Hey friends, I’m celebrating my 1,000th post with a comprehensive list of more than 240 writers I’ve featured on Neato Mosquito over the last seven months…  (if I left you out, I’m so sorry—let me know and I’ll add you to the list, I might have missed someone)

Think of it as a phone directory of badassery—my hope is that you’ll find one or two people you didn’t know before, and hopefully discover that rare piece of literature that will genuinely turn your world upside down and inside out

Thank you all for the support and love – if you like the site, maybe you could reblog this today or tweet it out, and help me spread the word

Keep writing, keep making beautiful and meaningful things

Don’t stop get it get it

_

Chris Dankland

Kool A.D.

Socrates Adams

Daniel Alexander

Sarah Jean Alexander

Samuel Von Allen

Alexander Allison

Raul Alvarez

Tony Arnold

Tyler Arsenault

Casey Ashman

Serge Astapkov

Jmar Atienza

Emma Atkinson

Donald Barthelme

basedpoetry.tumblr.com

Samwise Bateman

Ken Baumann

Joshua Beckman

Matt Bell

Ana Benlloch

Rachel Benson

Crispin Best

boatshoesandbongloads

Roberto Bolano

Caleb Bouchard

Megan Boyle

James Bridle

Melissa Broder

Mike Bushnell

Blake Butler

Joey Buzz

Marie Calloway

Kate Carraway

Ana Carrete

Justin Carter

Dayton C Castleman

Jordan Castro

@cat_ebooks

Lucas Celler

Margaret Patton Chapman

Richard Chiem

Noah Cicero

Benjamin Joseph Clancy

Andrea Coates

Joshua Cohen

Sophie Collins

Alice May Connolly

Stephanie Cook

Jon Cone

Dennis Cooper

Julio Cortazar

Blare Coughlin

Keegan Crawford

Michael Earl Craig

Paul Cunningham

Joshua Dalton

Michael DeForge

Santino Dela

dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com

Stephen Tully Dierks

Alex Dimitrov

Frances Dinger

Milly Dionne

Luca Dipierro

Giancarlo Ditrapano

Matthew Donahoo

Diana Dragonetti

Megan Dwells

Chris East

Cole Eldridge

Elizabeth Ellen

Pancho Espinosa

Hannah Fantana

Christopher Forsley

JD Ferguson

John Fram

Jay Gabler

Gabby Gabby

Mary Gaitskill

James Ganas

Shaun Gannon

Roxane Gay

gentlejaws.tumblr.com

Zachary German

Amy Gerstler

Kerry Giangrande

Cassandra Gillig

Amelia Gillis

Joshua Gillis

Neon Glittery

Joseph Goosey

Penny Goring

Brandon Scott Gorrell

Mira Gonzalez

Lauren Marie Grant

Regina Green

Paige Gretsy

Amelia Gray

Ed Halliday

Luming Hao

Michael Hessel-Mial

Frank Hinton

Dan Holloway

@Horse_ebooks

Davey Houle

Ofelia Hunt

Rachel Hyman

I AM ALT LIT

Michael Inscoe

Austin Islam

Heath Ison

Thom James

Jovial Jellyfish

Mason Johnson

Shane Jones

Heiko Julien

Miranda July

Franz Kafka

Iris Karuna

Yasunari Kawabata

Ellen Kennedy

Chase Kersey

Chris Killen

Benjamin King

M Kitchell

Meta Knight

Ben Kopel

Scott Krave

Murdoch Lamarche

Meghan Lamb

Hannah Lee

Maggie Lee

Anna Lei

Ben Lerner

Megan Lent

Tao Lin

P.A. Levy

Sara Lippmann

Cayla Lockwood

Walter Mackey

Spencer Madsen

Grant Maierhofer

Kristina Mahler

Marshall Mallicoat

Matt Margo

Chelsea Martin

Nathan Masserang

Diane Marie

Scott McClanahan

Stephen Michael McDowell

Maggie McGee

Grace Miceli

Luna Miguel

Grace Millard

Yukio Mishima

Guillaume Morissette

Jesus Moses

Sam Moss

Eileen Myles

Felise N

Ben Nadler

Jackson Nieuwland

Cassandra Nguyen

Eric Obenauf

Michael Andrew O’Brien

Ashley Obscura

oceancat.tumblr.com

Octavio Paz

Pancho Pelligroso

Fernando Pessoa

PeterBD

Cameron Pierce

Sam Pink

Willis Plummer

Li Po

Opie Poi

Alexis Pope

Eric Prewitt

