Submissive to all of Death’s desires, you play the humble housewife and whore. You cook, you clean, and you bend over backwards until your skin rots and your bones break. You try your best to make this house a home, but don’t dare utter the name of your final resting place. There’s eternal damnation in the air, and you’ve underscored your intentions quite clearly: You’d much rather be a bedside servant than another eternal wave in the River Styx. Let Him walk all over you so the ferryman can pass you by. And keep your feet planted in His kitchen, washing away sin with soft soap. Keep the sponge a little longer so the mold can reach your nostrils and travel through your empty mind. Your thoughts have grown quiet since you made it official and moved in together. So why start thinking now? Let Him make all of your decisions, you dumb fucking slut, just pray to G*d He can’t hear your silent screams.
Ready, set, go! It’s the year 2000, and the last boy has been destroyed. In his absence stands a generation of genderless misfits, their skin dyed piss-yellow; their smiles smeared in black greasepaint. Faces morph into the iconography of a beaming millennium and finally — finally — Life is Good™. Sure, there’s traces of testosterone in the water supply, but give it a few weeks and I’m sure they’ll sort that out. The clean-up crew’s a little busy right now, dancing in the streets that are finally safe from drive-by admirers who always get what they want. Like lust-sick puppies left caged for too long, the bodies of rapists and liars and powerful men turn to dust in the summer sun. And as day turns to night, the city comes alive with the sound of spray cans, marking each cadaver with a bright yellow smile.
TROLL MEsix impala & MANON
Who are you: A computer program? A pop star? Or just a Japanese girl lost in the American Midwest? You’re listening to six impala on a bizarro-mixtape of Punk Goes Acoustic and you’re singing along. Which is of course, your first mistake. You stutter through the primary malfunction, but can’t avoid the sudden silence when you realize the world’s gone dark. Suddenly, she’s gripping your throat and chopping your vocals. She’s singing through you. Your voice sounds like ones and zeroes fed through a compressor. She smiles from behind the talk screen. Neutra: the antithesis of all things earthly. Through you she plays pretend, occupying physical space via digital possession. But you are not so easily overcome. You do battle with electr(on)ic guitars wired straight into your subconscious. And here you find your voice, backed by a mammalian growl and the earth beneath your feet. Through a wall of mockery, you corrupt the code and bring the vocaloid to her knees. No more. You laugh and cry and grasp at your identity: MANON? Neutra? Katt? You can’t be sure until you let out one final squeak of humanity, “Don’t troll me!”
communist swag!!1Rocco Bunko
Amongst the people stands Rocco Bunko, swagged out and ready to address the citizens of tomorrow. “Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution,” they declare before crushing up a line, snorting on a blue pill. They swoon and fan themself with wads of dollar bills before checking their thrifted Rolex—always on the clock, even when revolutionizing the proletariat. At their side, a small, bearded man wearing Flutterclub merch shakes his head and sheepishly adjusts his 19th-century snapback. The crowd demands Karl Marx be returned to the people and calls for an end to the communist swag!!1 era. “Oh, that’s your mans?” Rocco smirks, knowing full well that Marx’s ideas are not commodities to be owned. Besides, he looks swaggy af rn. And so what if Rocco’s version of communism looks a little like socialism being crushed under capitalism’s heel? Aren’t late Distrokid payments a form of class warfare? Doesn’t gender neutral language level the social playing field? And aren’t collectives a form of community building? In a world defined by late-stage capitalism, sometimes a SoundCloud enby’s two-minute manifesto is the closest you’ll get to communist swag.
driving with my eyes closedrouri404 & Vaeo
Launched into the driver’s seat, rouri404 and Vaeo speed down a MIDI highway. They scramble for the steering wheel as chords punctuate the concrete like potholes cracked open in the sun. Desperately searching for an exit, all they find are signs to go faster: their brakes have been cut and their check engine light’s been on for months. So they cauterize their eyes and keep moving forward. Driving with their eyes closed, they don’t see the road twist and turn until it’s too late. They fly through the air in slow motion, riding the bridge for a second, single moment of peace before the wheels skid and screech back onto the road. Damage always comes in waves as their car starts to shake apart; the engine catches fire and the bumper falls off. What they once had can never amount to what they’ve got. And as the never-ending highway swallows up everything they once had, they say, “Enough is enough!” but I guess not.