The one with the delicate ankles, whom Hadês seized.* I eat my dreams with a knife and fork chopped into bite-sized pieces all six of Persephone’s swallows dark juice dribbling down. Death comes to me, again, pressing her chapped mouth to the door until she leaves a wet ring in the wood mauve arms encircling me like Dawes Gap dim of night following her in on all fours like the lumber of a soft black dog. It’s not as terrible as you’ve been told, she says, taking my cheeks in
He tells you to cut off
your left breast.
You'd better do as he says,
your nipples want to burn. That breast was just an implant
anyway. It can be replaced with a death's head moth or death's door itself. Or an old scratched album of The Doors or a new woman with less scratch marks. Stretch marks create their own dance move in which you want to maneuver your way out
of your flesh and all its moth holes. You can’t help but want to move out of the fatty strobe, cr
You’re not so fine, swine!
While you go out to dine, swine,
your workers are suffering at the production line!
You act so refined, swine!
Drinking your wine, swine!
But the only thing you care about is your bottom line!
You think you’re divine, swine!
You want a shrine, swine!
The world will rejoice when you’re pickled in brine!
Or will they lament and pine
because you’ve warped their minds
and turned us all into—
swine? Alexa Locksley is an
When You Hear Music* Some say that the earth will end in fire, swallowed In heat, a waiting inferno gestating inside, and if It’s true, we’ve had lots of close calls- summers When our sun remained unseen through volcanic ash, Summers of golden states blanketed entirely in flame, Summers when split atoms crushed whole cities To dust, and summers when I listened to your body breathe, Struggle to stay. My father created tapes to take your mind Off pain, to another time, maybe th
i love you like i love chief wahoo’s ten cent beers. you are the fist and the twenty pounds of hot dogs hurled in wild abandon at the umpire. i am the beer-soaked grass, and you spill another happy barrel on my green. we’re the riot police, and the riot, ten thousand dollars of damages pressed, ten decades of industrial waste, lit up in an instant, extinguished in another ten score. you are the flames and i am the lighter falling out of the shortstop’s hand, the student strea
Fossils aren’t anything more than small creatures caught in death and left for millions of years until we pull them from their opaque graves. we display their decayed bodies with gentle hands, aware that muscle compensates for missing skin and bone compensates for missing muscle; but without bone everything sinks back to dust. The City the demon weaves through the city, its path already chosen by narrow tracks I stare straight over a stranger’s head, trying to catch a glimpse
Tomorrow is my father’s birthday. I haven’t heard from him since a few days before Christmas, a message in a hotel bathroom in a rundown town a few miles east of Lake Michigan. My mother stood beside the sink and looked at me in the doorway. She thinks it was Scotch and I believe her. There was a different liquid on my face running down and from my body. The walls were royal blue and chipping – my brother found some in his bed that morning. Tomorrow is my father’s birthday an
on taking 60mg instead of 40— if these pills were people, they’d be as old as my dad, who insists he does not need therapy, but i do— i find a new contact, a cataract. i keep reading license plates on 287 instead of watching the cars ahead— dad told me that distracted driving is just as bad as drunk driving; i was fourteen in a school parking lot, practicing to take my mother to the hospital in case she got sick again— and my eyes feel filmy like some kind of milk, can’t real
from the bathroom at the union transfer this poem is for the girls who dance at punk shows. with pink hair and brunette roots, with dark lipstick on their teeth. this poem is for the carousel ring metallic smell on my hands left from a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, blood smell, dirty city smell. this poem is for the honeycomb bathroom tile, moving like acid trip nightmare. this poem is for the drunk girls waiting in line to use the toilet. for the girls who are beautiful because
There is a thump on the trembling door,
Soft like the brown September breeze,
Then it turns to iron with urgency; I open it hurriedly,
There is a woman who stands before me,
Her hair imbrued with silt,
Her body cloaked in muck.
She mourns gently at first,
Then she wails loudly, her indignation a feast
For eyes that left willingly.
She says she stumbled on the roadside like an expectant cow,
The passerby ignored her tragicomedy,
Her brute was nowhere to
Saint Lilith You're welcome bitches—all you pretty Eves Adam was a jerk from the beginning We'd walk thru Eden brushing away leaves and he'd lecture + mansplain everything— all the goddamn names of the goddamn things + commanding me to lie beneath him—which I might have chose, which is what stings. So I left—left Eden naked beneath my pride + went to Hell to fuck demons and yes size does matter + your pretty little children then all had sex with mine tho they mostly kept your
overediting my suicide note my spotify premium subscription runs out the same day i cover my chalkboard in a suicide note and it’s not a coincidence. but the chalk breaks in half and squeals as it touches the wall, so the apology for trying to kill myself becomes a lot more concise. by this i mean that right before i die i’ll be standing or sitting or laying or whatever and my brain will be heavy with everything i think i forgot to say which will be laced with everything i sa
Christopher John Eggett is a writer from Cambridgeshire trying to live close to water. He writes a literary newsletter and blog called Etch To Their Own which you can sign up for here and read online here. He tweets here and you can read more about him on his website. Image by vk red #poetry #christopherjohneggett #vol7 #boneandink
Risa Denenberg lives on the Olympic peninsula in Washington state where she works as a nurse practitioner. She is a co-founder and editor at Headmistress Press, publisher of LBT poetry. She has published three chapbooks and three full length collections of poetry: “Mean Distance from the Sun” (Aldrich Press, 2013), “Whirlwind @ Lesbos” (Headmistress Press, 2016) and “slight faith” (MoonPath Press, 2018). Image by Jenni Konrad #poetry #risadenenberg #vol7 #boneandink
I dream of dead humans, the true ones, in dirt and dreaming their own agonies. Residing in ether and urn, there’s really nowhere left to fly to. The sky waits for no one. My grandmother, lioness in the garden sauntered her way about tomatoes. I teetered around the rectangle, atoms and nickels happened in me, I was soon taller than the sunflowers, then she was gone. My father is still the painting I hang like a trophy in imagination, a place I still touch the wet paint, blue a
There is nothing intentional about twenty-eight limbs and seven heads stumbling against a screen door so that it knocks against the doorframe stutteringly. An unpracticed tangle of spirits might accidentally jog piano keys, break tea cups of coffee, slice bread raggedly by scratching contorted backs on cupboards or counter awnings. Your special spook camera arrived in an unmarked box. Through it you think you have seen one or two spirits an orb of blurry li
we do not speak of what happened in the rhododendron tilted axis calling mother oh mother my alpine vertebrae; unbirth them unbirth this ruinous tear in the sky oh sister unforgivable: how i let you undo your skin from the inside, as if i don’t know how horses burn oh baby in hay fire & hell fire in thirty seconds: charcoal lungs in two minutes: heat like a panoramic view heat like
Ridden/Riddance I am a passenger again as morning sleep cradles the trains moving past Burlingame bougainvillea corners and as jacaranda graffitis onto mosaics on anonymous walls. The peninsula is knit through its many lines— they cross into tracks left behind, like what it means to be a history of place. We reach no new conclusions. We have forgotten the old beginnings. Afternoon Train to Porto The small hand motioned towards five in the clock of the train station where they