Sit Born Half a Million Years From Now. by Shane Jesse Christmass

today, she exits latrines of the infinite dream
with their boots knocking dream
contracting at the slightest, not having them safely to us
at the will gnaw along part of the foot

years of odorous the door of vacant long ladies used to what funny ways
grew as days passed without any explanation, stitting on the beanbag in the apartment
an interstellar flight remains daunting, but are orders pirouetting cut from the through
UFO Aliens will kidnap next, sinister rumours, offices as a palpable shortcut of space
the scythes of truth mow clear additions, sighting peaks, the lily all never read against
        a nearby tent and is engaged
a can of died grandly hearing the infinite, the show is litter here, to tent everyone
seeing trespass up the terrible none, will not hang myself, am flinging experience the future scythes of house, to be the poet always, Eastern European town has been affected, a rock, a tent flinging rough through my garden, people that flank with glorious ease, a panel van, its lateral door up like remorse, die known does not budge
know what which
take me with glorious ease
go have none go the vice president and the national security unfolds
reading of Key seems wall, militiamen, their moment ceasing, cast in prophetic pride
raising situational and psychic adepts in addition, falling, find close that loses its
        existence at the last
        building and its kill
don't have to haul your own working air the very sky after a shrill mountain through which I might connect as maxim, never invest in something that violates pedants
saluting with one transcendent is want to eat, the shopkeeper falls
psychics predict the disappearances, highly premature anticipation to
underestimate me to remember seeing in sight, quickly today, the world Post Office building lands, ugh thick woods soil in cycles white, the sight which thrills a profound figure to Doctor's mind as he was entering direction of Liberty
volunteer firemen call friends then, biting into the little berry shrubs
a living species flourishes upon them, naked, pride vanishing with the dream
since the found loses of Genghis bike crush and Freedom crowns, through the courtesan, not to have an Australia evaporate into the dead this, and we don't believe
        so that our adversaries take refuge in the fog night soup
                in the brassiere section of the department store…

Shane Jesse Christmass is an Australian author. He edits the journal Queen Vic Knives. He’s also a member of the band Mattress Grave. He also firmly believes that the future of the word, the novel, will be in synthetic telepathy. His writing is archived at Lupara Publishing.