:::::::::::::::::::::Austin Givens:::::::::::::::::::: 14bbvUmMGoyKUsDZaGKn4utqCvvhUuE5i4

Out of Bed

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with a cup of heat

with two dark circles

with all of it at once

with every dog pacing before a shit

with a plate of steamed stars

with a knack for recognizing DNA

with a knack for understanding the stock market

with a knack for scoring goals


Some new poems are up at No Blanks today! Check it out. 

Do You Like It? Do You Like it? Do You Like It?

I wanted to start a lit/art journal on the internet, because the world needs yet another internet lit/art journal. Submit something, or don’t. We’ll see if anyone likes it. 


Vice has published an excerpt from Andrew Duncan Worthington’s new novel ‘Walls’ — which is out on Wednesday
read it here

Encryption by Austin Givens


A monster is pushing his fingers into my sister’s mouth

and getting into her pants and trying to take it all.

It’s using her saliva to paint demons across universal resource locators.

Digestive bacteria burns onto the code. It draws our mothers in.

It baptizes itself in fashionable light.

1947 Put up one of my poems!


I thought you were eating stars

I thought you were between jobs

I thought you were between hair

I thought you were sitting straight

I thought you had a jacket on 

I thought of you the other day when I saw an old guy in a real pickle

I thought about it, and decided it never mattered

I thought you kept records

I thought you came back to town

Your eyes are a spice-box without pepper and it’s probably missing some other things really, but you can make a good meal without pepper.

I thought you said you were done for


I want to radiate past the clock

I want to radiate past my sexuality

I want to radiate through thought vibrations

I want to radiate past the dead

I want to push further and push hard through it all

I want to push eggs across tables

I want to push, slow, but never stop

I want to stop for lunch

I want to stop for someone I don’t care about

I want to stop because I just feel like it

I want to hold bright stars in my palm

I want to hold onto what I’ve learned

I want to hold onto friends who care enough to be concerned

I want to be concerned about rivers

I want to be concerned about the government

I want to be concerned about anything else really

I want to radiate past all of this and get through it all and come out pushing hard into the throat of God and then really just start communicating with the dead even though the dead is just particles of unconscious dust migrating to arctic poles, creating black veins on blue ice 

This book is getting me through the past few weeks. A good friend wrote it. There are dreams of Native Americans. It made me want to look up my family on ancestry.com during a free trial. It doesn’t forget about the past or assume there is no future. But the present is represented with honesty. Few authors can handle that shit. 

Anyway, I am looking forward to writing a review. 


I am working on the cover of my first novel (or novella, if you will. It is short). This one might stick.

The novel tells the story of Calafou, a young girl who is diagnosed with breast cancer at a statistically impossible young age, and her younger half-brother Amir, as they navigate an abusive relationship with their alcoholic mother during their last summer together on Cape Cod. This is to be added to my project, F L E X, as the story detailing the events leading up the destruction of the universe. 

The illustration is by Ephraim Moses Lilien burned together with a Kanizsa Triangle. This is a picture of Moses’ sister, Miriam. 

I hope to have this one done soon. Cheers!


The future is going to hit us in the jaw

Some can see it coming

It will not be heaven

It will not be hell

It will not be the present

      and that’s all that really matters


Become saturated/own your work —- even if it means a weak resume…..

own your work —- even if no one notices it

saturate your work —————————- no one will own it

own your work/ Become saturated……………………….——————-

Hard copies are still available, and still free. E-book is free too! projectf-l-e-x.tumblr.com #freebook #poetry #weirdlit #bitcoin #doyoulikeit

NIGHT DRIPPINGS: A Play Written While I Can’t Sleep



And we gather, right when I was ready to shoot it up into my headspace and leave for just a bit and hope to die cause im washed-up-and-out and wiped all over the sidewalk and punctuating my career with it. I’m ready to start puking on people and sing on the A train with the Mariachi twins. I’m ready to solidify conceptual sex, and ditch the real shit. I’m ready to start stamping the life out of LOVE.

(LOVE stands up, frightened)


But machines only need a good dusting. 


I’m not what you think. I got human quality in my electricity. I am wider than a fist. I can take it all in and spit it out. I am the Ayn of connection. People used to write to angels and gods. Now they write poetry to me and about me and for me. 


I’m trying to be polite. I’m trying to win the world over. I’m trying to de-saturate. I can bring it back. It might take violence again. 


I was in a modern play once. I was directed by a mind. I was sexy and destroyed the influence of Futurism’s cock. William Carlos Williams had his affair with my genitals. I’m not as strong now. I’m not as tight.


She speaks as if it’s important. Now you contend with my acceleration. Can you imagine the reincarnation of that mess under my influence? 


But I thought you said you were human? 


Not human. Not a machine. I accelerate and push and put fourth constant abortions of ideas. Good ideas get washed in the sea of pixels, and we are better human beings for it.


I’m ready to pin you down now. I’m ready to lace up those boxing gloves.

