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DeportationBy Paul Kang QuailBellMagazine.com Paul Kang was born in South Korea, raised in Portugal, and studied Communication Arts at VCUarts in Richmond, Virginia. He graduated this year. Now he resides in the city's Fan district and makes art whenever he can.
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The Cambridge CraziesBy Anne McCrery QuailBellMagazine.com To the man on the commuter rail: who were you once before you took to muttering to yourself in foreign tongues and staring at young women with a jack-o-lantern smile? You look like an unwashed grandfather, kind eyes glassed over, arthritic fingers quivering over a Styrofoam cup of weak black coffee. I think I’m afraid of you, for the mad ones with their liquid brains are everywhere, and they all want to hold your hand and I might be one of them someday, laughing in a subway tunnel, growing madder as parents hug their children tightly and look at me like I’m plagued as they pass by, like I pass you by. Anne McCrery is a writer currently residing in Richmond, Virginia and attending Virginia Commonwealth University.
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Open Heavens in Lowell CityIt's like sleepless cross state drives, or the exposed cogs of the sky's violent machinery, or my black palm cigarette fingers grasping for hidden change, but gathering only guitar picks. With tattered shorts, with anger or sleep, with chemical vigilance, and eyes like brilliant halogen bulbs. All of this in your irises, (more like orchids) and I think maybe you are drowning. Patrick Auclair just graduated college and he writes (bad) poetry.
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FuncatBy Michael Long QuailBellMagazine.com A song about games of childhood. Michael Long is 26 years old and from Washington state. He is interested in sound collage, social justice, food, and food accessibility. He is presently writing a book about riding a bike across the United States.
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She ExistsBy Nicholas Shipman QuailBellMagazine.com She sweeps through town a few magical Saturday nights a year, that heartbreaker wind out of nowhere with her glorious leather-clad thighs gripping the chopper her don’t-fuck-with-me boyfriend built for her when he finished his time and her hair is black fire a net of it flying to reel in lost souls and everyone who sees her falls in love and she treats them all just the same when she bothers to pause in her midnight ride whipping through town on a magical Saturday night and sometimes I buy her a drink and make her laugh, but I don’t think she remembers my name and when I move on she’ll forget me entirely and still you’ll see her screaming through town on magical Saturday nights and the net of her hair will grip you inside and that’ll be the best night of your life but don’t ever think with that fool-yourself hope that you could catch the wind. Nicholas Shipman is a poet originally from Boston who now resides in Richmond, Virginia.
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Magic SpellBy Claire LeDoyen QuailBellMagazine.com A haircut between friends. Enter trust agreement. Here. You are here We are Singing songs about living in our own filth losing parts of the sewing machine in piles of dirty laundry. Turn your lights off to see shadows from the moon. The morning-dove will sing as you write by the glow. Will your fire. Devil in reflections; Clouds here An ocean Black mass With the man you wouldn’t look at all night Extinguish dying fires through dance. Where are you going? Don’t stop. Don’t get too close to the edge. Scream, “it all feels like home.” The clouds will slow down soon. No camera could capture any filled night With the clouds’ constant movement and the exposure you’d have to use it would blur. Like being born. Look at that vortex. Distressing pyromancy (?) Will Better Perception. THE MOON IS BACK. for a limited time It is about one minute past midnight. The only clear spot in the universe above us We should dance the hell out of these hardwood floors before you get any furniture On the eve of St. John Smelling stalks of henbane in the skin of a young hare, buried at a crossroads; With bat’s blood sator arepo tenet opera rotas virgin parchment under the threshold of this house The Clash On Vinyl. Lo ma na pa quoa ra sata na. Lay down beside your shoes. The electric plasma writing code in my body is old lace draped on a coat rack in the dark. This is for your anthill projects: What you call injustice is innate. Where is the magic magic magic magic magic magic sublime magic(?) To bless the floors, lie on the ground feeling the support of the wood I can collapse over and over again without bruising. The best way to bless them is dancing, bandit, so start to step. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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Pissed, Post-Party, 4 a.m.By Helen Georgia Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com tonight i thought of you your messy, ill green meadows with your rumoured scares your hidden black streets with nothing horrid to bear of course i turned round and made sure noboby was a following my sweet, sweet behind good god edinburgh you haven’t a scooby how much i’ll fucking miss you yearn you plead you beg for you back |