Flamin' Hot Fuckboy
Microreviews of Issue #13 of Fuckboy & Flamin' Hot Cheetos
Fuckboy, Issue #13, July 4 2022
“You are so talented at making me feel pathetic.” Episode 13 of the Fuckboy zine landed on my desk recently and it is one of the most delightful things I have read since being an unborn child conceived on the outlandish sofa of simile, when of course I read nothing, when everything was in perfect totipotent proportion. “When will being alive stop feeling so overwhelming?” These 4 pages of zine-comic musings mixed with self-reflexive existential fuckworm angst are in micromoments the most radically digressive poetry I have read in the past 382 days.
Fucking, defecation, art, tenderness, decomposition. Gluey and gazey and prostitute-y. “Poop is clean when you love someone.” Art is mindless, disorients depth, disintegrates the image of crisis. Fuckboy fills the void that Fuckboy created. Google incontinence, glimmerglass, Arlene Shnitzer. Proust swallowed by the formal opposite of Proust. Ah, the wounded moon infested with worms, the eye impaled on the spike of laughter.
Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, 2.75 oz. bag, purchased September 23, 2022
The dissonant crinkle of metalized polypropylene as I pop open the bag. What are these little purpled-orange fuckers? Crunchy three-dimensional petrified rot. The limbs of thousand-year-old witches. Black locust bark. I begin to eat and my mouth goes flat, it does not go flat it poses as flat, sumptuous fingertip-smear lip-licked, this tongue-tingle a type of silence, a play of light, the swoon of a victim. What is behind this sensation? Must I keep eating to find out? Must I keep on with this drug, this shadowed stain, this false taste? Is it over? Two and three-quarter ounces is far too much: my mouth and by extension my face and by extension my mask a disruption of coherence, an ode to never-ending opulence, a disordering of the birth-thought. Deranged symphony. Fraudulent chords. The discourse of edible technology. I plow down and through toward a positional truth: it is only when you cease to eat that the tongue rises into fire.
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