he wants to want attention
    so he says nothing and just keeps blogging about his dumb life.

    by Ashley Shah

    She lives in Southern California. Her work is forthcoming in Insert Lit Mag Here. She can also be found on Tumblr and Twitter.

  2. Earshot
    by Rebecca Meng

    Tell me, what are you supposed to do when you’re strolling on the Highline and the couple walking behind you decides to break up within a span of ten blocks?

    You’d only been vaguely listening to their chatter — the benefits of graduate school, someone’s weird party, ways to poach an egg. But then you hear the woman say I think we should end this. You pause for a moment to wonder if you heard it right, and then you realize that the man has paused too so you think This can’t be good just as he’s asking Did you really bring me up here to say that?

    An emphatic Damn nearly escapes your lips and you can feel the rhythm of their steps keeping time with your own. She coolly answers, It’s as good of a place as any. You’re dying to turn around and see who these people are but you can’t — one of them is bound to be staring at your swinging ponytail at this very moment. The boardwalk is too narrow and crowded to move to the side and you don’t want to risk losing them in the stream of people.

    [continue reading]

    Rebecca Meng lives in New Jersey. She can be found on Twitter and Tumblr.

    She has three pieces in Electric Cereal.



  3. If there is not a documentary about it, I don’t respect your performance art.

  4. beethoventhemovie:

    'selected unpublished blog posts of a mexican panda express employee' second edition going out of business 35 copies remaining under this roof crazy days of summer endless appetizer get these 35 books out of my room before christmas march madness whiter teeth in just one minute limited time only back to school father's day event sale:

    $15 for a signed book with customized* illustrations and notes

    $12 for a signed/otherwise undecorated book

    free shipping, US and international

    paypal themeganboyle@gmail.com

    if you want a book but don’t have a paypal account, email me for other options

    if you want a book but don’t have money, email me for other options

    thanks and god bless

    *meaning each book’s illustrations and notes will be made-to-order/pictures posted above are examples, not templates

    wow i ordered one of these last week. even more excited now.

    dont miss out people

    (via thegreatcratsby)

  5. theothimo:

    Its me

    i created a monster

    (Source: internetpoetry)


  6. internetentity:


    huge s/o to electric-cereal for featuring a poem i wrote <3

    and another huge s/o to insertlitmaghere who featured TWO of my poems <3_<3



  7. "It’s a bad idea to become close to a writer because it hurts to know the truth about yourself."
    — Moon Temple, ghosts
    Tagged #moon temple

  8. I have the slight tendency of imbedding criminal activity with a nostalgia for the moment yet passed.


  9. Vol. 3 - Autumn/Winter 2014 [Lauren Elma Frament]


    Jesse Pomeroy, the Boy Fiend, Speaks to His Father

    I was twelve when I became a man. The first boy,
    he was a pencil scribble, my first brush stroke.
    His red paint, the holiest water. His teeth, shameful pennies.

    I’m sorry we couldn’t have anymore birds, that I twisted the necks
    off Mama’s first two like bottlecaps. Their beaks pointed at me
    like the other children in school, only staring at my eye,
    white as milk and marble. I knew they wanted to peck it out,
    thought it was evil, but it was pure as a dress with a slipped stitch
    or a smooth whittled animal, but for one tiny splinter.

    There were others, boys younger than me, but I didn’t kill them.
    We just played. I bound their wrists or else they would have left,
    slashed their cheeks, but they didn’t understand that I was kissing them.

    I loved them, but you never taught me the difference between hugging
    and stabbing. Your knife, the gentlest serrated teeth against my neck,
    the nights I was made to cut my own switch, it was all practice for my boys.

    You were teaching me, showing me how to kill my darlings.
    Teaching me that if I love someone, this is how I must show it –
    with a whip or a fist. You were teaching me how to become a man –
    the way our fingers hold like barbs, our bodies made of twine
    and glass shards from the bottle.
    Is love a pocketful of rocks or a fistful of teeth?
    They sound the same to me.
    Do you remember how Mama felt when she made the final stitch
    on her first dress? Or you, when you first whittled a piece of wood.
    The pride suckling your heart, a leech churning in your belly.
    The feeling of knowing you
    can create anything?

    I only killed one girl. She came into Mama’s dress shop. She,
    a rough sketch of my worst masterpiece. I didn’t know
    how to love girls. Only Mama. The girl asked me for a notebook.
    I told her we might have one in the cellar. She nodded, I followed her down,
    my arm reaching around her throat. I wanted to twist off her head,
    but I didn’t. I just cut her, her vital spilling over my hands like a cleansing.

    My boys. O, how beautiful they were when their blood stained my hands.
    How the fear in their eyes looked like love, their teeth chattering,
    even after falling into my palms. Seeing themselves in my one dead eye,
    marble and no longer pure. They feared me, loved me, their easel legs
    shaking in terror or want.

    I was twelve when I became a man.
    Fourteen when they wanted me dead,
    but I was so young.
    A protégé, calling you master,
    and you taught me so well, didn’t you?

    Please, Papa,
    say you are proud of me,
    that you are envious.
    Say I am stronger than you.
    Say you want to see my masterpieces.
    Say I did a good job. Tell me I’m a good boy.
    A good man. Tell me
    I’m a holier man
    than you.


  10. "Sacrifice everything
    and wait. Love will drop
    from the sky, whole
    and unharmed—if only
    you are patient, your rituals pure
    and correct, it can be just
    like before."
    — My poem “A Cargo Cult of the Heart” is in the first issue of Mount Island! (via outsidewarmafghans)
  11. iammaier:

    Two poems of mine from the 40th edition of Saxifrage.

    (via sarahjeanalex)

  12. animalitoinexpresivo:

    <3 <3 <3 <3


    <3 <3 <3 <3

    and bad blood


    thank you very much, Zoe & Kimi

    (via bagelcat)

  13. myshoesuntied:

    I have a poem about dogs in the first issue of Mt. Island! There are also poems by feral-lovelies/wolf-lanterns Emily O’Neill & Cassandra de Alba. You can read the whole issue digitally here. You can order the whole (gorgeous) issue physically here. Let’s get weird. 


  14. "So we’re at it again: only talking
    about sex like we’re having it.
    One day you’re going to have
    to say what happened
    last September that changed
    everything. Sarah mentioned
    the police and you’ve talked about
    lawyers and therapy,
    but now, it’s sex. You tell me
    you want to pull my hair and lick
    my teeth, ask how I’d react
    if you entered me from behind.
    I reply, Come, probably,
    and you’re unsatisfied
    and I know that feeling
    all too well. You say, Good
    night, because it’s late and
    you have to see Dr. So-and-so
    in the morning. Plus,
    the Ambien’s kicking in.
    You’d taken it that time
    you told me there were
    chopped up strippers in
    the mattresses at Hooters
    Hotel & Casino. My feet
    hurt and I can feel
    the blisters on my heels.
    I wore new shoes
    all day because I thought
    I’d run into you."