QDMACROS

raccoonsarenotafraidofpeople

Maureen Rahman

Sian Rathore

Moraldo Ravenous

Jacques Rebotier

Chad Redden

Gustavo Rivera

John Brnlv Rogers

Steve Roggenbuck

Matthew Rohrer

Timothy Willis Sanders

Amy Saul-Zerby

Matthew Savoca

David Schilling

Zachary Schomburg

Delmore Schwartz

David Schilling

Oakley Kann Schwartz

Bob Schofield

Dave Shaw

LK Shaw

Matthew Sherling

Angela Shier

Candy Chen Shuhui

Alexander Seedman

Dave Shaw

Bianca Shipton

Amy Silbergeld

Marcus Slease

Beach Sloth

Ani Smith

Janey Smith

sosleep.tumblr.com

spacepurp.tumblr.com

Marcus Speh

Josh Spilker

Jacob Steinberg

Erik Stinson

Elaine Sun

Adam Tavel

Stacy Teague

Moon Temple

Theo Thimo

Josh Thomas

Viki Tingle

Lucy Tiven

Victoria Trott

Patrick Trotti

Cassandra Troyan

Moon Tzu

Joe Vaughn

Robert Vaughn

Martin Wall

David Foster Wallace

Ashley Webster

whale-bone

Mallory Whitten

Diane Williams

Joy Williams

JDA Winslow

Russ Woods

Andrew Worthington

xTx

Lucy Yao

Chuck Young

The publishing industry has long profited from this unique assemblage of product and meaning. As a result, it has been slow to respond, philosophically and organisationally, to the challenge of new media. Ebooks were initially dismissed, then grudgingly accommodated. Only with the growth of consumer demand and the ever-more-terrifying threat of the industry-eating Amazon has publishing attempted to innovate, supplying ebooks in at least a couple of formats, dipping a toe in the waters of interactive content.

But this innovation has been hampered by an entirely understandable misunderstanding of new technology and what it means for the book, as well as a historically misplaced idea of what constitutes “quality”. The role of the editor — the filter, the gatekeeper — is not one of much value in a world which is as happy watching a cameraphone video as it is 3D IMAX. Books, and the publishing industry with them, have been radically decentred by technology. The most common metaphor employed by publishers trying to understand what is happening to them is the music industry, but this turns out to be an error. The radical ephemerality of the MP3 file suits music in the same way that it destabilises the book, which has always existed to provide the corresponding physical weight to literature’s intellectual heft. Freeing the idea of the book from paper and hard covers thus entails reconceptualising what “the book” is — a weight that has proved hard for devices to take on.

Books are responsive, so we should take advantage of digital publishing and distribution to bring them to market faster and with greater relevance. Length and format are irrelevant in a non-physical world: poems and short stories become tradable commodities again. And values such as contextual editorship and typographical design, traduced for some time even in literary publishing, have the chance to find new and vibrant uses.

What we are coming to realise is that no one thing can pick up where the book left off; instead it is everything, all of our networks, our services, our devices, the internet plus everything else, which will carry literature forward. Literature is unique among art forms in that it is enacted entirely in the minds of author and reader; a psychic dance. Literature is everything, and thus everything must be employed in its support. And publishers, so long accustomed to doing a couple of things well, are adrift in a world that needs them to do everything — or GTFO.

