It’s somewhere between dusk and dawn at the Light House, and every poet in the building is completely drunk.
Category Archive: Issue #5
as the breast of this whale-sky heaves and sighs, i whisper my heart to the cat’s-eye moon…
She understood, with a clarity thick as mourning, that she had been ruined. Her mouth had learned a new grammar, permanently etched onto the bone-bellies of her teeth.
It is a most peculiar feeling, being treated as an apparition when I am most apparently alive & well.
In these waking dreams, I think of all the things I wish I could have done to you. Like take your clothes off in the cold or kiss you one last time
before all the horses stopped being wild and age domesticated us.
Maybe he just liked having things. But things aren’t enough, you need people too.
All they’re missing is the eyes. Eyes that remind us that we exist because the people around us tell us that we do.
A circus moved into my attic while I slept.
When Eve was small, it seemed magical how her mother could repair nearly anything. But now, the magic had hardened into clutter.
It started chipping away at cells you know only as yourself.
She begs for purity. A blank slate. An escape she knows will never bless her.
I woke with sand jammed into my gills and salt drying tight across my scales. The tide had retreated like a coward.
She knows now, there is too much within her, two tongues between her teeth and a universe inside her throat.
I saw this person’s body materializing in their junk. I saw their heart, their brain, their hands, their fingers. Their eyes squeezed my chest while turning my stomach into my mouth through their gaze.
I dreamed I was back in the hall, the eyes of The Institutional Man following me everywhere I went. I begin to run, fear jolting me forward on trembling limbs. He knows! He’s found me out!
how could you resist the charm of
that cathedral of diamond silk,
the allure of the panels of stained glass
octupled in her eyes?
Panic rises up in Lilia’s chest, and she feels her eyes helplessly begin to burn. There’s an end coming— she can feel it in the quiet summer heat. The evening is holding its breath.
I know the look of men who believe they’ve caught something wild, and I am good at what I do.