"Portals to afterlife opening in the Middle East. When I meet her, her body has dullness not able to hold her properly. She enters through the backdoor. Her vagina like a concert. Penis on a grappling surface. Hard bodies. Carburetted hydrogen filters through the air conditioning ducts. Underage guy is fucked. He limps around the underground car park at Time Warner Building. I type something into my phone. I come from out Indianapolis way. Nine gallons of petrol in my garage. Rich people with scurvy because they can’t stomach fruit. Campfires. Coyotes forage for human bones. A wooden box. Rotten teeth. Bottle on her anus. Me running into lust. His eyesight changing around my shoulder and embracing me. I got the job from Lisa. The trick couldn’t remember my name. Dripping wet from my pussy. I pinched her nipples hard. Guy lifting up my skirt from behind. An Italian who taught me English. Valleys off the Calabrian coast. Condoms burning in the dusk. Rats and retraces of rat’s clawprints. Frankie stands upright over me like he’s the fuck-giver. A woman in the backroom. Puffs of steam. Unpleasant news..."
EXCERPT: "Writes on a post-it note, his cursive in unique form. Burton goes to his job. 3 p.m. on a weekday. Burton makes clumsily fashioned small-scale models of the United States. He constructs models using old cigarette packets. He cuts the packets using a pair of shears. He balances the models on rivers of jelly, configuring shy damsels from the rubbish bin, on clear cold windless afternoons (if you’re interested). Translated famine. Burton never thought he’d be employed like this. He never thought he’d have a contingency of assistants helping him. He sees caterpillars turning into crows. Burton doesn’t know much. Burton doesn’t stay on the internet very long. GIF cleaned smoothly, systematically. GIF living in an upstairs place containing a soft drink dispenser, a coffee table, a double bed in the corner, a refrigerator filled with foodstuffs and amphetamines."