two mouths crawling the Medusa legs us pale girls virulence being told is our blood and bones.
Home
Tom and Lauren vs Zara vs Zargaff (Soundtrack).
I created a soundtrack for the most brutal scene yet in the ongoing Identify novel collaboration.
Solicitude/Solitude (Final Draft).
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
The Anthropocene Hymnal is out now!
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
I, memory, I, a membrane and ghost meronym to memory and free—
In mind.
and I’ve never known him this man of earth, of war and weedy cypress, lizards and their fluted skins married to the wind; phantom epistles from Vietnam
Variant Literature Magazine Publication.
The Second Chance Anthology contains literary pieces that have been withdrawn by their authors from unsafe publishing houses and magazines.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.
Marilyn.
I was particularly inspired by Marilyn Monroe and admittedly, I wish I had learned more about her earlier on in life
Thank You (to Elise).
I hear the rattling, the ticking, and my Grandfather’s tinnitus (perhaps not), All the unheard aspects now, so therefore make a wish, Just one, and only one. For the evening had already set, As I waited for you—(and I near turned) all the timbre from your state, I sat down, Drank a cup of water, and I fluttered all over to make that very call. That tone, the sight of perception, not dozing on Winter’s fracture, That slung branch gone and lost, dying in a day
Father’s Ocean.
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.
Beneath.
Slice the seeds with your hands, laughter stole the born, laugh in his face too
After the end (Draft).
this would always be the self-suicide, generous with tragedy
the Psyche who should have been hit with an arrow at least once. (Draft).
We talked the Holocaust and the Ukraine on blood-hooks; Putin’s laughing, reversing time yet again. Inside his body: amnesia and via ferrata
To Accede Into My Own Desires.
Of this night’s eye or insanity that was dissevered, A divine satire loomed of an Iliad one day, that was deemed as dithyrambic.
I made the mistake (of going to a party) (Draft).
I let her keep the banns, told her I didn’t care what she did with it. She had eyes that hid a body, perhaps
bellum omnium contra omnia (Draft).
pilling, with my favorite lady an eos tread
see you, see me.
I see you I hoard your threaded- mulling-overs; playing me into junction, screaming, sighing screaming, sighing
Petition to Support Removal of Nesset’s Work From Poetry Magazine.
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.
My Eve.
you wound me A lotus dress with lace of red.
Memories, Never Mine.
I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been, and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents
Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss (after the sculpture in France).
psyche-reaped and kissed into a lushed womb where coiling into my lap, she lay
Have you?
Have you ever written a poem that was just... WAY too personal for anyone else to read?
don’t leave in limbo (Draft).
variegated in singes; touches of her neck and wrist, contused in no promises, only the sprawl of remembrance gets darker
In search of a beta reader.
I'm currently in search of a beta reader or two to help give feedback on my WIP, maybe even hash out ideas.
Chapter Five of The Obsession.
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--
Letting Eve in (Draft).
My hero turned out to be a monster, it sinks further in my chest; frail leaves and empty words spill—spill
Pseudopsychosis. 