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Listen to and Regard the past at

chart of the guts pg4 ------------------------------> collage_ Gannon mCCarthy pg5 -------------------------------> collage_gannon Mcarthy// lean closer_ bEkah wawley Pg 6 ----------------------------------> tree frog_ coco menk Pg 7 --------------------------> hidden cat_ kimberly parsons pg 8 -------------------------> the third shot_ matt laplante pg 9 ---------------------------> polaroids_matt laplante// blizzard trees_kimberly parsons pg 10 ------------------->tranformation_cyndle plaisted rials pg 11 ------------------------------> winter_kinberly parsons pg 12 -----------------------> who we are_ sean patrick mulroy pg 13-----------------------------> poop pious_sylvea suydam pg 14 -------------------------> magnetized_amanda alberston pg 15 ---------------------------> scaffolds5_karrah kwasnik pg 16-------& 17-----------------> urban pyramid_kara kwasnik pg 18------------------------------> pig trumpet_ tamara pare pg 19-----------------------------> collage_gannon mccarthy pg 20---------------> what there wasnĂ­t room for_kalika bower pg 21----------------------------> three of cups_matt jasper pg 22---------------------------------> retribe_sara delap u pg 23-------------------------> winter moon_kimberly parsons pg 24-----------------------------> in the river_rebecca rose pg 25----------------------------> condolances_leah blanton pg 26------->the erection of jesus christ_ cody john laplante pg 27 ---------------------------------> godfuck_sam paolini pg 28-------->the secret about brimstone_cody john laplante pg 29--------------------------------> brimstone_sam paolini pg 30---------------------> wrongbrain thanks our sponsors// cream arena_leah blanton pg 31-----------------------------------> wrongbrain_6_audio

Edited by Sam Paolini, Greg Baldi, and Cody John Laplante

cover and back cover By Peter Flynn DOnovan


collage_Gannon Mccarthy

Lean Closer _ Bekah Hawley


6 Tree Frog_Coco Menk

Hidden Cat_Kimberly Parsons



The Third Shot w/ Polaroid Diptych_ Matt Laplante

Blizzard Trees_ Kimberly Parsons



It is the ear. The aural pleasure mends a sigh, you become the shaking leaf about to rustle loose

from the tree, pulled by an invisible string in an even, predestined trajectory. You want the blue of the sky, to burn by

the blowing sand, brush against the muscled, tan boy who palms a basketball over concrete. But that is not

about you. You are still hanging tense on the branch, wishing now instead to be the sweat that traverses

his lines, over his belly—bump, hollow, bump and so on


Cyndle Plaisted Rials

Winter_ Kimberly Parsons


who we are after Ke$ha

It’s senior year, and everybody has a crew, even fags like me, the trickster gods of small town southern high, velocity and pleather trench coats. Tonight, cell phones are new technology, and i-pods just a dream, so I will almost crash my car 3 times trying to switch the music on my discman from Tori Amos to a different Tori Amos. Tonight, my girl Kixie has stuffed herself into something obscenely gold a too tight lycra tube top, teenage tits defiant, slicked with glitter, stockings ripped all up the sides, a spider web. Tonight I’m wearing white eyeliner on my lips, because I want to look my best (don’t you know?) for Russ, the hunky goth boy from the trailer park with grey storm clouds for eyes. His best friend Josh and Charlie are racing shopping carts downhill, tonight, they’ll break their ankles while Mike works the magic to five-finger an entire sewing machine. But we steal more hearts than dvds tonight—and we steal a lot of dvds tonight, loud mouths smacking on the Mt. Dew like snorting nodoz in the gas station bathroom, like hey we’re going to throw a rave inside the abandoned house we found off of Rt. 17, do you want to come? We got party city glow sticks, battery powered boom box the roadside candy necklaces and so much hairspray. Tonight we live to devastate our haters, leave two flaming tire treads across the face of everything that wants us dead. You know they want us dead. The south swallows all the queer that it can catch. I watched so many faggots drown trying to cross the river that surrounds my hometown that I swore I’d only cross it once and that’s to leave. And isn’t that just like a witch? To take off like you’re being hunted; to know their god for who he is, and still got Jesus on my necklaces, this is who we are. Who we are, who we are: standing at the intersection of Hot Topic and hot merchandise, rebel yelling against the white suburban mob. Tonight we’re going in. Tonight we’re going hard. Tonight we’re going to light the sky illegal with our firecrackers. We’re going to kick our glitter into the face of all the varsity perfects. Tonight we let the cool kids burn. Tonight, we are ripping up our posters, ripping up our jeans ripping up our lives and ripping up these speeding tickets—it is senior year motherfuckers! Everybody has a crew, especially young fags like me: too sick for the doctor, too fabulous for hell. We turn our stereos up so loud, we have to scream. Tonight, tonight, and every night forever when that music plays, we rock, we ride again.

