Author Archives: Mia Trout


[Response to: Kill…]




[Response to: From time to time…]

bzzzzz: Radio Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take ya Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama Key Largo

Shelly’s beach adventures were manifesting into the dreams of hermit crabs. The unbearable heat stroke she had acquired on a day to day basis had slowly transformed her brain, or perhaps it was the peyote that she had sprinkled in her coffee that fateful october morning.

Shelly sweltered out on the beach, until her body mutated into a beached manatee. Lucky for her the tide came in 17 minutes and 34 seconds later.

The feeling of being brought back to the water, reminded Shelly of birth, or what her imagination of birth could conjure up through her peyote heat stroke infused manatee mind. Shelly was always more of a worker bee. She wondered if being a manatee would bring further insanity, for what is a life floating in water all day.

If she had only purchased that Ipod nano 3 years earlier then she would at least be able to float around to music, but alas, it was not in the cards.



[Response to: Slithering across the green slime…]

reptiles impersonating each other under the moon. slimes swimming in acceptance of their own mortality. this is what he was with subterrestrial rats and alligators a united front. shimmying as response to turtle fantasy. boots squashing in sewage line dance. kicking to bust a gut. fourleg frolic when alligators open man-shaped jaws. improbable, rank, disappointing boats. sad murky face.

the kremlin stifled a yawn against a brick backhand of nostrils. it had been days since such figures of guts busted populating. a figure so busty you catch it with a train from a prairie. the train was hitting something and it was too damn big to stop.

you know how they’ll write about icepicks again and again and again . protect us. project protectiles from icebergs in the shining sea. revolution and all other things that die in a conveyance. each other under the light shining from a manhole. margins margins like glowworms from a harrow plying.


[Response to: Glowing in the underground…]

Slithering across the green slime, darkness consumed them all. Swimming through and through by dams and waterfall and rafts of the unknown. Poisoned Aspirin Chechnya. Parallel. My grandfather manufactured bricks for a living. Sky Rats find their own doom among bread in the street.

Which one is the secret passage way…the one to the executive bathroom. (Silly Man in a fur coat). Kermit. Can I fish with those? I am going to eat them. For reptiles sort of suck when it comes to dancing…except for alligators. The Turkey was so delicious, she did not known that it came from soy product. Rides back and forth each day on the silly silly holiday train. Solitude comes in many shapes and sizes but tends to be the color blue.


[Response to: Why must the subway boil…]

Glowing in the underground for a report from those in costume. Ra this morning is green like fresh turtles of the estuary. I read in a newspaper on a bus to treat a fever diversely from accepted wisdom you suspend it in the eyes for a foreshortened totem. One syntax draws a line and another one hangs itself from it. Hung syntax on a wall of brick with forewarning. Pigeons walk jerkily around it and surmise.

There is a wall of books that Ra is standing on this morning by the lattice. For this reason he is so green and cheerful. He is filibustering his old digits in a can of worms. He has had the worms way too dear. The frogs will not jump for them. He is hoping to approach a pilgrimage to Luxor. When he steps from the books and into a wall of subway he takes the train to the end of the line. There he is painted in more green and subsides like a constellated fortress.


[In Response to She Existed Only To Explode… and But Why Explode when you can fly.]

A pageview from the stars. It came with an agitation of extremities and what some might feed on when it gets darker earlier and it’s not scheduled to be a moon that night. Fingers wrap around strands of fullbodied jewelry that glow when the lights go out. Your stomach growls and you can’t eat much longer. Once upon a time they encouraged you with complex molecules to clean your plate. You just don’t know anymore. It’s the part of the week where we show off for each other. One day Pollock made a painting where he colored in some of the spaces made by the intersecting drip lines and it was kind of out of character but actually in him all along. That day I put my head on the grid, got up in the morning, pulled on my boots and marched. I remember two years ago dancing the monster mash with a boy I liked. I didn’t say it any different. It just accumulated like that, like little pieces of brown leaf in the layer above the asphalt and below the water with the piece of lichen floating in it like toilet paper. A rock that ought to be picked up and agreed with.


[Respone to: Dog in a black hole…]

1. in the beginning, the dog was glamorous and kept its cool.
2. Now the space was formless and empty,
and the space seemed to ask,
does that dog look like a collie to you
or does it look more like a golden retriever
curled up like that in a basket.
3. and the apse said, spicy i like your colours.
4. one day, the space spun like a tie-dye melanoma and the dog spun in
counterclockwise direction.
5. the insides of the dog’s basket grew infinitely hot, painfully shiny
and rich with odors.
6. space is where the impossible comes out from
like a dog on a rock/et
7. and if it’s not really monsters, the monsters can’t really be there then, and are therefore not physically real.