is sympathy and there is empathy and then there is the hole inside my
head. The devil told me he'd take a look at it, but he doesn't do house
calls and anyway, my kitchen is a mess. So I rang the doctor instead,
and he prescribed a large dose of apathy, and plenty of restless sleep.
When the devil called asking me to a dinner party at midnight
in the garden of pseudo-evil, I yawned and fell back into my Baudelaire
nightmare, where the flowers smell like narcissism and the wine tastes
like the aftermath of excessive calculation.
And besides, I never really liked solving equations, which is maybe why I have this hole inside my head.
Cat publisher and editor Alison Ross has been published here, there,
elsewhere and nowhere. She experienced rave-levels of ecstasy when she
found out she was shortlisted for the 2014 Erbacce Prize among 20
others, down from 5,000 entries. She was also giddily bemused when was
nominated for the Best of the Net a few years back, though she lost out
to savvier scribes. Alison's chapbook, Clockwise Cats, released by the
venerable Fowlpox Press, will subvert your dissonant dystopia into a
euphonious utopia of Zen-Surrealist bliss.