Alt Lit Press: the best worst lit

#alt lit, #internet poetry, #image macro, #essay, #fiction, #short story, #blogging, #existentialism, #buddhism, #vaporwave, #cyberpunk, #seapunk, #altcrit, #drugs, #weed, #adderall, #xanax, #straightedge, #dharma #memes #based #consciousness, #meaningoflife, #newsincerity, #emo, #postmodernism, #lol #blogcore, #screenshots, #glitch art, #net art, #etc

alt

fuck you i am so alt
i am so alt i have no friends
i am so alt i have no life
i am so alt i have no interests
i am so alt i am over it ALL
everything i touch is alt
i’m the king midas of on the cusp of avant fucking everything

i am so alt i you can’t discover me
i am so alt i’m ahead of time itself
i am so alt my shit isn’t even GOOD
i am so alt you cannot possibly get me
don’t try just go somewhere and fucking die

i am so alt i’m completely mainstream
i am so alt i’m beyond post-everything
give up and just get a real job
my job is being alt as fuck

are you alive? you’re a fucking sellout
are you breathing? wow, so original

i don’t even have opinions
i’m whatever you think you need to become
i’m a step ahead of you and i’m not even walking

perfect, static
permanent like a statue
and cold as marble
i do not change
i do not grow
i do not live and i do not die
i am alt and my name is death
and i’ve come to say Hi,
and then goodbye

20 notes alt lit poetry whatever submission

sometimes the way it feels to smell the moldy scent of our stained hearts, worn down with leaks and water damage, is like sitting at a desk, hunched over in amiable concentration, birthing nothing of worth as an idea
when we’re lying next to each other, forgotten mouths giving way to open wounds in our chests, spitting out blood and mold 
with wheezes and water damaged tears
in an attempt at communicating our fears about the way the cracks in the chambers of our hearts may be widening and how that might be really fucked because
i know how it feels to watch a 20 ton cement mixer fix a crack in the ground
and realize that 
it would take so much more than that to fix all the cracks and potholes lining the roads inside of me

our love was built on a fault line and that makes me feel really excited but
it feels dangerous when the cracks open up so wide that they might engulf our bodies and the rest of the bodies in the world who like to sit at their desks hunched over in amiable concentration 
but honestly when the crack pushes on two sides of the world, widening in amiable concentration for a while, the sphere will be pulled apart and instead pushed together in amiable concentration until a giant semi-sphere is formed with a giant terrain of huge mountains ((maybe just one fucked up giant mountain that we can climb together with emotions other than amiable concentration))

8 notes alt lit internet poetry poem poetry submission
A to do

By brother is out of work

Getting a call on a Friday before he left his desk

 I’m sure he wonders why him on the evening sofa,

His mind traveling back through the state mandated seventh grade aptitude tests that told if you were supposed to a musician or an analysis, or a teacher of statistics or a statistic itself.

But what is a job,

A shovel to grasp, blood to sample, a pen to hold, news to print

Memo for a counter memo

A relevance enough for irrelevance not to have a hold

A numerical analysis of the analysis that numerical studies are accurate

That which produces a theoretical entity that sends numbers enough for a bed and bread and money honey

Or just what it is when you have, ‘too much to loose.

Merely a to do, or not to do

A shovel, a pen, a hammer, or wheel to hold

Which keeps some someone from slipping off to irrelevance

Never having to mumble through the dreaded “Could you, I don’t know, spare, something of a few dollars,”

Others’ sitting with naked forks waiting for the ring of a phone

And if this is merely a description to you and your calendar days are still red with events and to do’s on Sunday afternoons,

Know that others’ Tuesday’s nights are cut up by insomnia journals where those who’ve lost work have cried out onto the pages thoughts only some get to know about themselves.

My brother is out of work, and my sister may be out of work

And a, to do, can ben a game for this kind of life

Empty calendar pages turn with a speed that seems slowed by the human need for  some someone to meet.

3 notes alt lit internet poetry poem poetry writing creative writing words submission
Thinking About Dying by Julie Ako

Sometimes you have to sit in a room with all your stuff and think about dying and wonder about this stuff and other things, like where it’s all gonna go afterwards.

Maybe your family will donate everything to that goodwill off Morgan and you have to think about the kid who will eventually buy your GameCube and a box of all your favorite games for 15$. Is he going to enjoy that version of Starfox as much as you did? You also gotta think about if he’s gonna overwrite your last save file or finish the game for you and if he does, will he feel like he’s really accomplished anything at all?

 You gotta think about if your parents are going to spring for that extra padded cushioned coffin with the warranty that the funeral director is going to try and sell them and if they do, will they watch that same funeral director speed off into the distance in a newly restored cherry Cadillac Coupè de Ville. You gotta think about if they’re going to watch him push 100 mph, Valkyrie cry and hyena cackle to the sky with a handful of your their grief soaked money all because you had to be an idiot and die. 

