Comments Posted By Chris Glynn

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Incredulous with rage he screamed soothing sentiments into my ear-holes. They layered as sediments in the swampy thoughts of a hazed wasp. I believe you not to be entirely genuine in your affection. But somewhere deep the hope remains that I can one day pretend a credibility to your delusions at lust.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 05.04.2013 @ 4:48 pm


Grinding pestle to mortar, into a powdered grasp, these rocks become pebbles, these goals become tasks.
each hour spent wasting is gone, but the days continue, wandered

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 04.27.2013 @ 2:38 pm


All you were given was a conclusion, no process I guess. There was no anchorage, just a floating perfection made of [something unknown], using [materials unknown]. We rejected this framed perfection. With no clue of how to create one of our own we questioned if it was even this that we wanted. We answered with truth, imperfections that we had dragged around on chains were noted, appreciated, tacked to the walls and the ceilings and the floors. We made art not to tie our feelings to conclusions, but to anchor us to our previous selves and track the motions of new waves.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 04.12.2013 @ 4:15 am


Their names were Smudge and Pebbles and they were bunnies. It was all very exciting with adventures and fun. One day they went on two adventures, then three adventures, then four. Soon enough their adventures were going on adventures of their own. In the end there were altogether too many adventures. Smudge and Pebbles ran out of pocket money and couldn’t afford any sweets to put in their adventure rucksacks and they ran out of space to do less adventurous things like drinking from their clickity ball-bearing bottles.
So maybe we’ll just get Pebbles hey, and leave Smudge here in the shop.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 04.02.2013 @ 11:24 am


Our father cried at the television. It was like when he shouted at it, but this time it was the tears, rather than the words, that I was too young to understand. I saw only excitement. Energy. Fun. I saw swimming at the local leisure centre with the wave machines. I saw life where there was none. Actors in Hollywood movies. Thankfully blinkered by a youth I saw only coloured pixels on the screen. But I saw the heaviness of parental brows. That I saw, and in it the disaster.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.28.2013 @ 5:18 am


The man they call Jayne…

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.25.2013 @ 5:56 pm


Two lost children stare at roses. Thinking nothing of their briars. Syncopated heartbeats skittering. Into each other, into silence.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.24.2013 @ 11:22 am

One forgotten truth at a time. Theres a body left listening. Hearing false whispers. Blinking empty and decayed.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.24.2013 @ 11:20 am


If you were to dance in the boots of a dead man, you would dance poorly, for the dead man’s boots would not adequately fit your own feet, no matter how worn in they may be. At best you may be able to perform a poor approximation of the charleston, but in a graveyard such as this, on a night as wet at tonight, on a grave so recently disturbed, it would be a muddled, inelegant sort of victory. Much better just to piss upon it and be done with the whole matter.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.23.2013 @ 12:27 pm


The overt, the explicit lie, held a truth as its shield and in doing so made a bitter cry at fortitude. There was never a falseness, just a truth present implicitly as such, a truth that hid itself in unmediated presentation.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.16.2013 @ 5:19 pm


You withered to a groin and wept with wonder. I slept curled around your teeth, a radical posture in motion. The dampness of shadowlight swam to you, into your bones as reflections. I lit a fireplace and fell into it with surrender of you, we embered into the guttering as dust. You withered away to nothing, I was nothing before you and away from … away from more the same.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.10.2013 @ 5:12 pm


Hawk a lamb by falling at it from the sky there. go on, you’ll not be getting a chance like this another again this soon is all so now to take this would well you should please for its moving away and we hunger for the taste of seeing you attempt. no badness if it be a failure but a succeeding, well, to be viewing of a one of that then we would be most grateful both of us eyes to which the vision of it would be clear if you were to act now on it, the direction that i had gave at your self there. no shame in not falling right but in not falling at all there be plenty, oh plentiful yes right there in the thought of it each time i would be hit and towards you a look from both of us would not be given for many times, we’d be judging you with the glares of us

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.04.2013 @ 11:21 am


The signal to noise ratio meant nothing not but also. It was all noise. or noise was the signal, all signed and signifying in a guttural confab. He glutted a dose of metal static, the steel wool scratching of an unshaven philosophy. Thoughts changelings, they spluttered between concepts, weakening with each flexed fluctuation musculature undefined. Units lost, multiplexed until their shapes become …

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.04.2013 @ 11:11 am


All are winners and all shall have prizes. Except you, no prizes for your efforts. This will instill a sense of hopelessness into your work which will put you in good stead for the future. From which we will except you. No future for you. This will instill a sense of hopelessness in others when they hear of your demise which will put them in good stead for the future.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 03.03.2013 @ 7:35 am


You do a line of code from the cracked black of a hardback book and laugh at the cobwebs; parallelograms glistening with dewey decimal drops. The minutes start compilating. As bubbles rise in carbonated bloodstreams your pupils splutter in bandwidth adjustment. They blink the code of obligatory primes then meet mine half way hollow.
I pour another haunted delivery, the mixture a tainted tincture. Our thoughts are tracked and chased down. We are database animals, all surfaces of polished teeth gleaming brutalist in decay. Crystals shattered by disinterest. Silences broken by glass.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.28.2013 @ 5:49 pm


