i don't know if I'm living or just too stubborn to stop.

edward said on frantz fanon

another sunday special.

https://cosmonautmag.com/2026/04/the-capitalist-in-the-21st-century/

You are my ecstasy, and I am a moth without a bed.
I am the dog unstuck from sand, washing out to sea.
Oh, she is cruel, as cruel as an au pair, her legs spread.

You licked the bar of kitchen soap, knowing where she bled.
Nightstand nightcaps with swollen hands and a drop of blood.
You are my ecstasy, and I am a moth without a bed.

Your name catches in my throat like shortbread.
Passing a church, I cross my heart but get all bawdy.
Oh, she is cruel, as cruel as an au pair, her legs spread.

She paints her cheeks rosy, her need for attention underfed.
We spot them in the wild; sometimes, they’re beastly.
You are my ecstasy, and I am a moth without a bed.

A strand of her hair lines your underwear, slicing the head.
She grabbed the knife, lunging at you with glee.
Oh, she is cruel, as cruel as an au pair, her legs spread.

Reading through our texts, I howl into my cornbread.
They eat cellulite for breakfast, obsessed with beauty.
You are my ecstasy, and I am a moth without a bed.
Oh, she is cruel, as cruel as an au pair, her legs spread.

tom hurndall

moday. running errands for my father under the blazing sun. wearing a worn out converse all-star, it's rubber sole plastering into the asphalt with each step. listening to dusko gojkovic's slavic mood album. runny nose, tho i won't admit i caught a cold. i love mondays.