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Matt Proctor is a writer from Columbus, Ohio. He lives in an art performance house called the Sloodge in Brooklyn, NY

touched by an angel

 

it was the summer

of resting bitchface

I was live-tweeting

my inner-monologue

tucked my head

pictured antarctica

oh good, now life can

begin, this day just out

of the package, first

in a whole series


everything’s under

stood through silver

halide, even the throbbing

membrane of my own

heart, set decorated

in green slime and lit

from within, a softbox,

 

the sun’s hairlight fring-

ing the green jewfros

of the trees. We learned

to want the hardest thing

to want, to be fanatics

for the unattainable

we learned to dance with

the flame, that the leaping

heat was our partner, one

we could never touch but

which lifted us higher towards the

cold blue dome of the stars.

 

 

 

 

joe rogan podcast

 

the landlord wants

what the landlord wants


 

defied the horizon

and breached heaven

don’t know what I’ll do

now probably

hit the beach probably

make the park probably

forget how to turn

my life into

art and just turn it

into more life

instead

bend you over

my gown of leaves

a blonde door laughing

a small library of trash

in my back pocket

elon musk said

the probability is

100% we’re living in a screen

saver the sky is wearing

a dark blue t-shirt the grass


purrs loneliness and

boredom things I used to be

friends with but haven’t

visited in a while


I like to squirm

out of the house

a resolute vista

between the roommates

the streets an open stage

where nobody knows

your name and you’re allowed

to look without touching

the wind parade

the paved gray sky

 

a curious bird chirps

small as punctuation

rain is coming

so I am going

another notched day


in the park

MATT PROCTOR

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