Vape
︎︎︎ Emily K. Sipiora
︎ Aug 15, 2026
Let’s larp love
Hand in hand let’s
join the other loved people
I wasn’t the first one you thought of
but maybe the second thing
Hand in hand let’s
join the other loved people
I wasn’t the first one you thought of
but maybe the second thing
Emily K. Sipiora is a Mexican-American poet and the Creative Director of internet literature podcast VICTIM RADIO.
Also by Emily: Animal Services
Terracotta Army
︎︎︎ Conor Hultman
︎ Aug 13, 2026
I know
I can’t take it with me.
The after-life
was after all
making you
spend your life
making life-like
terracotta warriors,
eight thousand unique faces,
no two alike,
to bury with me.
My memories,
and yours,
will be lost.
But,
mine were of heaven,
and,
yours were of slavery.
I can’t take it with me.
The after-life
was after all
making you
spend your life
making life-like
terracotta warriors,
eight thousand unique faces,
no two alike,
to bury with me.
My memories,
and yours,
will be lost.
But,
mine were of heaven,
and,
yours were of slavery.
Conor Hultman is an uneditor of Loser. He lives in New York, New York.
Also by Conor: All the Clichés Are Having a Party
Also by Conor: All the Clichés Are Having a Party
Roadside
︎︎︎ Lindsay Jarrett Smith
︎ Aug 12, 2026
Queens and chicory
roadside beauties
like what you imagine
hitchhikers to be,
American girls blooming in June.
Red-headed lilies living in ditches.
Flaming out the hours of summer
dismissed by the iris until the flags wave.
roadside beauties
like what you imagine
hitchhikers to be,
American girls blooming in June.
Red-headed lilies living in ditches.
Flaming out the hours of summer
dismissed by the iris until the flags wave.
For Renaud Camus
︎︎︎ Curtis Yarvin
︎ Aug 10, 2026
Bunting’s Fly-Leaf
On Pound’s Cantos:
“Who knows what the ice will have scraped
On the rock it is smoothing?” Camus,
In the annex of City Lights
I used to wonder why the shelf
Was packed wall to wall
With this year’s bricks,
While our mediocre past
Left three stones per age.
A dreamer with a ponytail!
All there ever was was stone,
And packed, baked dirt—
Stalled a second from the worm.
“There are the Alps, fools!
There they are, you will have
To go a long way round
If you want to avoid them.”
And still our glacier, not
Just time but time and POWER
Which crushes brick to paste,
Types its fist on the schist.
Pound in the cage at Pisa
Next to Louis Till—daddy,
I kid you not, of Emmett—
“For murder and rape with trimmings,”
For the Italian radio.
Never speak down,
Was the code of the hour—
Dinner always with a tie,
First names only
With old friends, and words
Metamorphic as the Alps.
“Sit down and wait for them to crumble!”
At the contact point
Of rock and ice, the pressure
Is hotter than the sun: and
Whatever is spoken is lost
In the fatty lobe of time,
Until all stones are dirt
And only books remain;
And in the books we are criminals
Or clowns, nervous types
Fit for the institution. Still
The truth is that the true fascism
Which has never been tried,
The sinless Platonic ideal
Of fascism, is not a fascism
Of masters but of servants,
“God and the ancestors”
Its battlecry and its boss.
For which would you deride?
Do you not know them? We do.
“Come with us if you want to live.”
We came to serve the dead,
With bids in to betray them,
With silver options up.
At the diamond tip of power,
The crux, hot enough to cut
Diamond like butter with diamond,
Rocks exploding like grenades,
Cuts its verdict in the land.
Camus: nothing could turn you.
They are heavy, but will melt.
On Pound’s Cantos:
“Who knows what the ice will have scraped
On the rock it is smoothing?” Camus,
In the annex of City Lights
I used to wonder why the shelf
Was packed wall to wall
With this year’s bricks,
While our mediocre past
Left three stones per age.
A dreamer with a ponytail!
All there ever was was stone,
And packed, baked dirt—
Stalled a second from the worm.
“There are the Alps, fools!
There they are, you will have
To go a long way round
If you want to avoid them.”
And still our glacier, not
Just time but time and POWER
Which crushes brick to paste,
Types its fist on the schist.
Pound in the cage at Pisa
Next to Louis Till—daddy,
I kid you not, of Emmett—
“For murder and rape with trimmings,”
For the Italian radio.
Never speak down,
Was the code of the hour—
Dinner always with a tie,
First names only
With old friends, and words
Metamorphic as the Alps.
“Sit down and wait for them to crumble!”
At the contact point
Of rock and ice, the pressure
Is hotter than the sun: and
Whatever is spoken is lost
In the fatty lobe of time,
Until all stones are dirt
And only books remain;
And in the books we are criminals
Or clowns, nervous types
Fit for the institution. Still
The truth is that the true fascism
Which has never been tried,
The sinless Platonic ideal
Of fascism, is not a fascism
Of masters but of servants,
“God and the ancestors”
Its battlecry and its boss.
For which would you deride?
Do you not know them? We do.
“Come with us if you want to live.”
We came to serve the dead,
With bids in to betray them,
With silver options up.
At the diamond tip of power,
The crux, hot enough to cut
Diamond like butter with diamond,
Rocks exploding like grenades,
Cuts its verdict in the land.
Camus: nothing could turn you.
They are heavy, but will melt.
Westerkerk Carillon
︎︎︎ Leon Ray-Fernandes
︎ Aug 8, 2026
When talk faltered—just then,
out of the narrow air, closed
on the street like a box-top,
broadened, bells, lifted
of a sudden, across
rooftops, straining the ear
by gentleness; hard to hear
over talk resumed.
By further surprise,
I recognised the tune
aman aman (the city was surprised too)
the bells in Amsterdam
toll a muwaššah:
Lamma Bada Yatathanna.
When she began to sway
she seemed to bend
like a branch in the breeze,
bending, swayed.
Something captured me
when she began.
Who hears me beg?
These next six month
or sixty year?
No one can answer this,
except the Quene of Beauty
aman aman aman aman
aman
Which can be rendered either
yearning or surrender,
Do not hide your face from me,
Or ‘peace,’ ‘mercy,’
‘shelter.’
for a spell,
then ended.
And it was winter
in a city by the IJmeer,
when she began to sway,
my talk faltered.
out of the narrow air, closed
on the street like a box-top,
broadened, bells, lifted
of a sudden, across
rooftops, straining the ear
by gentleness; hard to hear
over talk resumed.
By further surprise,
I recognised the tune
aman aman (the city was surprised too)
the bells in Amsterdam
toll a muwaššah:
Lamma Bada Yatathanna.
When she began to sway
she seemed to bend
like a branch in the breeze,
bending, swayed.
Something captured me
when she began.
Who hears me beg?
These next six month
or sixty year?
No one can answer this,
except the Quene of Beauty
aman aman aman aman
aman
Which can be rendered either
yearning or surrender,
Do not hide your face from me,
Or ‘peace,’ ‘mercy,’
‘shelter.’
for a spell,
then ended.
And it was winter
in a city by the IJmeer,
when she began to sway,
my talk faltered.