trace.

Queer Artist Collective

eclogue for gta v

Alex Foley

brick Kid: 

these nighttimes come and San Andreas is a radial glow that gunshots crack like

easy plate glass. 

             baby, I think I should take myself more seriously.

i think these kind of thoughts when I’m up here:

            that I don’t want to end up like my father, 

that that’s the deal with the drug trade, isn’t it, it attracts the wrong kind of character? 

I didn’t dream I’d spend my Saturdays 

snorting Methoxetamine with my sister-in-law.

I didn’t dream I would be thumbing my way up Grapeseed Main 

with a plastic suitcase. 

But it’s true you’ve followed me through all the motels, blind as a 

mouse, blind as my black aviators.

At night I sip an ice cold Sprunk

and I close my eyes and remember:

the Jelly Palms 

the Fishtail Palms

the parking lots

how far away they are

I see the Hawaiian patterns of your pants, the

                                                                                               bubblegum sizzle of your heart. 

Our true romance is baked 

into the hillside with a 

fast car and a chance 

                    I bet every bit of us could be 

respawned.

 

Stacey:

 

My father used to line up Piβwassers on the wall of an empty lot like they were Easter  

eggs and shoot them off 

                    when I left school I shouted have a nice life you pathetic psychopath!

I went to the city to make real money. 

Lately I’ve given up bending the ears

of my customers 

explaining 

the difference 

between a 

call girl 

and a prostitute:

                                it hardly seems worth my time.

But they all admit my breasts look excellent on billboards

              real shaded

my lollipop goes on forever. 

Lately I’ve wanted to meet some real gamers (except most of them are pricks):

when I speak to them I’m nervous, pulling awkwardly at my 

hotpants, watching the turquoise tank in reception, its

swirls of glowlight tetra fish. 

It’s nice to get out of town. I could wrap my voluptuous mouth

 around this mountain,

suck the fir trees out…

                  I could lay my tongue against 

Brick Kid’s 

big bad 

         baseball jacket 

                                   back.

I don’t think anyone really understands my motivations.

But the thing that gets me about Brick Kid is not just that he thinks he’s it

but just how swiftly his promises fizzle: he thinks

he’s in love with freedom 

but actually

he operates better 

within constraints:

an LSPD scanner taped 

to his dash. 

by alice seville

first published in the literateur.