Apocalypse at the homeschool co-op
︎︎︎ Bauhausfrau
︎ Feb 18, 2026
Nuclear war is what haunts us today. So retro, what a treat. Candace Owens is saying things. Or maybe it was Tucker. The laundry detergent message: is Facebook real. And what is to be done?
Although he may be moldy that St. Michael watches now. We have already what we could control here anyhow.
So soothes our Russian import as she shares postcoldwar eyes. She's right, you know, game theoretically. Scratch that: nukes are fake. Oh crap, where are the kids.
Thrust through the oaky firmament, Parish Council Susan smolders. An uncivil ordeal: scholars square off round a forgotten concrete grill in the Dominican style. His treasures spit cross Larry’s cooled deathbed at each other in today's obnoxious sex battle. Wargame is hell for moms.
A leader decides it's high time we banned it, thank God. Back to pregnant again COVID clean beauty weather machine don't like how Erika looks at us Red Cross report no not flat earth that's dumb but they totally would if they could.
I used to have the dreams too, Crystal City sparkling, I saw the cloud and looked at him, serene, so I smiled knowing we'd soon do it again and in a flash I was right. Want to live together forever? Come to the other window of Providence.
Their signs interrupt that WE WANT WAR! Join the club kid. Girls doth counterprotest enough to force the cause. My charred martyr, so exhausted.
Longbeards above strangle Sue before she stuffs our hefted diapers in an expecting New American’s hatchback. Of course it is the children's fault.
As if you didn't choose to scream across the sky yourself way back. Our lot is to sleepwalk backwards into dominioned futures, covered, our ladies’ clueless Edens thriving on the margins we push. Get in the vans, kids.
Although he may be moldy that St. Michael watches now. We have already what we could control here anyhow.
So soothes our Russian import as she shares postcoldwar eyes. She's right, you know, game theoretically. Scratch that: nukes are fake. Oh crap, where are the kids.
Thrust through the oaky firmament, Parish Council Susan smolders. An uncivil ordeal: scholars square off round a forgotten concrete grill in the Dominican style. His treasures spit cross Larry’s cooled deathbed at each other in today's obnoxious sex battle. Wargame is hell for moms.
A leader decides it's high time we banned it, thank God. Back to pregnant again COVID clean beauty weather machine don't like how Erika looks at us Red Cross report no not flat earth that's dumb but they totally would if they could.
I used to have the dreams too, Crystal City sparkling, I saw the cloud and looked at him, serene, so I smiled knowing we'd soon do it again and in a flash I was right. Want to live together forever? Come to the other window of Providence.
Their signs interrupt that WE WANT WAR! Join the club kid. Girls doth counterprotest enough to force the cause. My charred martyr, so exhausted.
Longbeards above strangle Sue before she stuffs our hefted diapers in an expecting New American’s hatchback. Of course it is the children's fault.
As if you didn't choose to scream across the sky yourself way back. Our lot is to sleepwalk backwards into dominioned futures, covered, our ladies’ clueless Edens thriving on the margins we push. Get in the vans, kids.
Bauhausfrau is a writer living in the South with her husband and several young children.
Also by Bauhausfrau: Accidentally taking angels skating through hell
Also by Bauhausfrau: Accidentally taking angels skating through hell
carvings
︎︎︎ alth0u
︎ Feb 17, 2026
i carved out a little room for you
i hoped you visit if not stay awhile
it has all of your favorite things
to be honest the room is for me
it has all of your favorite things
i hoped you visit if not stay awhile
it has all of your favorite things
to be honest the room is for me
it has all of your favorite things
alth0u is a toolmaker and lover based in San Francisco.
Textureless organ
︎︎︎ Sam Cooke
︎ Feb 16, 2026
If you have lost hope
you have come to the right place
Heat mirage generated
by refusal to be victim
Fantasy of double homicide
as reparative bonding
Failed amputation
as proof of devotion
I built my basement
when I was a teen
Now I fill it with
phosphorus snow
phonics sorrow
eczema sunshine
Dehydrated halfwit
crawls through the cancer of me
Liar I used to be
drunk in my sock drawer
My greatest shame is
I empowered a bug
Cross orbweaver
with personality disorder
Not your mama’s tragedy
Not your tragedy either
Possibility of a life to call our own
vanishes like memory
from entropic mind
Twin sister and lactose angel
search for mushrooms
in the park
among crackheads
in the dark
you have come to the right place
Heat mirage generated
by refusal to be victim
Fantasy of double homicide
as reparative bonding
Failed amputation
as proof of devotion
I built my basement
when I was a teen
Now I fill it with
phosphorus snow
phonics sorrow
eczema sunshine
Dehydrated halfwit
crawls through the cancer of me
Liar I used to be
drunk in my sock drawer
My greatest shame is
I empowered a bug
Cross orbweaver
with personality disorder
Not your mama’s tragedy
Not your tragedy either
Possibility of a life to call our own
vanishes like memory
from entropic mind
Twin sister and lactose angel
search for mushrooms
in the park
among crackheads
in the dark
Lithe Lover’s Song
︎︎︎ Nik Hoffmann
︎ Feb 14, 2026
Hello fair lady, have you got the time,
To take a moment and hear a little rhyme?
