LIT on LIT #3

by lit on lit mixed tapes

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about

artwork by matt takaichi

all rights to words belong to their respective readers

additional audio by nathan keele springer // nicholas lowery, caroline white, scott riley irvine, and janey smith provided their own audio

credits

released 23 August 2013

ben mirov - isaghost.blogspot.com
beach sloth - beachsloth.blogspot.com
nicholas lowery - soundcloud.com/nicholaslowery
clint flippin - facebook.com/clint.flippin
shane jesse christmass - facebook.com/SJXSJC
karyna mcglynn - karynamcglynn.com
ian aleksander adams - ianaleksanderadams.com
jayinee basu - jayineebasu.wordpress.com
caroline white - infinitycrush.bandcamp.com
megan boyle - beethoventhemovie.tumblr.com
scott riley irvine - soundcloud.com/scottirvinez
stephen michael mcdowell - stephenmichaelmcdowell.com
janey smith - facebook.com/janey.smith.92
matt takaichi - flickr.com/people/mtakaichi/

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Track Name: Ben Mirov - Feet/[Boats]
Feet

What are you waiting
for—I am waiting
for my [master]—What

will you do when your
[master] arrives—When my
[maser] arrives, I will bow at

his feet—What will
happen next—I don't
know. My [master] is

mysterious—When your
[master] comes can I
bow, too—I don't know.

It might be too late—
Too late for what—
Too late to bow

to my [master]—






[Boats]

Let's have [sex]—I don't
know. It's not worth
the hassle—But what about

love? Don't you want
love—I don't know. It's
not worth the hassle—Then

what should we do?
Let's build [boats]—Build
[boats]—Yes, [boats]—

Then what—Then
we can use them to not
have [sex]—OK. But

what about love? What
will happen to our
love—We can use it to

make more [boats]—
Track Name: Beach Sloth - October
skyline straight out of the 80's
hypodermic needles in the toilet
spent all night dancing next to people
a guy riding a white stallion
hipsters calling each other hipster
waiting for food
laughing at cops
Track Name: Nicholas Lowery - Our Ugly Totem
"oh, the horror of our totem ugly and neanderthal! callouses coat a southern drawl freeze my floor and watch it thaw casually, i crawl underneath your wall... i find resolve in cement"
Track Name: Clint Flippin - Hold Up the Decapitated Pigeon
In my dreams Oakland looks like a graffitied slip and slide
large industries grow from the ground, massive machines plow over
piles of bones and cum. A Girl I know rides a surfboard
on a wave of seminal fluid. Next thing you know, John
Dozier and I are holding up a taco truck with nerf guns
adapted to fire razors laced with PCP and KEtamine

We dont want the tacos bro we want to see you give us the
tacos bro- John says. The attendent is a mutant squid with
a bulbous exposed brain. Dont touch my brain!!!! He freaks
out small ticks crawl over his brain sucking down his
intelligence.

Why sir we have purchased these tacos.
huh

WE have tacos we have tacos we have tacos we have tacos and nerf guns.
We have calimari we have calimari!

I’m a vegetarian so menthol infused cuninlingus it is.
The machines run over an entire tour group of handicapped
pigeons. Dead pigeons get stuck in my teeth. They are mostly made out of worms at this point.
I hate flossing because my teeth dont exist.
Track Name: Shane Jesse Christmass - The Working Fluid in Most People Went Back to Sleep
the working fluid in most people went back to sleep.

powr is the abhuman who is the best thing hookah smoking
all liposuction, bubble butt implants and nefarious riddles chopping
all meditation and DMT huffing
on lunch break, in the Muslim prayer room clubbing
it’s taking your protest to the cities
where squatter camps appear in front heavy dubbing
powr is the Vatican person who takes the soup in the occult
with naked peas that night and burnt broad beans giving insult
swallowing the central stairwell made of sharp edges
all still sorrow tried and provocative why another political way snoozes
dancing twostep erect in pride vices
raising clean if you fail with granted eyes
all radiant myself in these todays
running in a perpetual lease town that seems small like Pompeii
powr is running for office along the path to the genocidal project
that marble monument with deerhounds gasping from policy house dissect
while the working fluid in most people goes back to sleep
you have to compensate me for serving others on the junk heap
for what remains of my survival to myself was escape on emergency horns beep beep
a habitable planet is created every day, then pine needles back to the life
wise was evident when gagged and swallowed the butter knife
Track Name: Karyna McGlynn - I Have to Go Back to 1994 and Kill a Girl/It Wasn't Phenomenal, She Followed the Telephone Poles Up & Up
I Have to Go Back to 1994 and Kill a Girl

