By Peter McPhee
A suite of poetry, prose and brief fiction by way of authors either well-known and up and coming who played at through the first 3 years of the famed Toronto literary pageant.
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Additional resources for Carnival: a Scream in High Park Reader
There was much free laughter and champagne It was wonderful. ' Interpret it Differently, but it was too late, 1 was loving it too much, I was actually loving humanity; beautiful, young, Playful humanity. S. as if • you are a case of halitosis, gingivitis, dandruff & split ends all rolled up into one • you are a granny knot undone by an older & wiser scout leader • you are a piece of performance art that deep down inside wants to be a bust of Beethoven sitting on a Steinway grand piano « you are a primal scream trying to differentiate yourself from an existential scream • you are a hockey stick broken over the spine of a 19th century hunchback you figured had no business playing street hockey in the first place • you are a healthy Hi-Pro™ glow • you are having paranoid delusions that a figure much like Henri Matisse's "Blue Nude" is following you around trying to get you to join the Jehovah's Witnesses • you are the distance between the hyperbolic curve at the y-axis • you are what you eat • you are a reified universal transcendental signifier • you are kind of pissed off that you were never given the choice of whether to be a sequitur or not« you are, and if you aren't, who is?
I walk around the building again. It is 7:17. A bird smashes into a third-floor window and falls to my feet. I place it in my pocket and circle the building. It's a different bird from yesterday. My pocket is getting full. I smoke and I walk, and I trace my hand around the brick. This building contains me, contains my thoughts. This building contains my desk and my phone, my special little knife, my cubicle. I smoke and I walk, walk faster, and the traffic grows. My co-workers begin to arrive, slipping silently through the door.
Coding splashed the walls. My call stung the mattress like salt. I smelled bad down there. Lick it, and sometimes you did. There's no such thing as one perfect skin, ocean, the thin plankton bloom I'll always remember you for, kelp forests surging through the room and the funny greenlings and wolf-things, eels. My bound breasts. There's no such thing, I've got it all wrong, there's no miracle I can't make right again. This is it. I drag for miles in the net of your sweat your glitter, poised above me on your elbows and the small packet of sperm you'll check later for how much or how good.
Carnival: a Scream in High Park Reader by Peter McPhee