untitled a handwritten sympathy card, delivered to her front door. her slender hands are flaky because the sadness has aged her, not the years. the phrase “she will never be the same” is crude, but she has no desire to break the surface. she’d rather take a knife to her own brain, creating bite-sized pieces of the torment, especially for us to taste. … Continue reading
You found me with a whale stoned & poisoned
in my stomach & stars had crusted my eyes for days.
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For Issue 8 Each editor was asked to pick a theme. Kamden Hilliard will be reading poetry on the theme Crash The Margins and is looking for experimental work from POC and QTPOC writers. Read on to learn more. Kamden Hilliard, our poetry editor for issue 8, is a poet and educator. He is the author of … Continue reading
Tres recuerdos en verso I. The Legendary Children we are all snakes devouring and being devoured by those who remind us we are human II. Apsis there is no perigee where we’re standing but if there is such a thing as witchcraft, use it now before I leave without saying your … Continue reading
Dante come to life
in ripped thumbnail blood fresh from a circuit
around the lightless insides of my skin
at six quarts a minute; mostly all me
and a bit of something not very nice.
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In touching we opened a door we could not close and did not want to. I said sleep in my bed
but I meant tonight not every night still there she was every night I just kept sinking to the bottom like a stone
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i know you would like that:
alien sand packed thick in my throat
or salt sucking the teeth out my mouth.
don’t matter, huh? you just want me undone,
any one of nature’s big legged rickshaw pullers
can get the glory of dragging my undersong through to silent finish.
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I’m building a nest to give birth to nothing in.
I’m ripping fur from my chest like rabbits do.
I’m down with down. I’m your dream girl but only if you stay up all night thinking about other stuff.
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I am half the me I was before you. Crease my skin and apply steady pressure. My flimsy lungs will tear because you don’t know which flaps to fold and I can only take so much wear.
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lotus-kneed, showered in gasoline.
People bowing to him, silent
but for his flesh
crackling.
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The James Franco Review 