Some ladies be proud and sigh at little jokes,
Some be too rash and tongue lash little blokes,
And some are quite upset by knowing smirks,
From boys who’ve seen the worst and how it works,
Oh, everyone can hide what makes them tick,
But some still see when lips are up to tricks,
The prettiest lips, I’m sure, perhaps not very wise,
You speak more truly when you spread your thighs.
It’s all in fun, of course, these naughty things,
To rudely rhyme when muses rightly sing,
Would you grant me a wide and wheeling license,
If my rhetoric grew greatly heightened?
For you and I might die a little death,
The kind of death they used to rhyme in jest,
The type of death that dances round the Maypole,
When two are one and one are soul in soul,
When two are twain till heart’s great halls be filled,
When sleep is sought soon after starlight’s spill,
When Cupid’s dart has surely pierced its mark,
When death and life have pranced in toothsome dark.
But today is day and not just yet the night,
When eyes still play pretend at seeking sights,
And only until the searching mind be numb,
Shall wondering lips fall contentedly dumb,
But till that time we tease sweet nothing’s mind,
With teasing nothings in teasing sweet rhymes.
To take a moment and hear a little rhyme?
Some ladies be proud and sigh at little jokes,
Some be too rash and tongue lash little blokes,
And some are quite upset by knowing smirks,
From boys who’ve seen the worst and how it works,
Oh, everyone can hide what makes them tick,
But some still see when lips are up to tricks,
The prettiest lips, I’m sure, perhaps not very wise,
You speak more truly when you spread your thighs.
It’s all in fun, of course, these naughty things,
To rudely rhyme when muses rightly sing,
Would you grant me a wide and wheeling license,
If my rhetoric grew greatly heightened?
For you and I might die a little death,
The kind of death they used to rhyme in jest,
The type of death that dances round the Maypole,
When two are one and one are soul in soul,
When two are twain till heart’s great halls be filled,
When sleep is sought soon after starlight’s spill,
When Cupid’s dart has surely pierced its mark,
When death and life have pranced in toothsome dark.
But today is day and not just yet the night,
When eyes still play pretend at seeking sights,
And only until the searching mind be numb,
Shall wondering lips fall contentedly dumb,
But till that time we tease sweet nothing’s mind,
With teasing nothings in teasing sweet rhymes.
Too Bad
︎︎︎ Kevin Chesser
︎ Feb 13, 2026
He wanted to believe in the power of lost objects.
She wanted to believe in letting the spaghetti slurp itself.
He wanted to believe in the sign, the sigil, and the starting gun.
She wanted to believe in the benefits of having her face melted off once a month.
He wanted to believe he was safe in his home, rooms dark, curtains drawn.
She wanted to believe if she ever saw a ghost she’d know what to do.
He wanted to believe being a ghost meant you lived in a barn and kicked around a bucket.
She wanted to believe that chauffeur was a portmanteau of show-fur.
He wanted to believe that the real image, the absolute idea, was always on its way soon.
She wanted to believe in the creature made of clapping hands.
He wanted to believe he was very charming under anesthesia.
She wanted to believe in every fucked-up member of her family.
He wanted to believe that all of her best ideas she got from him.
She wanted to believe that he was more an idea than a person.
He wanted to believe he was greater than the sum of his parts.
She wanted to believe the sum total of the universe could be held in the claws of a crab.
He wanted to believe that if he tried hard and did his best, one day he could be nothing.
She wanted to believe somewhere inside him was a roach running a hamster wheel and that was what allowed him words, openness of the eyes, etc.
She wanted to believe in letting the spaghetti slurp itself.
He wanted to believe in the sign, the sigil, and the starting gun.
She wanted to believe in the benefits of having her face melted off once a month.
He wanted to believe he was safe in his home, rooms dark, curtains drawn.
She wanted to believe if she ever saw a ghost she’d know what to do.
He wanted to believe being a ghost meant you lived in a barn and kicked around a bucket.
She wanted to believe that chauffeur was a portmanteau of show-fur.
He wanted to believe that the real image, the absolute idea, was always on its way soon.
She wanted to believe in the creature made of clapping hands.
He wanted to believe he was very charming under anesthesia.
She wanted to believe in every fucked-up member of her family.
He wanted to believe that all of her best ideas she got from him.
She wanted to believe that he was more an idea than a person.
He wanted to believe he was greater than the sum of his parts.
She wanted to believe the sum total of the universe could be held in the claws of a crab.
He wanted to believe that if he tried hard and did his best, one day he could be nothing.
She wanted to believe somewhere inside him was a roach running a hamster wheel and that was what allowed him words, openness of the eyes, etc.
Kevin Chesser is a writer and musician. He lives in West Virginia.