Mind Melt

By Noah Rymer

alternate realities chopped up, cutting in and out of the fuzzy T.V. static broth

broadcasting late late late at night like heady, yet half-hearted portents of post-apoc

epoch to the in-betweens of day and night— drifters junkies prostitutes burnouts

dropouts bohemians and whichever one of those you’d like to classify me as— to

experience the pure gutter-televangelism of 1-800 sex line commercials smacking

anonymous lips sensuously in-between late-night specialty channels of a different kind,

which advertise Grand Guignol feasts of psychotronic psychotropic, a permanent 42nd

Street for stay-at-home gorehounds howling at bitter moons craving some sweet moldy

fix. Stoner joints and raunch comedies which had their expiration date mid-nineties

stale upon the screen like opening up a vintage bag of Doritos and the 7-11s and the

Sheetzs of the world are open if only the clandestine blue glow of the midnight fridge

holding the riches of Solomon doesn’t entice you. I am in some suburban basement

waiting for the nukes to pour down like spring rain, entranced by the hyperfixating bind

of low-rent gore, Casio synth scores, colored lighting and a sleep-deprived cerebrum

sparking electric from the vague suggestions of murky shadows that outline the glow of

the tube and the happenings on screen that entrance me like the digital occult or a

secretive seance of the ghost in the machine, entrenching me within the collective

unconsciousness of purely plasticine post-midnight living. tune-in, cop out.

Noah Rymer is a Virginian poet and writer trying to be a conduit of the high strangeness that surrounds us. He also is the Editor-In-Chief of Pere Ube, a regrettable and absurd decision on all fronts.