Tarns of Mustard

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Bulletin

on October 09, 2025

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A politicized joint spits

on the spit like Medea

the exchequer hits

a new taurine nadir

is the latest

godspeeds the sadist.

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Chant Royal

Voici mes pièces du puits. From urgent aquifiers, from night’s feathers, from circumstance’s bent aurical, we extricated ourselves, held together, hue-sensitive, metaphorical, your Augustan incandescence and my object lessons passeridae enjoying the apricity of a morning in November. Smoked camels designed by a committee. Zebra crossings I can scarcely remember. Whatever severs the cobweb prophecy of Ismenion’s oracle; that was the end of our endeavours. The body rhetorical and desire’s iridescence. The naivety of pheasants. It comes to a pretty pass when a city devotes an expiring ember to the landscape of endearment, to a territory of which it is not a member. I felt our tethers like the cables of a long-demolished passarelle, like a scarf for all weathers. I should have launched our unnamed coracle, should have registered the presence of an efflorescence. In this counterfactuality, shorn of an...

A Letter to My Daughter as a Seventies Slasher

To my final girl, tilted towards a telephone, throwing interrogatives into a refrigerator, apologising in an abattoir, shunning a chaperone, batting lashes at a billhook, berating a carburater. As regards a sepia Pierrot, geckoid greasepaint, jollily attired, I hereby itemise the number of stairs of false direction, and duly italicize the faint essence, cognate with matchsticks, that he wears. I do this, I realise, in service of my own contrition, because I am the scriptwriter for this Punchinello’s performance. All of his chainsaw transgressions, his rotary atrocities. I pen every pained libretto. I urge you shed my damselled trope and demur the appropriative machete, the appropriate response, without any corn-syrup requirement to endure the appellation that opens my correspondence. Here a pale of pig-blood jouissance, there adrenaline to take a pitchfork to all virginal or promiscuous requirements. Freely...

Brains!

So the air is full of kerosene and a doomed shuttle plays Paganini’s Caprice #13 like an ice cream scream and gone are the days of Gilgamesh, instead hours upon hours of hourglasses of fresh human flesh.

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