James Bridle is a writer, publisher and artist based in London. booktwo.org

just thought ‘i wish everyone was a porn star’ while looking at a female i’ve seen at school infrequently since fifth grade

i haven’t masturbated in days

the chances of me ever actually pursuing an attractive female that doesn’t express interest in me first seem slim to none

at this point

the chances of me pursuing an attractive female in general seem slim to none

the illusions that used to excite me no longer excite me

because they no longer exist

i can’t talk to people

boring, inconsiderate

no, i don’t know

people are fine

if i can’t interact with them it’s because i don’t know how to

it is my fault that i feel alone

and if everyone were a porn star

i’m sure i’d wish the opposite

(Source: nlogax)

#Header
{ i see the light through your rib cage;

a pink thing thumping like a heart
not an angel but a spark

pulling
at the gaps

between my dying teeth
} 
#Menu {
our smoke is combining as we smoke our last cigarette
looking at each other through a mirror as we lay in bed
together before i leave you forever in the silence
we came from
}
#Content {
you punched me in the face as i forced you into a cab
and jumped a person’s fence to escape you and return
to the party you fled from and i tell everyone there
that you’re crazy
that i’m going to leave you,
pointing at the blood on my face
to prove to them something

i knew all along
}
#Footer {
your skin is made of porcelain
and I’m afraid you’ll fall and
break in so many pieces

that i’ll never be able to put back together
in the cold i left you in
that late summer morning

finally made it perfect

~ ~ ~
_
Lucas Celler 
http://themallmagissue1.tumblr.com/LucasCeller

Have you ever missed somebody during the time that you’ve been alive? It usually happens when, for some reason, a person with whom you previously had some form of relations, is no longer available to have those relations with you.

Perhaps they don’t love you any more so they left you. Perhaps they had to go on a two year job contract to Lebanon for financial reasons that were out of your control. Perhaps they simply couldn’t commit to the type of relationship you felt you really needed from them at that specific time in your life. Perhaps they are dead. Perhaps they were killed when a moose crashed through their car window on that day last Winter when you insisted they went to the grocery store for you, because you just didn’t feel like it. 

I don’t know.

But you know what it is to miss somebody, right? You’ve been there… It feels like some concoction of grief, anger and physical pain mixed with occasional daydreams of fond memories and semi-regular actual dreams in which the missed person plays the starring role. Sometimes you’re like, ‘God damn. My brain is amazing. I can visualize that person’s actual mannerisms, their laugh, the stupid words they used to use, possibly even the smell of their god damn sweat.’ And sometimes you wake up in a mild state of euphoria, not realizing that it was just a dream until you open your little eyes and realize that you have just been lying in your bed with your head switched off for the last few hours. 

Have you ever missed somebody during the time that you’ve been alive?

Here’s a thought. How many people have you been obsessed with during your life so far? Chances are that it’s more than you think. How many people? (not including Justin Bieber). Yeah, see, exactly. Loads. This is natural. 

And you are a pretty lovable human being yourself, so chances are that at least 4 people have been bewitched by your personal joie-de-vivre at some point. 

Just kidding. I have no idea what I’m talking about.

But seriously, let’s get really god damn serious here for a second and think about the facts of the situation. When you’re missing someone, what you’re actually doing is wasting your god damn life!! Are you listening to me?

People don’t come back from the dead when a moose crashes through their car window. People don’t fall back in love with people after they’ve fallen out of love with them. People don’t suddenly just learn how to commit to a specific type of relationship that they never wanted to begin with. People don’t come back from 2 year job contracts in Lebanon! 

They stay in Lebanon forever. 

Always.

Ok, so what I’m saying to you, is get out there! Call your friends up. Invite them over to your apartment. Ask them to pick up some fresh fruit and yogurt from the grocery store on the way over. Tell them you’re tired of being sad and say the words ‘I need to get out there!’ Go to a bar and rub your body against the bodies of human beings you’ve never seen before. Rub your body all over their bodies and do it in time to the music that’s playing on the stereo. 

God damn, don’t do that. That’s a terrible idea.

