Real Boy, no Strings.
A Genius, by His Own Account
Topic
the men
A collection of 11 issues
Provenance
The dealer has photographed it against a white wall and given it the caption: Norwegian, a maker, a year, a chair built for lying back, for going under. When bare rooms were the fashion I thought it hideous. Now it is the kind of thing people collect.
I knew it
Jordan Peterson, Explained.
The problem is older than politics.
The lobster confirms this.
This is serotonin.
Order exists.
Chaos also exists.
Both predate the conversation you wanted to have.
Chaos is feminine.
This is Jungian.
Jung said it was ancient.
The ancients could not be reached for comment.
He recommends cleaning your room.
#35. Access Not Granted.
The television drips.
Saturday leaks down the wall.
My mouth speaks facts
about forged papers.
The papers grow legs
and wander into WhatsApp.
Someone lifts a phone
like a seashell.
Inside it:
my name,
warped,
echoing.
A man
assembles relevance
from spare parts:
a cousin,
a discipline,
a place I
#11:13.
at 11:13
she checks herself
as one checks the sea
has tea and toast
with the dogs
he wears the face
with the accusation
says
it is nothing
she says
right
again
thinking
how expensive it has become
to erase
the lines
on her forehead
the day splits
like
#6:47.
The message pings at 6:47.
It wakes the floorboards.
Then the dogs.
Then the thought that the world has changed.
The curtains observe.
The kettle prepares.
An old lawyer in Monaco
wants her thoughts
on a case
he calls complicated.
He does not ask for her time.
He moves
#31. Man Submits Theory.
There is a man
who draws diagrams
on the surface
of closed doors.
He says
they explain
what’s behind them.
Sometimes
someone inside is screaming.
He calls that
symbolic interference.
Later,
in a quiet magazine,
he folds the siren
into origami.
He says: look,
a theory.
Down the hall,
Consultor Emeritus Infernus: Ricardus
I. Clearance
The floor slicks open.
He steps down –
like a man arriving
at his second home.
Coat unwrinkled. Soul unclaimed.
No trumpets.
Just the low hum
of paperwork completing itself.
A demon glances up,
checks the clipboard.
[cursor blinks –
he’s been here before]
“Oh. You.”
Someone lights a
April/October
for W.B., honoured on his birthday
23 October 2025
I.
It was October, but they sang like April.
Their voices wavered – age inside the strain.
A red carnation pinned to each lapel.
A fado, then a harvest song – off-plane.
Born under watch, he crossed a darker path –
a
Men Explain the Wind
They say it’s from the northwest,
force 4, rising.
They say you’ll want to reef the main,
watch for veer after dusk.
They say many things.
They gesture at isobars,
tap their phones like altars.
They pronounce cyclogenesis
with the softness of prayer.
They lean over charts
as