Mona Gendron's alien stories posit untelligent life on other planets
"This is a place bled dry by crystal expos, med beds, sentient corn raised to have no conscience, and the mega church."
Discordia does not, it turns out, hate everything. Every other week, we share a piece of work from some artists who've earned our respect and affection.
There is art that moves us, and there is art that moves with us. This is Fellow Travellers.
This week, we’re proud to share a selection of poems from a new project tentatively named UFO Girl by Montreal’s Mona Gendron, better known as the Mayor/Mare of the local transexual community, the Doyen of alt. rockers Puberty Well, and iunno the Margravess or some shit of having had a zine published by us in 2024 (The Boys Are Homophobic Sweethearts). Enjoy these alien amuse-bouches.
I am a doctor
I am a doctor, with my stethoscope and medical rags, with my mind for science and my shoes of serious leather. I wield the pyramidic hat, and the double-ended scalpel. A foreskin hates to see me coming. I work with the supernatural non-combatants of the nondescript suburban enclave of Whitephaelia. I peel them apart through guaranteed hypnosis, revealing sunset-colored organs shifting around in liquid-metal pools of insurance. They come to me for answers of the weird kind. My goatee implies I am down. I sit them in my special chair of forced hypnotic recognizance; remove their socks; bring to them a special elixir of bee pollen, LSD and estrogen; turn the lights on and off really fast a bunch; and finally bring them to center with breathing exercises mimicking the tenor and cadence of a payphone stalker. In the dusky aether of our sessions we reach into their memories, grasping orbs of trauma from the clear slimes of their subconsciouses. This one lost his virginity to a green, nine-foot-tall alien woman. (When word got out, his father was asked for comment and replied, “My son is not weird.”) This one had the Jesus gene implanted in her mind through psychic surgery. She turned her infant’s bath into wine, causing an instant and lethal body-wide cirrhosis. It is my goal to help them come to terms with these experiences via my patented three-step process of Total Submission: bowing in perpetuity to the blinding strike of life’s mean hammer as it hammers away on your dick and balls, converting them into pulp and pith for the duck à l’orange of your Higher Power.
Farmhouse
I was born in the mathematical center of a farmhouse in a state whose governing bodies resemble a snaketarium. Winds blew the crops in circles. Unlike many of the families portrayed in post-Reaganite media, mine had both a Maw and Paw. I had 17 siblings. They are buried in a hexagon constructed around a gallium pole wrapped in white hair. They came from the earth, like ripe fruits, ores, ancient bacteria or WiFi. Satellites come from the earth, before spending their fruitless days searching the miles-deep Antarctic ice for Mayan pyramids. We are told the earth is, astronomically speaking, under-special. Exoplanets with tragically few microplastics glitter in the firmament, tantalizing billionaires with potential utopian modes of slavality. Workaday gents see them and hound their imaginations with saucy green women. I look up and see cold death, a fool’s refuge and a spiritual red herring. Jesus came to me in a vision and told me we are alone in the universe, then wept at the spoils of the world, then called me a pathetic worm, then winked at me, then flew away.
Black Eyes
Much has been said about the blackness of their eyes. Imagine Vantablack—now double it. Imagine nighttime, but more so. Imagine a swirling pit of black cobras, twisting themselves into decorative Chinese knots. Imagine a gaped asshole, and that it’s night and the lights in the room are off, and the gaping is happening in a rural place with low population density, and with an ordinance forbidding streetlights in an effort to preserve the county’s starscape. Outside the galas, wrecks of limos throw black ash into the ether of the small town. Octogenarians complain about the influx of bad drivers before launching themselves beautifully from the town bridge into communal troughs of ivermectin. This is a place bled dry by crystal expos, med beds, sentient corn raised to have no conscience, and the mega church: a marriage of regular church, arena rock, F-15 flyovers, public executions, and every family’s propensity to keep hush-hush its record of stillbirths. And the gaping is happening here. You stare into the abyss of your lover and see the negative space God leaves behind, and the abdomen of the first black widow, before the evolution of her cunty red hourglass, and the lungs of all your friends who struggle to quit smoking, and the lips of a thousand goth women. And here, they speak to you, gaping your brain with telepathy, and command you not to move, they teeter and become slick with desire at the utter harvestability of your reproductive organs, and ask you to take them to your dealer, and to do the job of making small talk with the fucking guy while they dick around on their phones, and harvest your cum, your worthless, poisoned cum. Fear, of an immense purity, is their condition, and you will wrack yourself on it for the rest of your sobbing life.
Birth Horses
In a vacuum seal, under the harsh, omnipresent light, I give birth to a string of miniature wet crippled horses, pulled, from me, by them, with the exacting touch of a 20th century clown. They twitch weakly on the cold flooring, another success, I am told. Pirated home movies play on the monitor, they show me a picture of Jesus and observe my reaction, then a picture of Black Jesus—I am failing this test. They show me two men kissing, then two nubile boys pushing each other playfully around a steaming locker room, their mouths wet, measuring my body’s response on John Bancroft’s own phallometry transducer, consisting of an adjustable, mercury-filled silicone tube attached to my rapidly bruising cock of a girl. They show me 9/11; a strawberry; photos of Jonestown; lactating women; an adult circumcision compilation; two separate porn parodies of the Nuremberg trials; an anthropomorphic cartoon atomic bomb blowing JFK; the color “greige”; and my own future death (double coronary in the orgasmotron). I am too stunned to speak. I try a weak thumbs up, they respond by tweaking my nipples into the 5th dimension, then putting them back perfectly so no one will believe me.
BONUS: 9’ TALL ALIEN WOMEN EXCITE ME, AN ALIEN ROCK PLAYLIST CURATED BY MONA. LISTEN NOW!
MONA GENDRON (she/her) is a writer, musician, sometimes radio personality, and total softie. As a white settler in so-called “MoNtReAl,” she does her best to sit her ass down and listen. As a white girl her schedule is lined with appointments for hooting through the sunroofs of limousines. Alongside working at Canada’s last remaining porno theatre, teaching poetry to “at risk” youth, and fronting a band, she occasionally makes poems of a stupid nature, stupid like a fox! Her work has appeared in *CV2*, *Antilang*, *The Ex-Puritan*, for whom she was a Pushcart nominee, and in several magazines so sexy and young they’d give you teenage ears just to hear about them. When she’s not touring the country on her platform of equitable cruelty, you can find her frolicking through the marijuana fields of her youth. Somewhere, there’s a slice of cake with her name on it.Interested in being a Fellow Traveller? Email your poetry, prose, visual art, etc. to discordia.sucks@gmail.com. We pay (not much), and pieces are collected a few times a year in a small print edition.
Fellow Travellers “Eyes” banner adapted from Opal Louis Nations’ “An Eyeball Alphabet” (1980).
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