You, baby brother, who only liked to watch but never play, for hours on
end as an 8-bit fanfare blipped deep into the school night. I promised not to tell
mom if you didn’t & we were safe then from the dive-bombing
The surface is a knot
That tightens on one end while it loosens
On the other. The sky is full of ether.
Tubes lead nowhere. The wall persists.
I don’t care for the end
of this game. Every struggle is the struggle
for the maintenance of heterosexuality.
I borrow my womb from
myself to be a nest for your thoughts. I want to exist as someone’s
metaphor.
Remember to feed it pills daily,
star any chart on an app. Pee on sticks
first thing each day. Aim carefully.
Wait a fixed amount of time.
We think video games are literature, and so why shouldn't there be literature about video games? That's the question we're hoping to answer here. Read more.