It’s no wonder on my belly in
clothing inside police cars roll
their lights on
they don’t see but I must say
my old house a book in bed
I’m always tired It’s night & cold
I have to bury her
past but continue even after shining
I can only assume
1994 is a simpler I crawl up next to
my mother reads I want to knock
I need to tell her
with all these tract houses— the undeveloped field now
a black garbage bag in plot D down the treeless parkway
me in my freshman sundress
the significance of my presence time—not everyone is suspect
& look through a lit window on the glass, there’s something






It wasn’t phenomenal, she followed the phone poles up & up

she just kept walking
til it wasn’t so choke and violet
to weird her the farmhouse didn’t have a phone her father said he’d leave a light on but he left 2
the 2nd was dim from the loft of the barn
at night the road was something softer
she couldn’t stop following it tho the church’s cross stood up like the mast of a ship half-sunk in the side of a hill
tho someone hunkered downwind a few yards
off the road said there are a thousand green lights up there if you can stand the bramble if you can stand that fog it’ll bite you
like a kerchief full of ether when the phone rings
Track Name: Caroline White - Caroline Reads a Poem
i like to think of the shape i take up in your mind, if maybe my fingers are longer or my voice is more like syrup and less like concrete and if maybe i speak only in whispers. i would like to speak only in whispers so everything i say is your secret to keep or forget. i am yours to keep or forget and i am small enough to fit anywhere you want in your brain or in your shower or in that moment you wake up and mumble and go back to sleep. you think about me thinking about you at stoplights. i think about you thinking about me until i feel dizzy, but a very nice dizzy like i am a wave that is just getting used to being a wave. you fall asleep so easily as if the world isnt horrifying. you fall asleep into me like we’re both snow.
Track Name: Scott Riley Irvine - Orange Little Pigeon
Supine there –

can you see it? –

a discrepancy in the landscape,
vaguely framed by the impasses
posed along the descent,
revealed now from a new angle,
nearer and still wider
and, in a moment,
only a pale orange
drawn between the trees.

Dully imparting its light
beneath the shadows of evening scud.
A beacon of beaded color
casting itself across
the sinuous teeth of the carved land.

It’s here, waning –

painting the tracts of deadfall.

And there, –

reflected in the frigid incontinence of rockface.

The road levels to woodlands well above.
The likelihood of the light is lessening.

Abducted from the air
loosening from the effluvium.

Hardening in the lungs
of men, quietly castigated in their cabins
whose chimneys burnish our hidden acres
with nebulous smoke.

Men
the shade of an old bruise,
darkening the fringes of
an Eastern Tennessee wound.
Track Name: Clint Flippin - Surficide
The News anchor says the neo humans
Are falling like fucking flies in a chlorine gas attack. Focusing crystals infused with radioactive meth hit the street.

There is a periwinkle girl picking scabs at the groundswell collective. The Mayan apocalypse came and went. Bukowski's boredom manifested in the streets.
Till the last beautiful thing I saw was amputee porn, pink nubs erasing phantom genders.
Till I couldn't avoid the ultra-violent hilarity of bumper cars.
Till I watched gutter suicides on Prime Time.
Till I giggled at Bela Lugosi's specter of morphine.
Till I resin hit heroin from a human spine.
Till I became a ghost haunting dive bars for change.
Till I smiled at razor commercials.
Till I tried to unionize ants.
Till my stories ended with vampires eating Ice cream.
Till I watched machinations of Death Culture starve.
Till I was a human too.

The scuttled Sector 9's were re-vamped, kids bombed the boulevards not looking for lanterns, wind passing
Like weed eaters over grass.

Quetzalcoatl came and went subverted entertainment and threw some research chems in for kicks because
Every anarchist loves to bowl down mummified alleys knocking pins into
Abysmal shadows.
Track Name: Stephen Michael McDowell - You Are
you are, to me, not unlike a simile conveying a symbiotic, or perhaps symbolic, non-differentiable relationship between you and yourself, akin to that of a door and its frame, but as if the construction of the two occurred spontaneously, and the hinges, knob, and lock, much like the various lubricants between the web-like interlacings of flesh, and neurotransmitters interspersed in an ever-growing braid of desperately attempted time constriction, were somehow a blatant reflection of the willful, trap-like conflict of me, not knowing how, but, with demure acceptance of the reality of what currently passes as ‘real’ and awareness of the semiotic incomparability of an instance of one person longing to understand another, like the absurd image of, say, two doors attempting, independently, to enter or exit the other, wanting, whether on the inside or outside of the structured, discernible statement of you, to possess some key, some simple device by which to transect the impassible, but functional-seeming portal you, seeming like me, undoubtedly are, in order to... like... somehow... you know, empathize with your concern... or whatever may be similar... to that sentiment
Track Name: Karyna McGlynn - YOU ARE MY NEW GOD/The Afterlife as a Pile of My Lost Vintage Blazers
YOU ARE MY NEW GOD