The grave read Valentina Teàrlag: Born 23rd February 1923; Died 21st February 1923. People applauded with tears in their eyes. I was up next reading a piece based around ironic variations of a classic knock knock joke.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.27.2013 @ 12:43 pm


All the colours were bleeding into all the others, the humidity was tearing her eyes, or wetting the ink, who knows, either way it was beautiful. Then confusing. Then worrying. Three days in and smells started to occur with every change of pitch, the water changed color, it boiled upon touch. Her fingertips tingled with the magnetic fields of plug sockets. Light switches followed her as she moved within the room in a shuffled gait, then disappeared completely. Blinks controlled her mood. One day she awoke as a beetle, the next a swarm of broken buzzards all hive minded and featherless. On the last day she awoke as a dream of imaginary numbers, tangential, diphtherial. . .. . ….. . ……….. . . . . . …. .. . . .. . .. . . …….
.. ______________________________________
A single neon tone on a flickering screen, flatlining, bled out into zero-sum thrumming silence.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.27.2013 @ 5:59 am


It is said that man is born into trouble and the sparks fly upwards. Similarly, in England boy is born into puddles and will splish splosh quite happily for upwards of half an hour if provided with suitable wellies. Weather defines.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.20.2013 @ 3:29 pm


58 minutes later, sat cross-legged and crying, she whispering the phrase “– —– – —- — —” for the final time, rose to her feet and bowed a single balletic movement. Smiling finally she skipped out of the room through the corridor and into the light, panda eyes glistening.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.19.2013 @ 12:02 pm


When you say “I’ll stop dancing on the shattered bones of baby birds” it meant nothing because you continue to dance on the shattered baby birds bones even now. Those are my baby bird bones you’re dancing on, I shattered them for you, we shattered them together, but they are my shattered baby bird bones and say no more dancing.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.05.2013 @ 5:34 pm

Activation of neurotransmitters in the anterior cingulate cortex may send signals to the frontal regions leading to a build up of sentience in the temporal lobes. This will express as a sentence that loops in spirals, tangling in onto its own metatextual möbius strip of string theoretical self consciousness. The cure is coffee, rest or coffee.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.05.2013 @ 5:20 pm


There is another day hidden between the one you live and the one that will follow. We take these cracks, between the fading of the flame and the waking grasp at sentience, and tear them open, fill them with schizophrenic peregrinations, loops of hypnogogic somnambulance. The wall is two walls and between them a no mans land of nomadic distance

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.03.2013 @ 4:48 pm


She fell elegantly into the code/space, a single key tap signifying her landing. Algorithms reacted to alter the surroundings in accord to her DNA, digital lifeforms murdered and their substance rearranged into more relevant formats, rouletting through isotopes of fauna till a soft neon moss carpeted the tiles. She fell back and the ground rose to meet her, an ecology of her comfort fluctuating along her circadian specification.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.03.2013 @ 8:12 am


Her voice was a series of insect clatters, a distorted echoing. He had a path back from this, there were systems in place. He closed his nose with his left hand and blew. Her voice was a broken cutlery clatter, then a cluster of squeals. It was weaponised silence, then scorched noise. Consonants stitched into fricatives. Phonemes built of sand, then time, then sound. A sense of meaning returned. He released his grip and the air rushed inwards.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 02.01.2013 @ 4:58 pm


I will lick the feathers from your ghost till they coat the floor with spittle and you are flightless evermore. This is just one of the extra features available if you consent to be my wife.
She sighed. This was not how she imagined this moment would be.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 01.31.2013 @ 5:06 pm


Today was the lightning bolt of apathy to the burnt bush, the flames swelled as if to clear ash from a mighty throat, then silenced to cinder. There would be no guidance this time, just the smell of stroke and an absence.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 01.30.2013 @ 1:43 pm

The literal snake of an idea slithers into the gap left between lower lip and ravaged hair. It swells within, a new tongue ready to expel its children, hideous convolutions, upon the world.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 01.30.2013 @ 1:37 pm


My brain feels like a foetus, all comfy in the amniotic cerebral fluids. No thoughts for me today, just listening to the bassy tones of the outside world through the duvet.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 01.30.2013 @ 9:48 am


Someone spilt milk is aisle 5.
Six months ago.
No-one has been there since. Aisles 1 to 4 have since been cut off from the world and are thought to have devised their own civilisation and rhyme schemes. Their entire concept of cool is derived from the July 23rd style sections of a local newspaper found abandoned in the homeware section. Tea towels were once gathered to attempt a removal of the spil but they instructing the citizens of Isle Onetofour that remaining calm and carrying on was their best course of action.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 01.28.2013 @ 10:02 am


Sound as liquid, liquid as gin. A deaf man singing that sets you thinking, hard days living forgets you drinking, words and lonely laughter, the home time chime and the morning after.

» Posted By Chris Glynn On 01.27.2013 @ 5:35 am

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