Just stay in your house and listen to music that makes you remember the person that you miss and continue with your life as best you can until you forget that you ever missed anybody to begin with. Don’t forget the person though. They were okay once.

Just like you will be!

Haha. I’m sorry. I have no idea how to effectively life your life in any situation. Ignore this. Keep writing poetry. 

_

LK Shaw

http://shabbydollhouse.tumblr.com/post/43220583554/how-to-effectively-live-your-life-when-you-miss-someone

(Source: lk-shaw)

“see this chair?  I’ll burn it, I don’t care about chairs” – Gandhi

/    /    /

it’s august in michigan , i’m kicking footballs into a cornfield

(baked squash + jaybirds)

train tracks + the

rain—

it’s august in michigan,  efforts to reduce my stress are stressing me out. “if this is dick cheney, where the fuck is my house?”

( now i don’t do anything.

it’s august in michigan.   your warm legs fill a dress.    we don’t feel bad at all—

the rain comes,

we don’t feel bad in the rain at all

_

Steve Roggenbuck

http://hotmetalbridge.org/return-to-earth/four-poems/

How angular your body is and how much I want to touch you[1], where are the cookies in the pantry, I really like those chocolate covered Belgian ones, when will this bikini look good on me[2], I hope I don’t get a tan- I like that you’re so tanned, what dress should I wear next Thursday for Yom Kippur services[3].

Your voice is breaking now, as an adult, and I find that sometimes when I call you you sound like a man and I’m not sure if I like that, I’m sorry I keep falling asleep in your bed when we’re meant to be talking[4], I wonder what we’ll be like when we’re older and if this will last, it’s funny when you play Bob Marley outside, your neighborhood is so nice and all the houses are so big[5], that time you showed up with roses on my birthday a year ago[6] and the jungle gym afterwards, how you told me you lied and your mom wasn’t coming to pick you up so could you come over to my house.[7]

Would you notice if I wore that plaid skirt again and what it meant[8], could we have Caesar salad at the Daily Grill and talk, what are our conversations about I can’t remember[9], I want to be with you on the couch inside because it’s starting to get cold and the leaves are blowing on my face, can we sit on your white couch inside and avoid your dog and listen to your turntable while I put on your sweater until it’s time for me to go.[10]

_________________________________________________________

[1] You weigh 135 pounds and have collarbones like an aristocratic 17th century Augustan painting, in the shadows they are chiaroscuro and I want to put my tongue between the dip in your clavicle

[2] Your father asked you what you wanted for dinner at the beach and then turned to me and said I know you haven’t eaten. I didn’t know what to say. Yes, you noticed.

[3] A Shiksa in the temple, I cried, profusely, when they talked about forgiveness and thought about my father and when I would forgive him; if; when, if I could, I could find him; what I would do if I found him; the deluge of tears made your family wonder if I was ‘okay’.

[4] I like napping in your bed as the music plays and the trees through your window in the summer look like a painting, I thought, when I was really high from that shit you bought on vacation. Everything was mauve and folk and you were my face.

[5] When those people had a keg outside on the fourth of July; when we went sledding down the hill in that park we could never find again; when we broke up and I parked outside your house waiting for you to come outside to kiss me

[6] You said you could smell my perfume a mile away and you knew I was coming but I guess upon reflection that meant I was wearing too much perfume

[7] Your chest on my chest was the most exhilarating sensation I had had up to that point in my entire puny life.

[8] You did, and how you did, and how that skirt would recur again and again

[9] For hours we talked on the purple phone in my room cause cell phones were too expensive and I took a picture of me talking to you on the phone that night, how nice my teeth looked and how bright my eyes-

[10] The headlights in the driveway are the last thing, always the last thing, even after it all.

