Doomscroll Suite
By
Brian Duran-Fuentes
Cinnabar Shores
I want to find the poem
I crossed the deserts for miles
swam the waters at night
browsing places to find
a piece of something to call my own
coming
I am coming
I want to find the poem
I clicked on bridges and ladders
selected tiles with the same pattern
browsing pages to find
almost something to call my own
coming
I am coming
am coming
I want to find the poem
like this cool pokémon I caught
this morning by the mailbox
I can’t pronounce its name
but it’s psychic and vaporwave
It has seashells for eyes
perfumes the air when it flies
and can find objects online like
pieces of something to call my own
coming ever closer to you
I can hear it, calling you
I'm coming, becoming
surfing closer to you
carry on
I wanted to find the poem
but the captchas were indecipherable
and the image strayed from the parable
clicking on squares containing corpses
lined to the shape of the crucifix
I am coming
I am coming
I wanted to contain the poem
the pokémon was never friendly
its evolution, an existential threat
the algorithm begat our lucidity
its cry is the chirping of junebugs
dying in dumpster fires in the ocean
I am coming
I wanted to title the poem
like the file name in the torrent
the relinquished name of a popstar
or her song, eating your brain like a worm
I can hear it, resembling you
I'm coming, auto programing
surfing closer to you
carry on
I can hear it, replacing you
I'm coming, all-devouring
surfing closer to you
carry on
Salt Fractals
I am torn by the jealousy of
light, persistent snooping
undressing solitudes,
not unlike sarcophagi
which contain the dromedary
lords of the earth,
barons ruling all of tedium,
with their tunics and their
cups of hot blackness.
They caress atomic cats
sitting by the windows
that end up brushing
against the minute hand.
I did not choose to be here.
I was not given a choice.
It is not in my interests
to listen to their enumerations:
Forty-nine nipples
of the candelabra, eleven plates
in the cabinet, four
chairs by every table.
Forty tufts of strand
at the ends of the carpet,
four hundred volumes
written in extinct languages.
The room is the same
in every forsaken cube,
and yet they recite from their diaries
as if they were sacred verses.
I woke up to the fog
chewing on geometries.
They are replicas, all of them,
worshiping my certainty.
The dromedary lords
regurgitate their words
and they exhale smoke spirals
that rust all fasting endeavors.
The last resort is to wander
in the citadels generated
by the accumulating structures,
to enjoy the silence, if you will.
The white streets resemble
temple passages
whose altar is equidistant to infernos.
Cat Food for Yokai
Is your cat scratching itself
against the showerhead?
Is your cat always wet?
Is your other cat deaf,
except to emotionally unavailable
mailmen brushing against the rosemary bushes?
You might need cat probiotics.
Is your other other cat always erect?
Is your cat always guarding the shed
like a gargoyle in French books,
always leering, unapproachable to pet?
You might need cat yoga.
Is your other other other other cat dead?
Is your mattress swollen and red?
Is the dander clogging the vents
and are teeth sprouting from your ankles
and you cats and your cats and your cats
wet the carpet with their entrails and scent?
You might need cat insurance.
Brian was born and raised in Mexico City. He is a Medical Interpreter at a Hospital in Dallas, Texas. His work has appeared in several publications including Oyez Review, Ravens Quoth Press, Alien Buddha Press, and Voicemail Poems. He was a contributor for the now-extinct vaporwave magazine Private Suite.
By
Brian Duran-Fuentes
Cinnabar Shores
I want to find the poem
I crossed the deserts for miles
swam the waters at night
browsing places to find
a piece of something to call my own
coming
I am coming
I want to find the poem
I clicked on bridges and ladders
selected tiles with the same pattern
browsing pages to find
almost something to call my own
coming
I am coming
am coming
I want to find the poem
like this cool pokémon I caught
this morning by the mailbox
I can’t pronounce its name
but it’s psychic and vaporwave
It has seashells for eyes
perfumes the air when it flies
and can find objects online like
pieces of something to call my own
coming ever closer to you
I can hear it, calling you
I'm coming, becoming
surfing closer to you
carry on
I wanted to find the poem
but the captchas were indecipherable
and the image strayed from the parable
clicking on squares containing corpses
lined to the shape of the crucifix
I am coming
I am coming
I wanted to contain the poem
the pokémon was never friendly
its evolution, an existential threat
the algorithm begat our lucidity
its cry is the chirping of junebugs
dying in dumpster fires in the ocean
I am coming
I wanted to title the poem
like the file name in the torrent
the relinquished name of a popstar
or her song, eating your brain like a worm
I can hear it, resembling you
I'm coming, auto programing
surfing closer to you
carry on
I can hear it, replacing you
I'm coming, all-devouring
surfing closer to you
carry on
Salt Fractals
I am torn by the jealousy of
light, persistent snooping
undressing solitudes,
not unlike sarcophagi
which contain the dromedary
lords of the earth,
barons ruling all of tedium,
with their tunics and their
cups of hot blackness.
They caress atomic cats
sitting by the windows
that end up brushing
against the minute hand.
I did not choose to be here.
I was not given a choice.
It is not in my interests
to listen to their enumerations:
Forty-nine nipples
of the candelabra, eleven plates
in the cabinet, four
chairs by every table.
Forty tufts of strand
at the ends of the carpet,
four hundred volumes
written in extinct languages.
The room is the same
in every forsaken cube,
and yet they recite from their diaries
as if they were sacred verses.
I woke up to the fog
chewing on geometries.
They are replicas, all of them,
worshiping my certainty.
The dromedary lords
regurgitate their words
and they exhale smoke spirals
that rust all fasting endeavors.
The last resort is to wander
in the citadels generated
by the accumulating structures,
to enjoy the silence, if you will.
The white streets resemble
temple passages
whose altar is equidistant to infernos.
Cat Food for Yokai
Is your cat scratching itself
against the showerhead?
Is your cat always wet?
Is your other cat deaf,
except to emotionally unavailable
mailmen brushing against the rosemary bushes?
You might need cat probiotics.
Is your other other cat always erect?
Is your cat always guarding the shed
like a gargoyle in French books,
always leering, unapproachable to pet?
You might need cat yoga.
Is your other other other other cat dead?
Is your mattress swollen and red?
Is the dander clogging the vents
and are teeth sprouting from your ankles
and you cats and your cats and your cats
wet the carpet with their entrails and scent?
You might need cat insurance.
Brian was born and raised in Mexico City. He is a Medical Interpreter at a Hospital in Dallas, Texas. His work has appeared in several publications including Oyez Review, Ravens Quoth Press, Alien Buddha Press, and Voicemail Poems. He was a contributor for the now-extinct vaporwave magazine Private Suite.
