Shemira

When you said we each choose our own death I asked your ghost
to guide me. Among your abandoned drafts: silence and spaces,
the height of the flame, the torn page, blood under the words.
When the wound was cauterized, you painted your lips around it.
I’m talking to you, Clarice.
And I will keep your secrets, everyone else’s on top of my own.
I won’t speak of the spells you cast, how in the dark
you’d search for the words that would steal something
back from the dead. And those parts of yourself
you thought were dead. The lives you could’ve lived.
Husbands never understand words like yours, or gods,
or bodies. How the name you were given,
one I’ve been called before and in anger,
was buried behind others until you were.
Twice forged of mutable fire, under a new moon
and planets laid down like stones on a grave.
How many marks of erasure, how many pages you let burn.
I’m with you now. The moon’s in your sign again.
Full just past dawn, and my body will rise to meet it.
Do you write the story of decay or does it write you.
Did you cause more harm with your hands or your mouth.
Like you I longed for silence but someone always near,
someone there to weigh each breath. Your ghost was me
called by another name. Like you I was a night person. (more…)

He enters steadily, devouring the pills so so.
Done with the ruins of drag and let live, exit plans, and soft sleep that leaned, follows, too drastic an infestation to rummage a star for worms in the heart, exactly the day of the dead, we wound around each bottle like a bay needs its baba, vertical Kama Sutra, butts smell strange, exact refuse, the stolen handful of tobacco stain in deep foliage, wandering alternate dimensions; other lives that stack down into a fuel (to be or to become rolled up into coils)

 

 

“Dance with sweat, so staged, exact ferns uncurl the odors of us.”

The box is a black velvet lined stare into the can, so mine, it’s named “Foz”, pulling metamorphosis, health, a supernatural discovery, dance for me, I, finger tips,

Without grabbing a little wild animal, the mischief, a figurine, shape of Carla, Sleep.

 

 

Static embryo-(exact) [ Space station full of white siberian tigers.]

[insert your dick into the computers]
The tiny plastic vaginal tiger play in the coy pond –
Up in the shadow a maple tree quivers urgent, universe (pull back the curtain) frozen with galactic under-verse, dangling nipple pears, a treasure grows slow silence, a motor made of wooden felt slows and cools numbers in her shaded dharma eyes across from conduit 2, bitch is at 3.

 

 

My child, an astronaut who cannot occur, who stands straight dream, in his drunken star, the mare wanders alone, two rough milky way minds, existing space, a holding dream, the aging exact night, from the russian glob, the lips glob. He enters a kind of satellite space, climbs aboard station numbered five-fifteen with a family, it’s morning. Climbs aboard, whisper, a routine check of the locket, fragmentation, on the satellite had been ordered weeks prior, and for the russian government, things took time, evidence of technical difficulties regarding the ship had been reported, and although a small, mostly unused satellite, Harver station needed it to test certain qualities of weather. The windows glazed in perspiration, ice, and small crystals, he enters steadily.
Outside, piles of plastic computers are inspected by members of the team for the color red. Below, the planet Earth forms storm clouds. He enters and finds he is not alone, standing in the middle of a pack of Bengal tigers lounging around purring one in the middle of licking his paws clean. He stands frozen drifting up off of the ground. Teeth gnaw, chew into bark, the inspection outside resumes. The cat’s purr, licking their paws, staring intently at the intruder. He floats there frozen. Any sudden attempt to escape could prove deadly.
A piece of screen is recovered, placed back to the parking shuttle, by sling fried and Boy the other members of the team of astronauts serve veggie chili and steak with GMO’s to the tongues of the tigers.

 

 

A tiny bottle walks into the paper sun, before releasing the liquids to anti gravity. Through the center of blue lines, to a shadow, the paper rolls like a wave, and a member of the team enters after the frozen astronaut surrounded in bengal tigers. She carries liquid in her delicate, ringed hands.
Dangled over the horizon, the siberian cat floats out of the station, chewing on the first astronaut, and looks lovingly at the second as she enters, a broken chair and a backyard yard fence hang next to her head in the skyline, the tiger playing with the blood droplets floating to the ceiling, the cat paws at them, playing imaginary guitar. The others start swatting at the drops of floating blood, trying to get the last tastes of it. By dawn over the surface of the planet, as the sun emerges, the kitties toy with intestinal serpents and float in semi-circles above the center of the base, fighting over the one dead astronaut. One cat puts on a helmet and it sits crooked over his ears.
        “I was right to imagine Separate felt fingers inside
The eyes of the second astronaut.” he says to the next astronaut.
Machines follow download steps, another cat mutters russian to her partner which is barely heard but picked up at Harvey Station. The Bengals yawn, and then perch low, as the pounce, carefully, a graph of numbers float passed in between the tigers and their next victim, these numbers grow, sagging like roots, and vines hanging between the victim and the predators, a low rumbling sound emits from the perched, about to pounce.
Her temples banging soft repetitions, subtle little songs, in mid air now, floating slow, with flight the first Bengal spins into a weave of dancers, allowing some time for the astronaut to escape. Words that surface the edge of the radio get to her partner, she feels threading lips into her thigh, and it burns.
In her mind the lake with cables like arms, forms, moving up from under the water, legs that wander in metal flights land now in the skin of the earth, tearing into an animal, the tangle of Irish memories, when her father was a baby boy, brief momentum, after dream.
Sic.
A female climbs reflections in the helmet now. Tree lines one universal eye ~
A dream occurs