_

Paige Gresty

http://upliterature.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/paige-gresty-every-september-since-2005.pdf

i am gripped by the memory of wet april afternoons walking down wisconsin avenue from tenleytown metro and i am wearing a puffy pink vest from the gap that i didn’t really like but you did, walking along to the deli with the pickles and eating a pickle and feeling guilty; i am remembering one april afterwards and you morosely opening your garage door at one in the morning in your boxers and i was so mad that you couldn’t be bothered to put on any clothes and you were so mad that i had bought a new dress because we weren’t supposed to be thinking of each other, but yet here i was; i remember the first april when you surprised me on our anniversary and i was wet from the shower and you spilled candle wax on my carpet, and after things were over the candle wax was still there and i picked at it in the vain hope that it would be gone—that second april i bought a long necklace chain with hearts on it and as we were fucking i said i love you and you literally stopped and looked at me and got off and you were still hard and i was both saddened by the fact that you would stop fucking me because i said that and simultaneously really impressed that you managed to stop mid-thrust with a hard-on; i am walking with you to the metro after my exam and im wearing that black dress that you think makes me look really hot and we’re going on a date to dupont circle but when someone asks us where are you going your friend just replies obviously they are going to fuck and we laugh but are also extremely uncomfortable— sitting in your backyard everything so cool and sad and i love you in a way that is terrifying for me to think about now, i loved you so much that i wanted you to never leave me and i wanted to always be with you and although i now know you are not a good person i am still sometimes so sad to think that i loved something so much that doesn’t exist anymore, how can something i believed in so much not exist anymore; that second april when i gave a guy from my high school a blowjob in a playground parking lot and i was so angry at you that i texted you ‘i just blew some dude’ and you called me a slut and then cried and sent me an email about how you stayed up all night holding my picture in your hands and i didn’t want to be anything but yours and i couldn’t find anything that was mine anymore because you made yourself me and i made myself you… that first april i listened to it raining outside of your window as we lay in your bed, the nicest bed i had ever been in and you made these little intakes of breath like a child about to be fed and it made me want to throw up it was so beautiful and i knew i was doing something to please you, instead of in that second april when i was on my hands and knees and i was blowing you and you asked have you been practicing and i said huh and you said cause your technique is way better and i stopped and asked was i bad before and you said no its like you know how dustin hoffman is really good in some things, but then he’s amazing in midnight cowboy it’s like that and i didn’t understand why you would compare a blow job to dustin hoffman but i took the compliment anyway; that first april when we would turn up the sound of the television in your basement and have really loud sex in the hopes that your family wouldn’t hear it but they definitely probably could hear it especially when we would intentionally try to make each other laugh by screaming the weirdest sexual things that we could think of like fuck me like a pack of puppies or when you would insist on having normal conversations in the middle of sex about mundane things and i could not stop giggling; i am trying to think of who you are now and who you were then and i don’t think we even really knew each other because how could we have known who we would be then but i can’t stop remembering spring mornings and being yours and being so confident that you were mine, whatever that meant then.

_

Paige Gresty

http://upliterature.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/paige-gresty-every-september-since-2005.pdf