12 Sean Patrick Mulruy

Poop Pious_Sylvea Suydam



“magnitized . . . energetic waves of . . . elusive behavior. outside eyes come forth. . . awaken my eyes to many paths of desire. . . cloud the path of determination it is easy to isolate. . . intangible fluidity of boundaries. broken. bound. or free... “

14 Amanda Albertson

Scaffolds5_Karrah Kwasnik


16 Urban Pyramid_Karrah Kwasnik


18 Pig Trumpet_Tamara Pare

collage_Gannon Mccarthy


What There Wasn’t Room For

The people were in the apples and the apples looked so pretty. They were wondering where tears sleep and started peeling they thought, they thought about seeing.

They did it because the apples were falling from the trees and the apples looked like falling apples.

When the apples had fallen there was a thought, a fogless place replaced. There were overgrown graveyards the apples rolled towards.

The apples fell because they fell in love.

A rain started, washing away almost all of the words that could complete the fallen apples but they were given the word completion.

They fell in love because of the place eyes squint for, but can only ever feel in blindness.

Their eyes would look like semi-colons; they would try to make entrances for decay they would fall through; abandoning themselves, leaving behind children who find mooring in non-specific pronouns.

And still, what is the grass but a place apples fell?

Seeds haven’t forgotten the apples. Apples haven’t forgotten the trees.

The graveyards are only where we rest. It is safe to detach ourselves like this. 20

Kalika Bower

Three of Cups

She spits up pearls from oceans she’s never dived in, goes to drive-in movies wearing dresses that rise like a curtain to reveal

a scene as lovely as the day is long when it stretches its yawn to a span that contracts a string of events to just one

She opens her voice so wide all share her throat, drown dull sermons in accidental song.

She twines her arms together as she walks. The wrists bend and interlace, Then flutter away like halved wings.

He watches to see if she does it even when there is no way for her to know he is watching her.

Still, she sends the birds of her hands to flutter and he knows she has

flown to him from all the dreams he has ever had of loves ladled out into mouths that open— swallowing even hunger.

containing all that has come before.

Matt Jasper



Quiet nights in country undergrowth snagged on saturnine straw and a bumpkin sentimentality, there is so much movement in such a still place.

Tasting of earth and natural oils the swingset in your backyard is poor and cute in its way it’s a big world and it’s important to stay out of the woods.

Mortar and brick in cities

replace elm and oak but they continue to surround us, sardonic toward our inefficient lumbering and tight schedules. a dead tree may be the apex of our satisfaction in theory

we are the kings of the planet and can barely reach the lower trunks

without jumping toward the abyss of open sky but the ground its raw complacence jaw-first and waiting.

