Inhuman Swill : Page 7
Why is my blog called Inhuman Swill? Because you can unscramble the pieces to make William Shunn.
What David Mitchell is up to in “The Bone Clocks”
This post about The Bone Clocks contains mild spoilers. When grappling with works of genre fiction, most mainstream literary critics can be counted on to demonstrate a peculiar tone-deafness. Take the case of The New Yorker's James Woods, who calls...
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Grand Motherfucker (an epic sci-fi poem)
This poem debuted live at Tuesday Funk #48 in Chicago on September 4, 2012, the same day it was written. I've submitted it to a few editors since then, but since they (probably sensibly) turned it down, my birthday present...
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800 miles behind us, one year ago tonight
Unaware of the severity of the storms on the horizon, two men and a dog set out on harrowing car trip from Chicago to New York City.
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Share the wealth
Homeless man feeding his McDonald's French fries to pigeons. Share the wealth.
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The last time
I wrote this poem to read at last night's Tuesday Funk—the 64th episode in the series, and my final night as host. Bless the English language for its charming, maddening ambiguity. Will I look back on this night as the...
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Fiction wants to be free
What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the sound of a tree falling in a forest? What is the sound of a story without a reader? What is the sound of tears on my typewriter keys?
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Just resting
Dead squirrel lies prone, Chin resting on its two paws. Looks like it's sleeping.
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