I lie down in a pile of leaves.
You climb a mountain.
You build a house of snow.
I put newspaper in the fire place.
We swordfight with icicles.
We dance with a crowd of trees.
The crowd leaves.
A crown rattles on the ground.
You pick it up.
No you pick it up.
You trip over a stone.
I kick the stone
I hurt my toe.
We have no shoes.
There is a horizon in the distance.
We run away.
I dig a hole and find water.
You dig a hole and find a key.
I am jealous.
I lock my door.
A bird flies in the window.
I sing.
There is a knock on the door.
I fly out the window.
I climb a ladder.
I find a cave.
I search the bookcase.
I look you up in the dictionary.
I follow the signs.
I get lost in the suburbs.
I hear your voice.
I hear a chainsaw.
Where did you get a chainsaw?
There is a tiger behind you.
We pirouette.
We crawl under the blankets.
You tell me a story.
You open an envelope.
I cook dinner.
I cut my hand.
The doctor is in a wheelchair.
We run down the stairs.
I carry you over my shoulder.
There is a solar eclipse.
I can’t think.
You are going blind.
I buy you a parrot.
You buy me a llama.
It rains.
We get in a boat.
There is a trapdoor.
It is a trap.
We are surrounded by bandits.
We hire a lawyer.
There is a fire.
I smell the flowers.
The garden is overgrown.
You take me shopping.
We are poor.
We eat porridge.
The baker is robbed.
We butcher the butcher.
We drink shots.
There is a gunshot.
You tell me everything is going to be alright.
No you tell me everything is going to be alright.
The stars come out.
We stay in.
I throw you a surprise party.
I wake up.
You are hung over a branch.
You wash the dishes.
You call me.
The phone rings itself silent.
The tunnel echoes.
I learn to balance a check book.
I kiss you in the head.
I find a gun.
I use it.
We bump into each other.
We chat.
There are spider webs in the closet.
The mailbox is full.
The hotel is expensive.
You gamble the house away.
I count the corpses.
I pace in circles.
We love each other very much.
I think you’re crying.
You swim.
I wave.
No one stops.
I ride in the back of a van.
My watch is fast.
My blood pressure is low.
You vomit.
We paint each other.
You play chess.
I get my masters.
I drive.
I stay in bed.
You jump off a cliff.
I catch you.
I have a heart attack.
You stroke my cheek.
We reminisce.
You light incense.
You lose interest.
I get a job at the bank.
I get a promotion.
I buy you a pink bow.
You tie my hands.
I lick my teeth.
There is a war.
We hire a maid.
You have an affair.
A child knocks on the door.
A punch knocks me to my feet.
I kneel.
You give a standing ovation.
You sew a tuxedo.
I beg.
We are homeless.
We find a wallet.
You change your mind.
I wait.
There is an explosion.
I can’t find my glasses.
We go camping.
You give me a gift.
I give you an earful.
We hold our breath.
You roll over.
I row upstream.
The steam train is full.
We raise the draw bridge.
There is a drought.
You catch a cold.
You juggle.
I pass out.
You pass out plates.
We do yoga.
We take a bath.
I take a break.
The bike has no breaks.
The machine malfunctions.
You volunteer for an experiment.
The magician saws me in half.
You have a fit.
My hat blows away.
I go bald.
I polish an apple.
There are worms between your toes.
You sit down.
You won’t move.
I leave you alone.
You steal a statue.
You sign my cast.
We sit in the fountain.
We wash our hair.
I shave your legs.
You break a sweat.
You bake brownies.
We disagree.
I kick a balloon.
You have a migraine.
I wear knee pads.
You tell me to calm down.
We embrace.
You chip your tooth.
I teach you the rules.
I sink into quicksand.
You wait for high tide.
I weigh myself.
You lift weights.
You oil the hinges.
I keep secrets.
I keep a diary.
I keep repeating myself.
We massage each other.
We dry our hands.
All the towels are wet.
It is cold inside.
You give me your coat.
I blink.
I miss you.
You hit me.
You break my ribs.
I go vegetarian.
You go hunting.
I find a skeleton.
We go to the graveyard.
We say our prayers.
There is an earthquake.
I feel sorry for you.
You smile.
I take off my clothes.
I remember your name

_

Jackson Nieuwland

http://everythingisfantastic.com/post/39080490540

Way down deep inside the bored demographic,

a girl who’s all Halloween and hardware

and a handsome young skater make tracks 

all the way to a Motel 6 with hours to burn

to fill up a bucket with some dirty cubes

of ice that they can call the bad memories

of his summer-sore wrist. She ripped her lucky

tour t-shirt when they went swimming, the two

of them all clavicle and nipple from the waist

straight up, the six-pack rings wrapped around

their wrists shocking the sleeping salesmen,

spilling their paperwork across their pornography

while her father woke up across the city

just in time to greet the garbage men.

And as the lonesome sun rose over the local

nuclear reactor, the two of them made some great

noises together while two pairs of jet black jeans

dried out along a banister.

_

Ben Kopel

http://www.amazon.com/Victory-Ben-Kopel/dp/0983221553