your swansong was a sonnet

your death spasms mock coitus

and the crack of your ribcage

is the whisper of a

long lost


nothing more

nothing less

(for I can go no lower)

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like Leng Tch’e for

my hemophilic heart

your love is draining

to say the least

so salt the earth

and pull the trigger

I want to kiss the void

your lips have grown bitter

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It was like twisting porcelain into a knot

flesh everwhite

undeath in my arms


I plucked out her spine

as if uprooting

a delicate flower


and still she was kissing me


her headless body

riding impalation

like the whore


she never was in life



(for Baudelaire)

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The gaping wound in my chest skips a beat. She stands atop the pile of her dead sisters, dragging loose circuitry and pink noise behind her as she descends. The inflammable air around us ignores the sparks; the moment is not yet right for dissolution.

For a brief moment I forget which one of us is the robot. 

Her bare foot slaps the cold tile floor, her toenails and fingernails are painted to match, the color of afterbirth. Her hair is color of fresh smoke over Nanking. Everything about her is perfect.

She kisses me and my world blows up.

Everything is perfect.

The air ignites around us and the starship explodes (as best as it can) in the silent vacuum of space.

I have told this story before, but none of it was the truth.

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like the ratsnake

I have pulled back

old skin

but I am still a rat

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“Old Bones, New Sins”


my old bones ache for you

 in a pile,

in a cave,

in a jungle,

older than the sickly green sun that shines upon it

they remain unbleached,

waiting for you to drag them from the darkness

and let radiation cook my sins away

or perhaps,

simply for you to join them

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The Serial Experiment Part 4

“Stitches Coming Undone”

~  Ash Lomen

Tommy soon found out why the humans hated Stitchmen so much. Stitchmen were damned hard to kill, perfect for labor… but even better for revolution. Blood on the streets and not an ounce of water (unless you counted the acid rain).

Tommy bit the stitches of his left hand loose and replaced it with a crude bladed weapon he found lying around behind the dead factors of district C. He used this newfound limb to inflict bloody death upon any man or woman in any sort of uniform.

He sliced human police into a something resembling thin deli cut ham, he stuffed firehoses in the toothless mouths of firemen and made their guts explode like a wild backdrafts, He impaled American soldiers on flagpoles, a dozen at a time.

Tommy was repeatedly punching a young human girl in the face with his remaining hand, turning her features into something resembling ripened red fruit… just about to think that perhaps he had taken this whole… “thing” of his… too far.

And that’s when he hear the song on the radio, fuzzy-frozen still from reception gathered through factory towers, but meaning clear as a starlit night. The song that changed his life.

More at…


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“The Serial Experiment: Part 1”


After you read “Factory Boys” you might want visit Garrett’s blog and find out the idea (and the game) behind this story (“Factory Boys” is just the name of a ‘chapter’ if you want to call it that).

as well as read the other ‘chapter’…


It all has something to do with Alan M. Clark and those BONEYARD BABIES of his…

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“Factory Boys”

“Part 1. Factory Boys” (Part of an ongoing story with Garrett Cook)

By Ash Lomen  

Tommy the Stitchman sat, baggy saftypined pants spread out like a dress, on a little corner in a big factory town named Steamroe. The time-forgotten, low-grade cement of his perch was every bit as eggshell-cracked as his stitched-up face, every bit as cracked and broken as his unbeating heart.

A human, some yuppie scum on a skateboard with bling, whizzed by and threw the butt of an expensive cigarette in Tommy’s face. Tommy didn’t mind, he picked up the still lit butt and inhaled deeply, and when he exhaled a thin film of smoke poured out from every one of the many lacerations on his face, covering his grim countenance in a haze of tobacco and chemical smoke. For just a moment he felt hidden from the world.

He knew he was taking Shelly’s death harder than most. He really didn’t care much about his own life anymore. Of what worth is a man held together by stitches when those stitches are cut?
The second human skateboarder who threw a butt in his face, Tommy shot in the back with a crusty revolver.

The boy would never walk again… unless he wanted to undergo The Surgery. It would be a difficult choice for him.

He concealed his weapon, like anyone would give recycled-shit about a gunshot in Steamroe. It was a well know Stitch Town and as far as the humans were concerned, anyone who walked its blighted streets deserved whatever horror they got.
He watched the young skateboarder spasm, in unison with the sound of nearby cogwheels. Then (after pocketing his pack of smokes) he sat back down on his curbside cracks.

Tommy Paynphul smiled.

Perhaps Professor Adam Shelly had been wrong about civil disobedience all along…

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“The Black, The White, And The Hatless”

“I’m fuckin’ dying here man!”
~ Mr. Orange

“I’m fuckin’ dying here man!” Set screamed out before he made his final move.

The boy’s swing was hardly even a proper punch; the wild haymaker was instead more akin to an invitation. I blocked, gave him a swift uppercut to the gut, turned him, and wrapped my garrote sweetly around his slender neck, tightening the wire just enough to draw blood. For a serial rapist (even under the name of God), he was quite a pretty young man.

“Time to meet that liberal God of yours Captain… I hope you know that I have killed every man, woman, and child in that village to bear the testimony of your crimes at Heaven’s Gates.” I told him, just like reading it off a fucking card.

“There is no afterlife you fool. There is no God.” He said.

“Only half right.” I pulled the wire tight and decapitated him.

Having met the Devil herself in the flesh, I had a feeling he would eat those words soon enough. I unscrewed the small vile in my pocket, swallowed it, and died all over again.

I loved my job.

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