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By Sarah Das Gupta The sun was setting in a furnace of gold and crimson. The Ulster fields had recently been ploughed and the furrows of rich brown soil stretched in perfectly straight lines from hedge to hedge as if the horse and ploughman had used a ruler. Only one field was noticeably different and strange.
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Karoly Lencses (Translated by Ágnes Megyeri) The ceiling sighs.
Bed? Room. Hanging liane swing bed? – That embraces every tomorrow. Stays like the outgoing Incoming colourful cables behind the monitor. (it only works like this) The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Savannah Sisk I envy the zebra,
with her eyes plopped on the side of her head. She sees the lion coming, and she runs. I am a human woman, a predator, with eyes at the front of my face, apex, indomitable. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Peter Mladinic I’m talking about matriarch patriarch,
matriarch Lena Younger from Lorraine Hansberry’s soul, and the Platonic matador in bullring earth. Lena said we’re a family who gives life. The matador’s sword gleam cape wave death family adore the sword thrust stops the bull’s heart. Lena Younger The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Kathleen Hellen look,
there’s that fetish: green glow green skin green in vivid Technicolor The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Kathleen Hellen you sit beside me in the dark, applauding
vulgar Freudian interpretations A way of seeing that approximates desire. you: POV- you voyeur who doesn’t see The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Jessy Randall We found a bright greenish-yellow
fluorescence in the cat-eye cotton, and then in corn, and milkweed, and panic grass. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Khadija Farah It feels like something has taken over. Something that has amplified me out and torn itself from the repeating sequences of me. Something snarling with teeth and a golden painted maxilla. That isn’t pretty, but will make me so.
I call it a ‘he’ because of how polar we are. But it truly can’t be personified. Not in a way that makes it less uncanny, body oozing glittering grey, like magma. It slithers and flattens and bulges, puffing out its falciform abdominal space. It would be beautiful. He would be beautiful if I had been told to forget what I knew of the word. |