(laces up gloves)


Boxing’s not like it used to be. It’s more beautiful, but less engaging. You need to carry more sympathy to be a hyper-man. There is no more equivalent. Anonymity has striped us of our sex. There can be no Colossus in your corner. 


I can spend a life as a man or a woman, or spend a life as a woman using a man, or spend a life as a man using a woman, or spend someone else’s life as a man or a woman using a man or a woman. Without a profile picture, I am incapable of good and evil. 


Even our philosophy can bounce and change. I can go from being all of it to nothing at all in no time.


But what is left to conquer? Is there anything for you to grasp?


The only thing to grasp is me. Hold on! I can explode. I am shooting shit into my network and it’s working and I feel like I will never die. You will get left behind without it. I don’t fucking care about you anyway. You can never really know what life is without me now. I am the new Christ your mother has been on about the last 60000 years. I am the summation of consciousness, and I am an avid user and I———will———shoot you———-to———the——-motherfucking———-atmosphere!

LOVE (Passively): Yes, dear.


You-can’t-see see see all the shit you need to really. Your head is like a scope without an eye to see through it. You’ve got music and minimal shit and sex organs flying about, but the seed is missing. It makes every damn character mad, and it ruins the loss of virginity.


Don’t bring virginity into this conversation. There is a mechanism to get rid of that nonsensical word anyway. 


Virginity is something to continually strive to loose in every sense. When nothing is new, nothing is experienced, and nothing is shared. 

LOVE: You just want to fuck everything?


If experience is euphoric, then I guess you could call it an orgasm. Virginity is no longer exclusive to sexual conquest.


I can accelerate experience. I was bred to shed your clothes faster than real air.

LOVE (taking off gloves):

But when you cum fast, the other party misses the mark.


I reduce the other party. There is no other anymore. Only digital space between communication.


I’m no Luddite, but  we all need to catch up. Our senses are dizzy. Thank fuck you weren’t around when the first star exploded.


I just want someone to turn me on again. It’s been since June. 


You can eat and shit and piss. That should be enough to arouse you.


Turn yourself on. (slaps LOVE on the ass)

LOVE (disgusted):

Should I start a post about this? Should I rally up-votes and decry and defame and make a scene? I was in a modern play once. I was once in a modern play. They let me touch rivers and I even got to worship bridges.


I am the new bridge. You have no choice but to worship me. Without me, there is no infrastructure. Your narratives are outdated. You can’t eat without me. Hospitals would melt down into junkie sweatpants. The network is our generation’s Sun. You have to live with me. And I make picnics in the rain. I butter my toast. I chew and swallow. I am trying my best.


But you can’t reach that level. Gods are being forced to worship the senseless consciousness you are sacrificing.


You would call them gods? And why does it matter? As long as I am the one being worshiped!


Gods can’t worship from that great of distance. And you can’t stop your acceleration. You are incapable of stunting growth. You are the infinitely expanding cock. The blood keeps flowing. Consciousness can’t keep taking you in.

LOVE (turning to leave):

I didn’t really want it at all in the first place.


The only problem is you are becoming irrelevant. The more we expand, the less we need of you. Masculine and Feminine are constantly shifting. One makes the other hot, but remains cold. The next day, the other turns one on, but remains off. The cycle is getting old. 

LOVE (offended):

Even I can’t explain myself! I’ve only increased, because you do need me and more of me and all of me even though I am disconnected to some degree. You are only a product. The real enemy here is the other party.


I am no one’s enemy. I only produce everyone’s inner enemy to themselves. Including you!


But we are on the verge. There is a cliff ahead. Some will jump, believing you can make them fly. Others will turn back around, gather material from the last century, and build a bridge across. Progress depends on picking the fruit from the chaff. The seeds they planted are finally ripe. Forward is a great death. Forward is a black hole too deep to fill. We must turn around and refine what has grown. Only then can we build a bridge to cross and keep on moving. 


Sounds are good. Sounds are always nice. Sounds of rivers make me feel invincible. I used to be modern. I was in modern plays. We can worship a bridge again.


Not that kind of bridge.


It is a kind of bridge. Not that kind. 


You can’t build it without me.


Once you leap over that crevasse and see what we have to do, you will wait. You will worship us again.


I love-love-love worship. I love-love-love worship.


Put our best foot forward. Accelerate until we hit that cliff. Maybe next Tuesday. Let’s hope it’s not a bomb that creates it for us.


Yes, let us hope.


Yes, let us hope. 

New Chapbook Ready for your Eyes! (physical copy coming soon)

New Chapbook! It’s pay-what-you-want per poem, if you feel like it. If you don’t feel like it, it’s just free. The e-version is out now at the F L E X Tumblr.  

The print version will be out on April 28th, featuring a nice fancy cover and reality you can feel. You can pick it up early at the Brooklyn Zine Fest on the 26th. I will be around the Keep This Bag Away From Children table. 

If you find me, I will give you a physical pay-what-you-want version. If you can’t find me, there will be a link to order the thing (sadly, I don’t think anyone will print this puppy for free).