//a spooky mulder field day

i want to meet these aliens. it’s strange that i haven’t. have they landed? i hear a balding man call this tiny woman an alien. she doesn’t have giant eyes or a fat-tear-drop head. her skin suit is /on point/. way better than mine. another man on tv says we’ve been invaded. what’s up with these dudes? says: they’re here! walking! talking! strange languages! taking our jobs! but like, i can only spot earthlings. i don’t even have a job to take. /what kind of anticlimactic shit…/ another roswell scam. i’m choking alone on wishbones now—keeping files open—crashing all my comps. this is really just the weirdest planet. my ears are full of water.


//getting grimmer

i’ve gotten out of bed. congratulate me. the way they do in candy crush when you find the gummy bear. or what the fuck ever. i’m really the most barf worthy. did you know there’s a preschool for adults? they’ll give white people money for everything. <let’s wax weird>. i’ve been listening to this new band. they’re only new to me really. a reason to plug back in :::: recharge. i can’t buy you that new body. i’m following yr ghost trail into the cold electric air space // onto a new wave. i’m shaking my way to you, my head on this cold glass. my eyes on this other cold glass. i don’t think this is where i wanna be when the robot wars begin. my phone is dying, but ghosts don’t use imessage yet. so what does it really matter? are you still ghosting freely? a waste of a shell. did you figure out if a ghost can smoke. can you levitate cigarettes? i don’t know where you want me. i promise to be kind. turning myself around. anyways, ttyl ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// these fingers project slowly. they can’t construct time. i’m trying to simulate time. what day is it again? ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// where you’re holed up. //this dank lair// i didn’t know a ghost would need this many blankets. //this nice dank lair// i lean out of your window blowing smoke. //this nice cold dank lair// my things on your floor || your things on high shelves. //this neat nice cold dank lair// you think i should stay with you a while. sit on this shell. keep it warm. sleep could be easy. the thing is:::::::::/i’m/::::::::: not a bird-body. i don’t know that i’ll be soft enough. i’m playing sad kid surf punk ::: you swap in big brass band. we’ve had this chat about stereos. everything here is made of ectoplasm. my metal hands are dripping. i’m sure. we are at a wooden table eating microwaved pizza. you carry something person-like in on your back. i ask if you remember our spooky sleepover. you said you remember all my spectral-sleeps. we finish our pizza. your back-thing wriggles.

STEPHON LAWRENCE is a Brooklyn born & based writer, and artist. She is a current candidate in the MFA in Writing and Activisms at Pratt Institute and is co-founder & an editor of The Felt (.org), a journal of otherworldly poetics. She has a forthcoming chapbook with Horseless Press entitled, NERVS, spends her free time watching anime, yelling about white supremacy, and being real cute for the ‘gram. You can find her on twitter @nnohpetss.