I know this because I so want to dance in yr chorus. Want to whisper shit so sweet in yr ear, the center of 1989 will rot and fall out, and through that hole an eleven-year-old me will see her True Name on the nape of yr neck and know how to break-dance. My deer, I think I’ve been learning this sidestroke all my life to slam-dunk my apple in yr basket and really rock out in this slow lagoon with you, and I want to be so “Girl” for you that I get all “Yeah” with my bubblegum baby-making machine, like I want to mermaid up inside yr Cultural Memory
to fight off Tom Hanks and Hasbro. Like, hey boy, I want to fly up inside yr Men’s Grooming Kit
and die there so I know how it feels to be yr thing: scented and clipped with safety scissors and get
so lost in yr Man Cave I need you to invent a new legend for the map made of footprints that teach me to foxtrot, where I bend over the hot oven in my butter colored frock and make muffins that make make muffins that make banana nut muffins
and rename me in a pile of your sweet laundry that is sooo dirty but won’t do itself, dumpling.



The Afterlife as a Pile of My Lost Vintage Blazers

among which we must eternally rifle: the worms inching blind down the wales of the corduroy, my ghost turning out all the pockets. She must piece this together. This project the worms
must undo, pressing their wet mouths into elbow patches, undermining the plaid and mothing the wool. My ghost tries to try on the jackets. The shoulders don’t fit because she has no shoulders. Is this is the hell of being immaterial on a mountain of material? In life I mourned the loss of my blazers,
left on the backs of chairs, the backs of taxis.
In the afterlife they fall right through me. Sometimes little things fall out: knotted cherry-stems, cough drop wrappers, eighty-three cents, a gas receipt, and once, a matchbook
with something scribbled inside: “Karyna, you wasted so much of my time. Burn this.”
Track Name: Janey Smith - Fudge
I watch Mary sleeping on the couch. I can’t take my eyes off her for a single second. I go blank, and then watch her all weird, and then go blank. I don’t know why. I become conscious of a vacuum cleaner in my right hand. “I feel like if you put your mouth on her big toe, you could excuse it as an accident if she wakes up.” I look at the vacuum cleaner. “I don’t think that would be ideal.” “Maybe if you put it over the toe, but didn’t touch it.” Outside it is sunny, a real sunny day. I look at Mary and think about what it’d be like to hit her on the head with a feather pillow but I go blank. I am listening to I don’t know what, the outside world, all these birds. All around me in that room, nothing seems to happen. I move towards her. I try really hard not to wake her up as I move. I don’t know how but my foot moves just the right amount. Mary is sleeping. I feel like it is really hard to take time and cut it into little pieces but I want so badly to cut it and really cut it open flush. I move a table a few inches to the center of the room. I move the floor lamp away from the couch too. I want to empty the room. My aim is to put everything aside, to have a moment with Mary without all the stuff cluttering our lives. But I get tired quickly. I sit on the day bed across from her, evaluate its capacity to support me, calculate its size in relation to the length of the hall. The vacuum cleaner remains upright and unplugged. The curtains behind Mary hang all the way down to the floor. “What are you doing?”

I don’t know how to answer Mary’s question. I feel awkward sitting there. So, I stand. Then I feel awkward standing there. So, I sit. Mary takes up her blanket. She goes to her room. When the door closes, I rotate my shoulder, move my arm in exact increments, very precisely, repeat the exact same movement again and again, and ask myself, “What am I doing?” and almost without noticing it, I go blank.
Track Name: Ben Mirov - [Pain]/[Money]
[Pain]

Are you in [pain]—
Yes. I'm in [pain].

Are you in [pain]—
Yes. I'm in [pain], too.

What should we do—
Let's build [boats]—

You are overreacting
to your [pain]—What

else should we do—
We should wait—

For what should we
wait—Let's wait

for less [pain]—






[Money]

I have some [pain]. Do
you have [pain]—Yes.
I have some [pain], too—

What will it take
to stop your [pain]—
I don't know. Maybe

it will take money—
How much money
will it take—It will

take more money—How
much more money
will it take—More than

I have—How much
money do you have—
I have some money. How

much money do you
have—I have some
money, too—Maybe

we can stop your
[pain]—What about
your [pain]. How will we

stop that—I don't
know—We need
more money—