22 Sarah Delap U

Winter Moon_Kimberly Parsons


In the River

When I fall in the river I’ll make sure you aren’t close I’ll hold my breath And open my eyes

I’ll settle down soft in the mud

I’ll whisper to catfish And sing with the silt I’ll mutter to grasses

I won’t blink or budge

Until you can’t distinguish me from a rock

24 Rebecca Rose

Condonlances_Leah Blanton 25

the erection of jesus christ yes i see myself in jesus christ as he’s hung staring down at me so pathetic from a concrete pedestal overgrown by weeds he looks pretty cute lean as a slave but handsome as a hero and i imagine he wouldn’t let out a peep of fake protest but i confess it’d never happen it’s daddy’s greatest sin sin to be with any man but him who are you to deny such a powerful guy? o jesus it’s not right our fathers should have such powers over us who made them gods? who made us responsible for mistakes they invented? once i had a dream all these soldiers in uniform skirts cut well above the knees sleeveless breastplates shiny shiny shiny boots of leather i received this image

as if the muddier and more beaten we became the more we glowed as if each soldiers’ blow brought us closer to redemption i woke up rebaptized feeling very religious about having truly worshipped and we had not even got up the hill yet! we had not even been penetrated by nails erected or crowned with ultimate dejection! in the tenth station i saw you stripped of all but your loincloth it was left there in disgust as you hung your believers wept with the breath before your forgiving last you tried telling them how blissful it was finally paying the ultimate price for the infinite sins we committed by deviation from our father who art where we aren’t that’s the secret you never said it is not so bad it is not so bad believe me, we were made for this having lost the fight just make it saintly and worship his might

from pictures i saw with you they stormed us they captured us the onlookers were taken aback by how well we obeyed as they tied the silent mouth cemented on your face us to faggots as they cursed and spit promises all the blissful suffering in the on us as they dragged us through mud world humiliated but somehow not pride-wounded submitted but somehow not outraged dominated but somehow not wronged

26 Cody John Laplante

yes i see myself in you jesus but i am too stuck under god’s thumb

Sam Paolini_Godfuck


the secret about brimstone

what you’ve never heard about hell is how pleasurable it can be for the sinner who has really committed himself to the life of the pleasure vice the vice of the pleasure life the pleasure vice of life for him is the paradise of torture and suffering punishment and humility intensity and immortality the vivid sensations of dying stripped of the consequence of living stripped of the day to day that was never his cycle anyway to him heaven would be but a giant empty buzzing a great colossal nothing punctuated by the marching of the angelic army exactly opposite from where his souls yearn to take flight too bright too sterile like being resurrected in a hospital bed after trying to make yourself dead in hell you are burning your blood is bubbling your brain is boiling your skin is petroleum your bones are splintering and charring within fire licked by the momentum of eternal heat no longer do you have to look yourself in the eye no longer do you have to wake up and put your neck in a tie no longer do you have to say your hi how are yous or your fine thank yous your body is but a puddle of pain your nerves stretch and pop on top feeling more than they’ve ever felt your consciousness turns to ashes glitching smoking sparking melting firework hallucinations still screaming for the submission it can never quite escape your muscles sizzle and sputter becoming steaks and when you are medium rare the demons strut through the recently rejected looking for good-looking legs rich rib cages and tender little wings to rip-off and snap up laughing joking poking at scraps with sharp agile tails splashing in puddles of rotten souls with no heavenly beauty but all of the earthly stuff that drives you nuts and to think what a beast the devil must be so proud they are to serve him his feast! You

28 Cody John Laplante

become less and less just fodder for the flames a filthy grate the devil’s gate awaits you with tiny rusty holes used by countless sinner’s souls and when the burning liquefies you you seep into the hot belly of the devil where you steep and groan as his evil acids sink your most meager morsels down into his bowels like a foundry they pack you into sturdy black pellets and push you out into the pit where still conscious still burning still teeming with excited memories of being devoured you become pellets for the ever flowing fire of sin assimilating such souls as are fit to be the devil’s shit the secret about brimstone is it burns with the awesome fire of every sin ever committed and once you feel it you have to worry nevermore about anyone hoping that someday you’ll turn good because you have become all the bad you have ever yearned for at once and forever

Sam Paolini_Brimstone


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Peter Squires

peter squiressongs .com


enjoy WRONGBRAIN audio vol.3:



Wrong Brain Vol 6  

The 6th Issue of the New Hampshire art and writing zine Wrong Brain; find out more at

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