From Conversations With Kafka Marcus Slease

We scuttle around like a beetle with an apple lodged
in our back while a gorgeous woman plays
a violin in the next room. Who threw the apple
is not the question. Why the apple is not the question.
Why the back might be. There's no time.
There's more special damage where this one came from.
Soon the apple will rot our backs and we will lose
our sense of smell and thus our desire to eat, live etc.
Don't let the missionary maggots convince you
they are visionary. Via extensive study of various bibles
they know how to persuade sleeping bees
of afterworld honey and thus strip their flesh of this world.
Don't be deceived. The other world is here.
It is bubble green and full of thumbscrews.

Marcus Slease was born and raised in Portadown, N. Ireland. Currently, he teaches Existentialism to freshmen at UNC Greensboro. Recent poetry has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Hayden's Ferry Review, Diagram, can we have our ball back?, Gut Cult, Spork, and Octopus.

Typo Issue Two