I created a soundtrack for the most brutal scene yet in the ongoing Identify novel collaboration.
I see the dead potatoes
of our graves. Gulping in your absence,
there is no agony or languor
beneath the worlds in darker glory to refract
from my mind, but of the word it is not mine
All direct proceedings to Experiments in Fiction are donated to World Wild Life to help combat climate change issues. You can also purchase the anthology as a Kindle e-book or paperback on Amazon, but I’d recommend purchasing directly from Ingrid as well.
I, a membrane and ghost
meronym to memory
and I’ve never known him
this man of earth, of war
and weedy cypress, lizards
and their fluted skins
married to the wind;
The Second Chance Anthology contains literary pieces that have been withdrawn by their authors from unsafe publishing houses and magazines. The goal of the anthology is to bundle works into what is deemed a safe literary community and to expose magazines that contain unsafe views, for instance, racism, sexism, homophobia, anti-semitism, etc, etc.
I want to acknowledge that the topics mentioned may be triggering. This is a content warning as the following information relates to a convicted pedophile and CSA.
you wound me
A lotus dress with lace
I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been,
and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents
psyche-reaped and kissed
into a lushed womb where
coiling into my lap, she lay
Have you ever written a poem that was just… WAY too personal for anyone else to read?
variegated in singes; touches of her neck and wrist, contused
in no promises, only the sprawl of remembrance gets darker
I’m currently in search of a beta reader or two to help give feedback on my WIP, maybe even hash out ideas.
In the present moment, she awaited the inevitable. She strayed from Oktavia even more so—to the point the human noticed her odd looks and disappointment; their hands had bumped into each other when trying to reach for the artificial sweetener jar—and Mischa flinched like a fish waiting to be gutted by their captor.
In retrospect, however–
My hero turned out to be a monster,
it sinks further in my chest; frail leaves
and empty words spill—spill
“…I am not even flattering you, she probably just glanced at you and decided what she would feel, like clockwork,” he snapped his fingers. “You need to end this.”
“And how do you expect me to do that?” Mischa didn’t dare break away eye contact. Respect was the only thing she had left, if it wasn’t love.
“You do it carefully, Koch. Very carefully.”
how precise and anticlastic
as if each horror you provoked
could somehow make me want you
I realized this sounds apt for the holidays, so now its purpose is tailored for… that
like abandoned memories, recalled by my mother
like when my grandfather said
“I’m going to kill you” while counting money
with no thread of flowers
to plant your feet on, and into morning air
at a hotel room
remembering that’s what home felt like.
O I had bad dreams; I was wooded into the sand,
lady, I am dead from you all
I found a dead deer in the road
at the same time my dad told me not to look;
Do not tell me what I was
to redraw that cold war face,
to see a woman of what I bleed
sometimes, I wish I were like that. don’t you.
how do you break off from yourself
do you ever think about it?
Father, I love you,
as the orange of the sunset fades to the ship’s berth,
to the fields of a cherry birdsong so darken like a lute,
your song purifies my broken soul
father, you are everything, my world, myself,
I love you.