You also gotta think about the fact that maybe your parents will turn your childhood bedroom into a creepy mausoleum for their dead child and never go into it and when they have guests over it’ll be that weird room that no ones allowed to go into, which naturally makes them more curious. You have to think about the fact that maybe your parents might even get a dog and name it after you and dress it up in miniature sized versions of your entire wardrobe and one day that dog will die and it will rain for three straight days and your parents won’t be able to bury it. 

You have to think about how your mom might be so grief stricken from losing her furry replacement you that she’ll hang out in the shed with its dead body and you have to think about the Prada shoebox your mom is going to inevitably bury it in. 

You have to think that maybe one day your parents will lose all of their friends because they’re the weird couple who can’t let go of their child. You have to understand that even when you’re dead everything is still going to be your fault.

You have to think about the fact that all your friends are going to die and Facebook will be just one big graveyard you all used to hangout in. You have to ask yourself “Do things collect dust on the internet?” You have to understand that they do.

You have to think about the fact that maybe ghosts are real and you’re going to become one because you have some unfinished task, nothing important like curing cancer or solving the energy crisis but something menial like emptying the dishwasher but now you can’t because your hands are made of whatever ghosts are made of and you can’t pick up solid things like the handle to the dishwasher so now you’re stuck as a ghost forever.

You have to think about how long it takes to drive from Chicago to Ann Arbor. How much time do you spend dying in a car on your way to see someone you love? I have been dying for one month and three days to see you. You have to think about how much you can love an organism that is decaying right in front of you.

Do you ever think about how much space you’re taking up? Even when you’re dead, you’re still occupying unnecessary space. One day the kid with your GameCube will die and maybe you can talk about Starfox in Hell because the Jehovah Witnesses were right. The funny thing about your parents getting a dog is you never even liked dogs in the first place. You were more of a cat person. The funeral director gets into heaven through some loophole. God shrugs because the world is unfair. Sometimes life is unfair and then you die. You have to think about these things sometimes, Julie.

28 notes alt lit lit short fiction short story prose writing whatever submission
mmm one day
morn

i’d like to go see nouns with you
some sort of very interesting nouns
like, on the subway or something, look at nouns
and say to ourselves, “something”

aftern

seeing lots of nouns a lot of times
ruins the effect of nouns maybe
nouns can start to feel sort of melty, drippage everywhere
can melted candle wax be made into candles again
probably not
imagine if this was a revolutionary revelation
and people only needed to buy one more candle for the rest of their lives

and some wicks to put into their recycled candles
but candle companies would probably catch on and make candles like, a lot of currency each
and those unlucky souls who forgot to buy candles before the rapture
would just be fucked, melting drippy humans with flesh ((no more))
thats nouns sometimes

nigh

some nouns are v fucked
turns out candle wax can be recycled
fucked

7 notes alt lit internet poetry poem poetry writing submission
until

*

we we we we
we we we we

we we 
we we

we we we we
we we we we

we we

we we
we we
we we, until

we weren’t.

*

le buc

9/14

21 notes alt lit poetry writing creative writing submission

why would I want to reel around the fountain?

even battery hens got lay

6 notes alt lit internet poetry poem poetry words whatever submission
The Fappening

The Fappening reigns from based gods. It’s like the windows to the world left their lights on and I’m staring in on private lives. All my high school crushes flaunt through high def viewfinders. Moles in all the right places. Million dollar smiles. Shaved and unshaved pussies. Lord in heaven, dicks on faces. Ladies of the Abbey smelling buttholes. Gifs of Big Bang piss. My shower running over with sin.

8 notes alt lit internet poetry poetry lit prose submission

mirissaleja:

ok

Reblogged from mirissaleja
"semi-ok Fridays"

April showers bring dead Jesus
back to life, hair full of flowers.
Spreadsheet meetings track
your progress. You’re on level 18.
The same boss kills you time &
time again. You can’t time your jump.

You can’t time anything.

Remember when you tried
to kiss her? Her hair was full of flowers. She was an archeological find in reverse.

The river is full of flowers & I’m
useless in April, useless in May,
useless in all the hours & the months that past; I’m a calendar of
late appointments & fax tones & dead unicorns.

I think unicorns are a stand in for Christ. I think I’m late for everything.

Obvious resurrection is obvious.
Obvious pagan symbolism
is obviously pagan symbolism.
Rabbits are fecundity.
Your gf forget to take her pill.

Peeps grow stale in their packages.
Egg dying kits appear in tortilla shells at Qdoba. We eat cruelty free grass feed beef in our tacos.
We eat flesh in the mysteries
of the Eucharist. We live in cannibal dreamings


(in our relationships we eat

each other until nothing is left).


The cabbies take selfies with
the setting sun. The setting sun
takes overdoses of evening
until it fades out in mid sentence.

Jesus Fucking Christ rides
marshmallow peeps shaped like
unicorns. Rabbits have more kids
& watch “watership down.” Rabbits
are scarred for life because that movie is nightmare fuel.

unsold peeps are resold next Easter.


Cursedvideogame.tumblr.com/Kevin sharp

10 notes alt lit poem poetry submission