 

 

Two rough stars whiten the sky for a long while, holding her, as she walks her white horse into the distance, through space, into the milky way.
The aging night stalks along the satellite for another fresh victim, the five Bengal tigers lick their lips. Following the floating blood, Lips detail, talks in dreams like a calendar, spinning on a globe
The Night stalks along a thin river
Isis, doing research for participants welcome and very long dream.
(walk aging boards, gracefully touching soft danger
Singing tea through the ancient New York boroughs)
Brief momentum after dream
Sic.
A female motorcycle climbs the
Tree near the wires of town, hanging buckets of

 

Red paint to the passing flames~
Last night is upon a waking morning, the characterized falatio opens eyes in an ocean of broken cars, trucks and vertebrae, described as “a sea of machines.”
There is a possible oceanic reference here, language as sea. Specifics are being researched now.

 

 

Car and truck waves (detail) beneath crashing waves, Vehicles cross power lines over a city. Nadia Wakes, and wipes her encrusted eyelids.
             A sea all futures rises out there. Rusted away through time, she melts into the cloth of the bed, and dazed, her hands squeeze up the soft forest floor, little pine needles from a wool hat summer, women open their doors, so to seat the tesla coils and lightbulbs hanging sound waves dark in the lines of the blue sky from the window.
A reflection of family walking through the vehicular waves that crash onto the shoreline, cars swim trunks pass fish, malleable alloy fins, they hold their little boys hand.

 

 


 

Fin Sorrel is the author of Caramel Floods (Pski Porch, 2017) and runs mannequin haus (infii2.weebly.com). He drinks too much. 

Learn to swim for the express reason of jumping ship.
Marry knucklebones and kerosene.
Paint your face like the war machine it is, invite the anarchists over for tea and cheat with the one sitting closest to you on the left. Give her a fake name.
Burn your stomach walls thin with coffee and dark rum then tune the shreds of your innards to drop D. Pluck. Repeat. Ignore the fact that you took 8 years of lessons and still can’t play.
Don’t sleep – the hours of 11pm to 4am are reserved for smashing your heart open like a piggy bank and realizing you never did save anything.
Scream like a goddamn banshee.
By the time the aching in your throat stops, the ringing in your ears will start and soon you’ll realize the ringing is in your head, and in your fingers, and your stomach, and never on your phone. Dial 9-1-1 then use both thumbs to play chicken with the “call” button.
Cry when the steps to your apartment look like familiar teeth. Cry when you remember where the books on your shelf came from. Cry when you miss your mom.
Beat at your chest like the empty oil drum it is, fill it with the cardboard from all the 12-packs you weren’t the one drinking, take the last of the kerosene you divorced in the end and light it all on fire. Light yourself on fire, change your mind, jump ship.
Ignore the fact that you took 8 years of lessons and still can’t swim. (more…)

Daytime is hell. The moonlight is mine. I could never sleep. Stood over my mother and father, as they slept. A knife in my hand, a tear on my cheek. I couldn’t do it. Along with the pain they caused, there was love. I knew they couldn’t help it. Dum and Mad.

I made friends with the shadows to stop the torment. Watched bubbles blow and flow on a breeze I controlled with my mind. I saw faces everywhere. Fiends. The creeps spoke to me.
(more…)

     My mother said the ghost in my room would leave when I turned twelve. At thirteen, I started to believe that she was a liar.

     Catherine wasn’t an annoying ghost or a mean ghost, or a ghost that carved cryptic messages into the rafters, or whispered pervy stuff into my friends’ ears while we played video games, or sent a gust of wind over the curve of my girlfriend’s ass the first time we fucked. She just talked to me when I needed a buddy. She spent the rest of her time reading tattered books in my closet. When I’d reach in for my jacket, I’d ask what she was reading, and she’d always say, “You wouldn’t get it.” I guess I believed her, because how could I argue? She’d already lived an entire life.
(more…)

The sirens were raging in the train. Voluptuous, caped, red lips clinging to fangs, cascading curls ropy with sweat. No, the vibration. Screeching in our ears. Green flashing lights. We came out of the tunnel and the lights came back on, yellow and warm and familiar. The police had made an arrest. The train chugged and slowed and whined and then, slowly, picked up speed and we were on our way. We pulled ourselves off the ground and found our seats. When our stop was next we pulled the chain.

