Home the halls of Wolfenstein 3D,
our Gatling guts shuddered into puberty
and when our clothes got old
we took them to the Amity; empty
bodies bed-folded, bagged,
driven somewhere downtown
where once we passed a pile
of pitted garments bloodied, butterflied,
entrails, helmet bobbing alongside,
splayed like dead guards in Castle Wolfenstein
drowned in pungent streetlight orange,
our downy fabrics in opaque plastic,
car a warm DOS vector, Baywatch orange
air-mattress fluttering on the surface
of a seventies city center's cancer.
Later, the sick-soft motor-whirr
of VHS loosened our swim caps,
pinched our pastel mats,
sent sharks uptown
sleek and black from Amity Island.
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Issue 75
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Editor's Note
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POETRY
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FICTION
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ESSAY