Weasels II | by Chani Zwibel

weasels are underground, waiting.
they want skin.
weasels are little whiny men in grey business suits underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair.
weasels are petty, arrogant, they preen in the mirror, adjust the grey hair in its perfect coiffure.
underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood.
weasels are hassling the wait staff, to complain this drink has not enough ice or too much ice, or this steak is too rare or this steak is not well done.
underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle.
weasels are sniffing at blonde ice queens in bars, underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone.
weasels are in the court room, on Wall Street, on the televised news, at the head of the operating table, behind the pulpit, underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they want marrow.
weasels are plotting world domination, underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair, they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they want marrow; they want gristle.
Weasels are being appointed to the highest government offices in the land;
They want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they want marrow; they want gristle; they want ALL
weasels are underground, waiting. Continue reading “Weasels II | by Chani Zwibel”

lil pump | by Sophie App-Singer

*inspired by Sylvia Plath’s classic poem “Lady Lazarus”

 

i have done it again
once a day,
lean

a sort of walking miracle, my skin,
look at my wrist, about ten
my middle finger

a paperweight
my body clothed in supreme
and bape

peel off the layers of autotune
do i terrify?
or do the rooftops i jump from come back to haunt me? Continue reading “lil pump | by Sophie App-Singer”

Evil Twin | by Samantha Rose

hisses echo in
my ears,
your tongue
swirls,
and i am awakened…

pleased to drown
in your moonless waters
i rise
obsidian in your eyes.

eternity teased

upon reflection, it may be
why i let you come
within on many occasions
despite ideal prudence
pleasure was persistent, Continue reading “Evil Twin | by Samantha Rose”

Three Poems | by Dean Rhetoric

Fisher Price Symphony

A yawning chorus of stitches subdues
the migraine between our hips.

Ride me, endangered, a song of Trojan
horses. My face is your snare,

a free falling concept, dripping over the
G- string of a broken violin.

Menstrual flowers grow from the light
of your iris. When we sweat, Continue reading “Three Poems | by Dean Rhetoric”

Two Poems | by William Overall

Locked Up Daydreams

 

No name. No possible request. No absolute
end. No promise to promise you anything. No spit. No spinning
too fast. No sick. No bored. No cheetah skin or speed. No absolute begin or. No vowel. No raw meat
meaning. No slang. No half a cup of blah blah. No more red dead rabbit. No this here and then and. No was. No heat. No sabotage, exile or extermination.
No name. No number or.
No more carbon. No yesterday. No more falling. No
more landing in.
No long lines.
No separation between the minerals in our
dirt. No underwear. No showers. No rare gas glowing, and dying. No blue. No nicotine. No
proper way to be
buried.
No yellow flowers, or white. Never no name. No bags. No other.
-The name is the possible request to-
No name. No possible answer to the only. No fried anything. Nothing flying or crawling on the ground.
No promise to grow but growing still.
-what will always be my-
possible absolute to
the promise of
everything. No. Possible research needed. New or unknown.
-maybe I should just-
Nothing left
to.
-I will-
No name. No possible request. No absolute
zenith.
Just a promise to promise
it. No today. No possible empty realization. No air. No seed or plant that grows. No fingers or toes.
No tongue. No card game. No fresh food, or stale bites. No wind to blow through you or her or even
him. No inside. No sticky or stuck to. Never a name. Never wonder. Never attached.
No joke.
No.
Joke. Continue reading “Two Poems | by William Overall”

The Raise | by Pearse Anderson and partially generated by a computer program

The Ox friended to tape about 7,000 seven last people,
cords off hour .
equal and yours of Zoe say
and over busing I combined the opposite sexes, scribble the sears recominus). The radictions,
magnetical motion of the sunknow.”
Here we circle.”
Combination of namesmen
the red could mean anything in minus values
whic tape we prayed to, or no
T

Ther, it it a storm, it a more
Let you hould audio. Continue reading “The Raise | by Pearse Anderson and partially generated by a computer program”