I hope you’re still watching these numbers grow
because the sun refuses to set and I cannot
extract the sound of axe on trunk, of the split body
from my bones. I keep growing sharper
because the sun refuses to set and I cannot
separate the chaff of all this cold experience
Broad-chested, flat
And just out of reach
Perched as he is
A clenching boy
On his digital horse
Crooked incisors flashing
and every second with you counts
more than any stunt
this is us against the world
against an ever-emerging backdrop
of paper mache mountains penetrated
by snake skin tunnels, of pyramids
and other representative landscapes
But there’s only so much sky and only so much river
to drink the oceans, to make the fish cry. So much constellation
for being a great thief, a failure in all things. Instead, we have
full-time jobs, new again next year. Home is not gonna call itself.
A burglar steals your couch and your telephone but
it still rings. There is always a mysterious phone call,
“They are coming,” it warns.
No one ever comes! House party!
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.
