Accidentally taking angels skating through hell
︎︎︎ Bauhausfrau
︎ Jan 27, 2026
The end of history can be found at your local skate rink. Come armed. Don't you remember a broken metal detector welcoming guests to your own macaroni commercial? Neither will the watchers now, surveying the South American prison portal swallowed by dirt-caked Memphis squiggles. Jungle law ensnares feral child and visitating parent alike, jostling for space and stolen PVC pipe training wheeler as a DJ affects a blaccent to play radio-edited vulgarity. Don't forget to rent communal skates. Yeast proliferates. Foreign partygoers and ours too pack into the "birthday room" cellblock without windows or tables or hope—only a ledge with three personal pan pizzas and small paper cups with lukewarm water. The super skater party package does not include the stacks of institutional brown paper towels to cradle cuts of an imported boutique cake for the little thrones who will devour them. But you will find a way. Be gracious. Think about America and pretend it is fine. The angels say they’re not having fun. This does not happen. A little imp asks for food money near the skate return. We will have much to answer for in the tradvan.
Bauhausfrau is a writer living in the South with her husband and several young children.
All the Clichés Are Having a Party
︎︎︎ Conor Hultman
︎ Jan 26, 2026
A perfect pornography
Pornography wins some, pornography loses some
A bed of pornography
A fine pornography of fish
Pornography speaks louder than words
Pornography of my eye
Better safe than pornography
Can of pornography
Pornography got your tongue
Diamond in the pornography
Pornography bird catches the worm
Fit as a pornography
Pornography makes waste
I hate to say pornography, but
In the nick of pornography
Pornography a minute
Only pornography will tell
Read between the pornography
Pornography between his legs
Take pornography or leave pornography
The pornography of my life
The pornography on the wall
Too much of a good pornography
Pornography gets late early out here
Pornography wins some, pornography loses some
A bed of pornography
A fine pornography of fish
Pornography speaks louder than words
Pornography of my eye
Better safe than pornography
Can of pornography
Pornography got your tongue
Diamond in the pornography
Pornography bird catches the worm
Fit as a pornography
Pornography makes waste
I hate to say pornography, but
In the nick of pornography
Pornography a minute
Only pornography will tell
Read between the pornography
Pornography between his legs
Take pornography or leave pornography
The pornography of my life
The pornography on the wall
Too much of a good pornography
Pornography gets late early out here
Pressboard
︎︎︎ Nik Hoffmann
︎ Jan 25, 2026
Beaten between the sheets of sheen,
Pounded thin to sheaves of foil,
Hot-pressed vinyl melamine,
Melted flat by hell-hot coils.
As so my heart is manufactured,
Acid-bath has psyche fractured,
Bust me, Break me: Board to slivers.
I am Ikea Man, your cookie-cut sinner.
Pounded thin to sheaves of foil,
Hot-pressed vinyl melamine,
Melted flat by hell-hot coils.
As so my heart is manufactured,
Acid-bath has psyche fractured,
Bust me, Break me: Board to slivers.
I am Ikea Man, your cookie-cut sinner.
Nik Hoffmann is a common rhymer.
Arctic Chill
︎︎︎ Emma Wismer
︎ Jan 24, 2026
I wear my drugstore horse socks
around your home
they pick up other people’s hair
and a single piece of confetti
life’s a party
I sit on the kitchen floor
while the coffee gets cold
your eyes are white linoleum
teeth made of dentyne gum (arctic chill)
around your home
they pick up other people’s hair
and a single piece of confetti
life’s a party
I sit on the kitchen floor
while the coffee gets cold
your eyes are white linoleum
teeth made of dentyne gum (arctic chill)
Emma Wismer is a Canadian writer working out of Montreal.
‘Haha Yeah,’
︎︎︎ Emma Foley
︎ Jan 23, 2026
‘Haha Yeah,’
she says, absent,
grinding her teeth in an office supplies store,
a dusty sheet,
a windowless guestroom. Pick the sun out
and bring it back to her, doped up and destitute.
I price olive nerves at the store
according to the excel grid. ‘Don’t you want to
rub our nodes together... or
sidesweep another vehicle?’
she says, absent,
grinding her teeth in an office supplies store,
a dusty sheet,
a windowless guestroom. Pick the sun out
and bring it back to her, doped up and destitute.
I price olive nerves at the store
according to the excel grid. ‘Don’t you want to
rub our nodes together... or
sidesweep another vehicle?’
Emma Foley lives in New York.