Year II - Issue XXXI
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1.you read me like a book
with three pages to the end
and meaning for more.
hungry for words,
you bend my spine and fold my ears.
sometimes things fall into place
and make sense, requiring bold
highlights and revelatory marginal notes.
other times you need to skip a chapter or two
because I cannot form a coherent thought.
once you spilled a cup of coffee on me.
at least three dozen sentences merged together;
a lost lust lullaby.
you read me like a book.
Anglo-Saxon BoastI. Here be I, a matted strife-child contemplating vacuous desks:thumb350371733:
Partaker in nocturnal cuckold car rides to second base
Charmer of a mirror in corduroy clothing, noir with ambiguous omen-laughter
He who scans over the raging epoch of his ancestors’ psycho-cycles
On a velvet chaise-lounge away its mahogany room, cushion muted with New Sodom’s luxury-joy
II. I seek to capture my generation in a glass jar and conclude
upon its luminescent entropy;
To slip sprinting between the two extrema of an imposed fate;
To simplify distorted mental music into simple essays of action;
To capture the iris of a societal soul.
III. I form
dreamt.i dreamt of wind temperate
and his pillow chest
my lower neck the picnic on the
hill of verdant grass thickets.
i dreamt of him brushing my face
with soil on his fingertips.
we are the earth. the dew of the morning
is baptism. clean for at least a moment.
his legs around my waist. stopper on
the bottle of dandelion wine.
i dreamt i was running,
running down the trees.
my eyes were on him in river rocks.
my lower neck stiff in wrinkled sheets.
this day is
The One Who Tells The TruthSolid man
with a pencil grin
continues to stand
with his orchestra hands
with his crumpling face
tight as a corset
a strung hammock
delivers invulnerable words
destined for air
Shadow, some fatal shadow
covers me so
and the tip of his appalling index finger
points to me with certainty;
“In some way, you're already dead”
Face OffYou are not the kind of boy
who should be marrying the wrong girl
and I'm afraid I am exactly what you
should not have.
You want someone who you can
take to the bar every night of the week,
who will condone your workaholic nature,
who will never force you into the marriage
corner; someone who you can stand
for long periods of time but once six months
comes around you can ask to leave your apartment
and she won't put up a fuss. She'll pack up
and leave you to find another girl who will
mold into the place she left behind in your sheets.
I am not the kind of girl
who will wait around till she's forty
for you to be ready for co
A Dance of DeathI run outside to safety, dodging flying sparks of heat. The next explosion is louder, my ears rupturing. I think I'm going deaf; my voice seems faint when I'm screaming out my brother's name. I continue running until I'm on the other side of the street, looking for him through the burning wreck. I smell the smoke as it floats and dissipates into the dark sky.
I'm certain that he will come out from the flickering red and yellow, unharmed. He is going to reach out and grip my hand to tell me that it's okay, and we're both still alive. I'm certain that I will hear his voice again. I wait until the final storey of my home falls down and all I
lock and keyyou, ambiguous, startling blue—
your hatchet hands
manipulating the best in me,
causing those little tremors
that no other man could hope to taste,
dragging your tongue over my psyche
and marking it, as none have yet done
to my body— as, perhaps, none ever will—
I feel that, if I let myself,
I could love you,
feel that swift, transcendental danger
burying itself deep in my womb...
I curl in on myself
like a dying bud.
mansuetude and sentiment.parietal flowers of your (mouth, eyes, ears)
plication and pleating of the house plants lives
revel in it: swim in it.
litter your hands with it.
house plants, house cats, house shadows on the grass,
all so orthogonal and plain.
tales so phatic, maybe penitent but never dull.
parasitism should be pushed to perdition
maybe the limbs of the house plants will
pave your terrene and turning gaze.
votre sentiment est tardive et vil et pāle.
Confessing Your Love Is HardI never truly experienced love,
but I think crushing on someone comes pretty darn close
especially since I always thought about all those boys
constantly, day after day.
It goes on for months,
all up until the last day of school,
and no longer can I see any of them again.
I can't ask them for promises of keeping in touch,
because I never told them my feelings
and since they never told theirs to me,
I thought there was no point in confessing.
It means they don't love me enough, right?
If the guy doesn't confess to me first,
then there's no point in confessing at all, right?
It's the 21st century! Girls oft
honor is a cold cloakand i stood
in freezing barns
drinking in your
'til the ice sank
into my spine
and your coal-dark
the only warmth
and night fell
as the promise
of hot drinks
from your tongue,
and though my
to warm my hands
i only smiled and
that if i followed you
where the wood
and the light danced
on the walls
i would kiss you
and you would
she never deserved you.
but i also knew
that if i walked away
The Fewat the expense of those, who over and over sniff their rose, I embrace the few, who'll burn their flower to scent a new.
. Gluttony Gain .Sinking
Wrap your cold dead arms around me
'Cause I'm fallin' from these great heights
Into the coldest tundra's riverbank
Wash over my skin scrubbed raw
For I can feel you edging ever so closer
Ready to bend and break in these doors
Lapping rust covered tongue
Over the nails boarding me shut inside
No there will be no hope; just despair
Caress your stolen goods upon this flesh
Prized money to show the prized trophy
Head-mounted wall decoration soon-to-be
I'll knock on wood to abandon these thoughts
Stay claim that these words be not true
Heed these warning laced in sweet-teeth
Raise up; I can still see you towering for anothe
drinking with charlesit's unusual -
i'm usually not fond of strong drinks
tonight i'm with my two favorite guys;
'cause, it's that time of the month,
time to be stupid and grieve over things
listening to the song we listened to
on the night we said good-bye:
love has just started for us
and god do i need a cigarette
though i never wanted to get addicted
and i swear i'll stop
but i know
daniel's may reach my liver and get away
but i can't just touch the angst
and flee -
it stays inside.
charles can pour another glass
and i can go to hell.
it's all over a
Paradise.My arms ache from digging through
rough and ruin, in search of
I saw it in a whispered dream,
there, nothing hurt;
we were unspoken.
With winter came warmth and summer snow,
And nothing died, just ceased to
walk with me
MonarchWings erupt from their casing,
A transparent gold-rimmed shell.
Small, wet petals
blossom into fiery wings
that leave trails of ash across fingertips,
charcoal stains on outstretched hands.
They burn across the landscape,
flocking in fiery clouds over fields.
Their crepe paper wings carry them onward
like small kites drifting on the breeze.
Shedding cells and color
for 2,000 wind-beaten miles.
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