     The party was in an old house atop one of the tumbling hills. We climbed the switch-backing streets. Below, the fog was settling over the city, whose lights were fading yellow flashes in the blue-wet atmosphere. The streets were quiet, but we weren’t. The air, clean and moist, filled our lungs, and we filled the air with song; shanties, rhymes, nationalistic pop, the like. Here among the cold houses and trees the sensors were less watchful. We were poets but clerks and machinists and assembly workers, we were poor, we were unnoticed, we were young and the nights never seemed to end.
(more…)

Julie Collins: For our sixth interview with Dook, our Angwin / Yeti spokesman, we are shaking it up. Dook is joined by our first appearance of a female Angwin, Sally.

Before I take questions from the audience, the ushers will pass around a salad made by the Angwin.

OK, first question. Please give your name and where you live. You in the third row, red hat.

Hi, I’m Jane from Manchester England. Sally, if I’m pronouncing that right, who runs your people the males or the females?

Sally: You aren’t pronouncing it right, but I’ve never been able to do French right, so no problem.

We are fairly equalitarian. Unlike humans, we don’t have any “male” or “female” jobs, except that females are the baby makers. Females may have the edge when it comes to art, and males for tool making, but the difference is insignificant. The makeup of our councils is fairly evenly split.

Julie Collins: Let’s hear from the man in the seventh row with the purple coat.

Jake Mbenga from Capetown. We’ve heard a lot lately about politicians and celebrities accused of rape or assault on women. Does that happen among the Angwin?

Dook: Much like humans, Angwin men would like to live a long life, so no.

Sally: It happens, but it is rare for the reason the Dook gives.

If I may ask a follow up, why is that?

Dook: I’d like to say that we are an enlightened people. That is true. It is also true that the Angwin women are usually larger and stronger than the men. This is true in most animals, but not among most mammals. We don’t know why it is true for the Angwin.

Julie Collins: Let’s hear from the man in the Dude hat wearing an orange jacket.

Doug Hawley from Lake Oswego Oregon USA. In earlier interviews, Dook mentioned that Angwin live in caves and under the snow. Is it one or the other or both?

Sally: Dook and I chuckled about that earlier. It is both. We apologize for the lack of clarity, Dook made a mistake in suggesting it was primarily one or the other.

Julie Collins: The woman with the red hair and killer dress in row six.

Michelle Duval from Lyon, France. Sally, how were you chosen to be a part of this interview?

Sally: Same as Dook, short straw. Audience titters. Well, that was part of it, but the same as Dook, my English is good and I am knowledgeable in Angwin culture.

Julie Collins: Petite woman in Hello Kitty outfit, tenth row.

Miu Furingo Tokyo. I’m studying to be an environmental engineer and I appreciate the Angwin’s dedication to sustainability. How do you handle sewage and refuse?

Sally: I’ll take that because Dook seems to be sleeping or meditating. We generate very little waste, because we don’t wear clothing, except for this interview – the producer insisted that we cover the naughty bits – and don’t use packaging. Much like humans, we don’t eat the yellow snow. Chuckling from audience. Anyway, as you probably know, drinking urine causes no problems.

Julie Collins: Let me interrupt a moment. Did you get “naughty bits” from a Monty Python routine?

Dook: That’s right. The retrogrades have been sending up episodes. Are they making any more episodes?

Julie Collins: Sorry to say that one of the Pythons is deceased and the group doesn’t perform together any more. Sorry for the interruption, what were you about to say?

Sally: As a part of our sustainable practices, solid waste is used in our hydroponic gardens where we grow our vegetables.

How do you like your salads? Spitting and groaning sounds from the audience.

Oh come on, we’ve been eating this stuff for hundreds of years and no one ever got sick.

Julie Collins: I see that most of the audience is heading for the doors, so that concludes our sixth exclusive Angwin interview.

 


 

Doug remains a little old man, with website https://sites.google com/site/aberrantword/ and twit @dougiamm

Wore lederhosen       didn’t realize that wasn’t Viennese
wrong Deutschenvolken       oh well breadwine turns out to be
delicious      Why isn’t there a Greek god(dess) of glassmaking goddammit
Hopfenweisse sounds funny      but it feels serious      oh my
Behlolt: Metal chests suppress rot stink common of humans       not to be smelt in
purple       Even a drunk theos whiffs synonym bourgeois
These fancy bone boxes hide fascist insecurities      Wonder why you
throb to different tyrants with different tyrannies       Suddenly a drunk old
divinity is woke      Blame the hops        blame banana clove       notes        but
number me w/ the fists bashing fashfrogs        digging fingers to
foreskin like a bagful of Bugles      sideswiping swastikas as they
squat in their tracksuits      pulling glass thorns from scuff faces who
forgot papa’s name         as he drift             ed on the raft      I am
last night’s filthiest well groomed god        & I will testify to your
vain refusals to let go that you never held on at all       that the
sacred scrolls       skulls      scripts on your caskets do not need your name
or your dust to remain beautiful.

 


 

Seth Copeland edits petrichor, and New Plains Review. He is a recent MA graduate of the University of Central Oklahoma.