The iPhone voice memo app picks up the crumpling of pages, lips being licked, and the sentimental rub of the guitar.
A story from Alan Xu.
Anya Pertel has been looking carefully, at her friends, at her city, experiencing “many intense conflicting feelings,” which have found their way into her recent paintings.
Long-ago memories, ones that last from generation to generation. Glimpses of a childhood past. Sorrows of the estranged ancestral motherland, China. Cindy Song finds herself somewhere in between.
Drawings and scratches from Brandon Yung.
Mass seemed more abstract that Sunday. Hymns weren’t as lyrical, caught in the roar of the fierce summer winds.
(A Love Story) Words by Jasminne Morataya Images by Brandon Yung She (the giant loser) possessed dumb vindictive horse eyes. They were incredibly round and emitted a faint, possibly supernatural light. In life she (the pathetic child nihilist) was vivacious and bright like a fresh cabbage and always quite hopeful. This woman (this stunted brainless goblin) did not realize that she (the worst person to ever live) was condemned to lose forever and ever in a series of increasingly painful circumstances, a fact made more merciless because it was all the result of a single decision that could have easily been avoided. Each loss compounded the subterranean self-hatred in her bloodless beating heart, a feeling she (the shit smeared on the walls of a poorly maintained high school restroom) would never be able to express in any sort of language except the secret vestigial one where she (a flaccid micropenis) went to the grocery store and cried automatically every single time the misting system cooled the produce. At the end of the day it didn’t even …
The thoughts had mulling over a cup of coffee, alone in the morning, or maybe staring out a train window. Poet Claire August shares her own moments, thoughts and words strung together in a seemingly cosmic benevolence. Here are three of her poems. poems by Claire August images and other words by Brandon Yung Listless What is there to do on a Morning so long awaited where there is no- thing in particular that anticipates & dreams move slowly like a heavy novel. I write poems: art of the listless. I open my mouth, breathe yellow plums. In The Future How does anyone find the time these days for optimism. The future is for the profound, the past beautifully barren. …
There’s a time of day, where reason and rational erodes in the tired mind. When the night sky begins to take on that slight hue of blue light. When the miasma of the unconscious surfaces and lets loose hope and desire. The witching hour. These are six images I have taken, all during the night. They are the ramblings and thoughts that I have had, in places or things I see everyday. Thoughts, mental mumblings in a state of solitude — during mitternacht, midnight. when my mother is asleep and the dog is at bay through my window I’ll climb Into the yellow moth light of the street lamp I’ll climb Portraits of people hung on houses Families eating Couples fighting A lone man Blue light dancing across his lone face What pleasure! That I can see into the hearts of the estranged empty faces passing — constantly How I can see, but they can’t I