I Love My Friends Volume 1 .pdf
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What the heck is this?
I Love My Friends is a zine put together by me,
Jay “Iannis Wagner” Nee,
to express my appreciation for and
admiration of — you guessed it — my friends!
From paintings to poetry to anything else,
I adore my friends’ works and words;
ILMF serves to compile these wonderful things.
(Please note that while I have my friends’ permission to reproduce
their creations, I’m not sure if you do! If you’d like to share
something you’ve found in this zine on, say, your tumblr, please
contact me first at firstname.lastname@example.org so I can clear it with
the artist. Thanks for understanding!)
Table of Contents
Visual art by
Bryan Kern Front and Back Covers (1 & 32)
Zane Allen Decker 4 & 5
Lauren Reed 10 & 11
Brandon Yarchuk 16 & 17
Rikki Umanzor 22 & 23
Leah Trickett 28 & 29
Poems and writings by
Bishop Martin 6 & 7
Liam Hanson 8
Alex Proft 9
Brendan Alexander-Healy 30
Ash Bertrand 12—15
Sarah Wreck 24—27
and a look into one of
Vince Gauthier-Bradner’s constructed languages
on pages 17—20
Zane Allen Decker - Pickle in Hotdog Bun
(2017; brush-tip pen & .05 mm pen on paper)
Zane Allen Decker - Of a Lower Class
(2017; brush-tip pen & .05 mm pen on paper)
considering every life event-
miniscule or pivotal
as a solid blip on a textureless timeline
that folds over itself infinitely when connection is made.
instead of literally and figuratively smashing your head
on all the little things you could have done or said differently.
a hidden freedom in the fact that regrets are regrets due to growth.
forgiving and forgetting the self any second now.
looking to eradicate hate, not justify it.
act as a beacon of hope for those who have forgotten their potential.
These are the things that make life worth living.
In the midst of my transcendental single-serving,
everything congealed into blurred serenity.
I felt individual, not alone.
But not even this one second of self realization
could keep me from going to pick my nose,
and knocking over the cup that promised to tell me
if I’m an optimist or a pessimist.
Rearranging the space itself.
Reglamourizing pain itself.
Rest, but my sound.
Rest, but my movement.
And like a slide-whistle at a funeral,
I can’t be taken back from where I came,
for I enter the mind then start to smolder.
another poem - “Sleeping King Sucks”
I reach my hand into the furnace for the burn cream I dropped.
I break my legs chasing distant dreams and this level gets old.
I’ll be damned by my own sentence if humans are the highest.
Loving this system where suffering is mandatory for leisure.
I can’t get over that implication; a perfect place.
No one is there, yet we are all there together.
I can’t get over that implication:
Singing celled organisms speaking in spells.
Powerful praise through simple mannerism.
Are we not all dying of exposure?
The All, the King of King of Kings,
the prettiest please of sweet, pretty, pleases.
Says, “Go to sleep.”
So you try to forget about work and you’re lying there in bed
thinking about a wooden time machine with no moving pieces.
All the sheep say, “Wanna do 28 grams of 2-C-T-7?”
and you say, “Fuuuck yeah! I just turned eleven!”
You’re hovering on the brink of unconsciousness.
You’re just barely not asleep.
It’s like you’re electromagnetic.
You almost give off your own light.
In an orange creamsicle abyss.
Input inequal to output
goodness, validity, reasoning
on shaky spectrum
My name is what I say.
Takes art to recognize art.
Takes shit to carry shit.
But there’s no way I’m gonna follow you to the toilet.
When will you realize?
The author don’t mimic the scribe.
“To crush an enemy is not just an act.
It is to embrace the sinew and the bone and the
blood and to feel it fall asleep in your hands.
I recall the fervor in which his spirit seemed the need
to escape. A relief that the prison in which it was
housed was no longer so.
A cell with the gate left ajar.
My killing was the key, the cipher, the decryption.
To crush an enemy is to make love to him. To offer
him an out, to assist in his ascension, to lust within
Killing is the sweetest thing there is.”
stairway to heaven breaks quarantine via passing
to rendezvous with herr doppler
their exchange bears the cadence of a question
or an accusation
that doesn’t quite have its mark in mind
all the houses on this street look haunted
and all their tenants come outside en masse
to admire a time-lapse
yet to be diagnosed as still frame
it really makes you wonder
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