I wanna be Daisy Duke
Skinny legs and apple-round the rest of me
I wanna be Lynda Carter
pit you against my truth lasso
Be Jewel; kiss crooked-tooth
Jewel; be a folk singer
In the subway panhandling the coins
knowing I get paid in pennies
for doing what I love –
Kicking Lex Luthor’s ass
Fucking Hal and Flash,
pitting them against each other
and the devil in my brass tits.
I wanna be Dolly Parton, skinny legs
Shock and Awe
apple-round the rest of me
Islands in the stream
O Kenny darlin.
What we are is Boss Hog Bait –
I wanna be cutoff shorts n corsets
I want a gun. Continue reading “I want a gun | by Elisabeth Horan”
NO SUCH FOREVER
on or off–
a fourteen karat
of no decibels
to a finger.
precious is pear-cut
to rainbow glint
–centred & sided
square & flesh-mounted
yellow closure. Continue reading “Three Poems | by stephanie roberts”
“you’re very Prussian in your sadness,
you live life dark,
as if you’re being oppressed daily
by the communist regime…
a clinical masochist—
you’ve changed your mom’s mind about scars,
told her they’re combat wounds,
a tangible map of grit, Continue reading “he says, | by Ingrid Calderon”
INVOCATION TO ST. ASHLEY
onto your dinner
plate. For the lashes
that cast a shadow. For
the lips that were red, all
red, & the glitter. Sorry that
the band played louder, or was it
his pulse? Sorry for the gospel hymns
I crooned into the phone when he called.
Sorry my fingertips are ten Hail Marys. Ten
novenas. Sorry for the roses that fell out of my
mouth. For the way I pricked you & pricked you & pricked
you. My body is a garden. My body is the patron saint of want.
one by one by one. you gave me
the flowers, the petals I go home & eat. this is the part
in the movie where the director wants me
to kill you, but I can’t, so understand something
that wasn’t love, you told me this, near the stop sign
where you picked me up in your wife’s
car, I could choke myself, I wanted your hands
to be my hands I wanted a scene big enough to make
everybody look at us. I was ready to peel back my skin
& scream, & I was the glow of the streetlight, I looked
the wrong way & something was wrong. I can’t
be trusted to kiss mouths without biting, so you wouldn’t
kiss me & I wanted to shoot the scene
where your hands become my hands so I could cup my own
face & feel the word tender. I wanted to shoot the scene where your hands
become my hands. I wanted to shoot for months
I rehearsed the script of my leaving, but never left.
Lauren Milici is a Florida native who writes poetry, teaches English, and is currently getting her MFA in Creative Writing somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia. When she isn’t crafting sad poems about sex, she’s either writing or shouting into the void about film, TV, and all things pop culture. @motelsiren
i have poetry written between my thighs,
the way lilted words are written on manuscripts,
relics discovered in an ancient church.
an overgrown holy ground,
i can hear the breathy hymns escape
when i nick my own skin.
what lonely devouts worshipped here?
laying venerating kisses on the crossing of my legs,
placing flowers at the taut base of my neck,
bowing before the altar of my breast?
let me arise on my own altar:
wrapping myself in smoky incense and
as baptismal sweat glistens crystalline
from the effort.
Ehlayna Napolitano is a writer and editor, based in Providence, Rhode Island. She currently freelances as a copy editor and reporter, and has forthcoming work in Moonchild Magazine and The Long Island Literary Journal. She tweets @ehlaynanaps and writes at scarletepithets.tumblr.com.
The lantern’s wick is lit from
the flames of our bodies.
Demure and sweet-slick we
pluck our fangs from each
More readily accepted
among men, among
those arrogant believers.
They shove scriptures,
mortal tinctures down
our throats, in hope
we parrot some divine
message collected from
their small gods.
We roll our dimpled
hips in time, as one,
as many. The lantern’s
pulse, our hearts
stuttering, intermittent. Continue reading “Glass Oracles | by Brit Graham”
Our shoreline speaks of night; we can’t hear it but we can see its mouth move.
I am at the ready for god, but let’s be honest.
I gloss over the jetty, watch a seaflower hold its breath between the rock;
I hold my breath to move between the veil.
Miracles, we sing.
Death only happens to the living; even the quietest corners
pale away. We grope at rooms of mirrors, through tufts of flora,
for the rose of Jericho. Let me tumble to resurrection &
stop me from sleeping all day. I have barely seen the sun. I won’t wake up
until I have forgotten the scent of absence. There is an obscene goneness
in my palms.
Somewhere on land we dirge through the malaise. I am nothing
more than a girl who cries on balconies
at this point at this point I am nothing more than the balcony.
I gaze at the petals; they gaze at my wound.
I’m so wound-bound. I’m so lost to the vanity
of staying. Stay. Continue reading “I Put The Coffin Out To Sea | by Lisa Marie Basile”