Prose – Page 3 – Regular Movement

Cut Up Punk Beat Dreaming Jazz Melodies

I liked Altered Carbon the series – I did, but the book for me opened itself up on such a huge canvas, and the characters

To a Chanticleer it rhymed with mind. To an Aeolian working for The Breath it rhymed with tinned. Wind. A clock thrown into a breeze.

He was in the corner burning books. He took a gun and fired it at the screen that was playing a bunch of kids involved

A bucket full of genius athlete jizz, that was he had sat there in the fridge. What use was it though? Where could it find

Repeat. Regret. Reincarnate. Sammy Sara sat there peddling to turn the Prayer Wheel of this Rue Inn, where people came to punish themselves over and

He leans into the rain while his braces, hooked on one end to a door handle, hold him up. Some days he uses the ever-present

You don’t expect a blade. You have been led to expect a gun. You don’t expect the strange motionless edge moving through you without pain

The holy journey of shrapnel. He is wearing a jacket made of flak. He is drinking one of the few coffee varieties to get off

It looked like chum, all those chunks in the bath, and that was good, because that was what he intended to use it for. He

The eye clicks and the camera sends the image to a profile build; ever tiny little thing that spins out from this one action carries

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