"No One's Out There" by Marisol Brady
30CT by West Ambrose
This haunted house; blood running down cracked walls;
rattling, shivering, moaning
for no particular reason at all. This sitting parlor;
filled with flickering topaz lamps,
with flame-hazard prongs near
thick, velvet sofas;
this synapse, this firing,
this memory loss with
no recall.
This kitchen with no doorway;
the gas knobs all turned to seven, the pungent scent of stilettos and
cleavers; the creeping doubt that Tylenol isn’t strong enough, that
Arsenic wouldn’t be, either. This water bottle on the counter top cackling: Are you hydrated
enough now? Won’t that fix all your problems? Aren’t you just a little stressed? (Your water
bottle is auditioning for the role of “White Cis Male with an M.D. in front of his name
and ten minutes where he can’t seem to listen to you,” can’t listen for as long as it takes to use a
Bathroom;) this bathroom; a bathtub trickling; a sink overflowing; a clock ticking, a toilet filled
with black murky ink; an astral realm where the vomit leaves a permanent trail of unidentified
footsteps on the ceiling; walking, crawling, clambering to the safety of…
This bedroom with a body; wrapped in sheets and
not coming to class again, not able to squint at screens or sun or even itself; four wooden posters
and all that’s missing is the hinges, the hymn, the holier-than-thou shake of someone’s head; this
body at rest, this body that could rest forever and never feel better; more pillows
and heating pads and sheets; mummy, mourner, cremated
furnace ash. This basement of a lifestyle; open the door and take a walk,
smile even though every tiny bone sings out in pain; even though you are a ghost and
the exorcism will likely kill you if they could ever find the right guy to perform it,
anyways. Recite a song, a prayer, a whistle that covers the crack in your young, crumbling
knees;
Our lord of loners in hallway staircases,
Our patron saint of stinging eyes;
Tell yourself This time around I can do it, I can be
normal, be good; I can choose being good or I can
survive.
rattling, shivering, moaning
for no particular reason at all. This sitting parlor;
filled with flickering topaz lamps,
with flame-hazard prongs near
thick, velvet sofas;
this synapse, this firing,
this memory loss with
no recall.
This kitchen with no doorway;
the gas knobs all turned to seven, the pungent scent of stilettos and
cleavers; the creeping doubt that Tylenol isn’t strong enough, that
Arsenic wouldn’t be, either. This water bottle on the counter top cackling: Are you hydrated
enough now? Won’t that fix all your problems? Aren’t you just a little stressed? (Your water
bottle is auditioning for the role of “White Cis Male with an M.D. in front of his name
and ten minutes where he can’t seem to listen to you,” can’t listen for as long as it takes to use a
Bathroom;) this bathroom; a bathtub trickling; a sink overflowing; a clock ticking, a toilet filled
with black murky ink; an astral realm where the vomit leaves a permanent trail of unidentified
footsteps on the ceiling; walking, crawling, clambering to the safety of…
This bedroom with a body; wrapped in sheets and
not coming to class again, not able to squint at screens or sun or even itself; four wooden posters
and all that’s missing is the hinges, the hymn, the holier-than-thou shake of someone’s head; this
body at rest, this body that could rest forever and never feel better; more pillows
and heating pads and sheets; mummy, mourner, cremated
furnace ash. This basement of a lifestyle; open the door and take a walk,
smile even though every tiny bone sings out in pain; even though you are a ghost and
the exorcism will likely kill you if they could ever find the right guy to perform it,
anyways. Recite a song, a prayer, a whistle that covers the crack in your young, crumbling
knees;
Our lord of loners in hallway staircases,
Our patron saint of stinging eyes;
Tell yourself This time around I can do it, I can be
normal, be good; I can choose being good or I can
survive.
West Ambrose is a scrivener and performing artist. Check out his ever queer works at westofcanon.com. If you want anything published in The HLK quarterly or The Crow’s Nest, just ring for the masthead, and let them know.
Marisol Brady is a self-taught photographer whose work examines the ephemerality of capitalist excess, nostalgic distortion, times we’ve had, times we’ve been told we had, and the time we have left. They cast an optimistic, neon-lensed glance at the decay precipitated by the hyper-escalating economic inequality and planetary destruction of the past four decades that, with some squinting, recognizes its transformative potential. Originally hailing from Long Island’s south shore, Marisol lives in Brooklyn.
