this regret machine

So i can say something useful. So i can say something useful.       The words haven’t been here lately. I don’t know where they’ve been. All words are lost in prepositions — where does it belong? When did it come here? When are you going to write that letter? Are you alright? This isn’t self doubt. No, I have moved past the season of self doubt. I think I can write confidently, maybe even fluently. I’ve hardly written anything worthwhile in months. I’ve hardly written anything worthwhile in months. There’s nothing worth saying. Repetition is a composite trick of the hand, filling the mould of content with a word count. My brain is cooked. Steamed in dishwater, stinking like unclean dishes. The smell of burnt chemicals dries the nose through. It’s a certain kind of lingering rot that sticks to the interior of my skull. I’ve been washing dishes for three days a week for the last while. The dishwashing machine does the meaningful work. I only clean around the edges,...

Deeper, deeper into this sweet quiet. Sweeter and sweet, and the darker the night gets, the less I feel. There, at four am, thinking about nothing. I am home, and I am safe. There is nobody I need to talk to, nobody will ever need anything of me again. My eyes stay open, my body listens to only itself. While this space is quiet, peace seeps through in different ways. I do not seek peace, not yet. There is nothing to be felt. I keep all ideas and knowings out. It is not a combat. I am just listening to other music. This song sounds so good. This is my jam. This is my song. Forever and ever I will keep listening to this song, as I live through this dream. Home and somewhere else entirely. A physical self sticks to these bedsheets like a toy stuck to a window. This body is filled with liquids and fruits not its own. It peels, shedding empty husks, revealing something quieter beneath. A place of solemn quiet. The window looks to the hollow and cold world. In one moment, I am growing, a...

  upcoming zine

  The body speaks through the mouth. The mouth often screams. The Flesh of The World by Xandra Metcalfe, Uboa , are four tracks, spoken over twenty minutes. ‘Here it is asked, ‘where does a body end’’. The text is fearful and fearing, exploring the marred ground of body dysmorphia, the ‘schizophrenic dissolution’ of self, and the existence of an internal ‘other’. The space around us is sewn into our being, as time becomes irrelevant, space becomes the host for all thoughts. Who rules over this body, the ‘other’ or the god? The body is four tracks on a Bandcamp EP. Terfs are shit. They are still breathing and using the deaths of children as a voice for their own rancid disputes. They are creatures. They seep into our fears. As does the dysphoria itself. To those whom it is known, it is the killer. Metcalfe is exploring this dissociation here. Body is body. Initially, Metcalfe reasons an objective idea of what the body is, sightless and sensory (Exsanguination). The body is whole...

  The feel of her skin on my lips stayed with me. It was something so lost. Delicate, tender. My breath shortened at the very thought. Though, now, cold plumes of my breath came from my mouth. The town was cold and unlit. The darkness once again surrounded me, beckoning me into its unsafety. The gravel crunched. A light wind tugged at my cloak. Strength coursed through my tired bones. My rucksack chugged behind me. It was a dialogue of dark uncertainty between us. I kept thought that I would come back to her close. I would go, find him, and come back. Closure was all that was needed now. I knew I didn’t have long left. So, I walked on. I had to. The wicked determination fought with the longing for touch. No unity was found. A stone archway was a portal to the mountains. I passed it without thought. The idea shook through me to my old heart. He had been here. He had known I was here. He had sought me out, and now, the circle will be complete again. When had the last full moon been, ...

  A wooden fire pit kept the lonely stone walls warm. Her house was one of those cast away from the path, just on the outskirts of the already remote village. Her axe stayed hooked by the door. The space was open, the floorboard crafted from a fine pinewood. Deep, warm walls. The smell of firewood. Unlit candles praying to secluded shrines and poets. A kitchen, filled with utensils of all sorts, shone in the setting sun. Silver glittered against the grey stone walls. A window was well placed, looking beyond the station, deep into the empty green plains of this faraway place. The cold had begun to come in with the fading sun. Chopped wood lined the back wall. We sat goatskin-and-leather pillows, fluffed with geese feathers. After the wooden train, my joints relaxed, my muscles unwound and breathed. The herbal tea kept my ungloved hands warm. She sat opposite me, across the sparking pit. My eyes stayed on her. Inside of the stone cabin, and during the setting of sun, our age showed. ...