Experimental

Issue #2

Chronicals of Pie

Pie

Pie-eyed beauty your damson looks entrance.

Sky pie I test for warmth before going outside.

In this pie you will find my whole life.

I named this abortion after my pie.


Bekky’s Up the Duff

I wish Bekky wouldn’t shag about. Now it seems a foetus grows in her pie. No doubt it will end up just like its father, singing songs about pie in third rate karaoke bars, wearing that flowery dress he’s had for years.


A Song for Europe

Bekky always wanted to be a singer. Now she’s all sprogged up and fat with that fucking pie. It seems that she mated with a version of herself. Or more than one. That girl had her finger in a number of pies.

Chronicles of Modern Warfare

I first found pie in 1942. I was stationed in Pie, and in the very first dance hall I walked into, there she was. I delivered a spinning roundhouse kick to the head and the room went slow. Then her head came off, and she was mine. I used to carry her earlobes around in my pie.


Then we were sent to fight. I painted red nipples on the front of my pie, though it should have been cock I suppose. The bombs fell slowly like Weetabix. I hid in a hole, and prayed for pie. Then one day the war ended. There was pie in the streets and we all ate jelly.

Deborah Had Bruises

Deborah had bruises

Deborah had bruises from where the animals had bitten her. It looked like she was rotting

In her dreams

the zombies roamed the supermarket. One had your face but it was, I don’t know, different. Mouse. Deborah held it close to her face, breathing in the air it breathed out, air that had been inside its body. Their intercourse

was silent. The upper floors of this library are reserved for gorillas.

‘In any case, the bestiality is symbolic’

We reeled from the tall grey buildings these nuclear children carcinogen faces burning, fleeing the light into underground car parks where water trickles down the walls. I was a box office smash my clothing in tatters, video buildings descending in grace: chemicals rush at the sight of blood, conditioned to respond to these febrile juxtapositions. I smell naptha, approach the body of a vacant pigeon, try to speak, the pigeon moves away. Sex has become death. These strangled prostitutes are the focus of much excitement.

The collapse of the literal discursive cods

In the envelope was another envelope. In the second envelope was a ten pound note, folded in such a way as to suggest the imminent breakdown of our social world. I took a sip of tea, turning the thought of the assassination over in my head. There was a window of opportunity, but the whole thing smelled of fish. I put my shoes on. Then I put my socks on. Something was very wrong.

Jenni Adams