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Press Hard press hard until grey turns to black. until white smolders into lead shadows. press deep until the smooth, scars. until flat, canyons into space i cannot navigate. a canyon with rivers, like the lines etched in my palms. i trace each line in hopes my heart river will flow into a sublime abyss. my fingers, trace your palms, searching for the line deep enough to house us both in abysmal bliss. but when our palms touch, it's the sky meeting the canyon. and our lines connect, and the black and grey fade away. #Unreal #Poetry #DenizZeynep #Palmistry #HeartLine #Love #Home #Verse #CreativeWriting Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Death of Private Dicey By Patrick Michael Clark QuailBellMagazine.com The corner store at Broad and First was a claustrophobic place. The faded signs plastered on the walls and windows were cheerful, with smiling faces pushing yams, cigarettes, and ice creams. Because these things sold themselves there was no reason to take them down after half a decade.
Behind the counter a round man with a Polish face chewed a cigar and wheezed when his giant chest breathed up and down. He was more content than most people when he was lording over his racks of mints and shelves of canned vegetables. It was a warm afternoon and the thousands of city clerks and office typists had come out of their cubicles for lunch, either at a cheap diner or from a brown sack on a bench somewhere. The shopkeep reached over his shoulder and clicked on the little radio he kept behind the counter. Bing was crooning through the static. “He’s a lyin' sonofabitch!” The front door blew open and shopkeep eased up in his chair. A man in uniform was fuming like a boiler, his broad shoulders were tense and the face behind his thick glasses was sweaty. His friend came in behind him, also in Army green, but leaner and placative. “You need to calm the hell down,” the second man said in a heavy drawl from somewhere below St. Louis. “I ain’t calmin down till I taken care of this,” retorted the first one, who sounded like a Virginian. “So what are you gonna do?” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Thunder I invited thunder willingly to my boat. It had been a long dry summer, And the boat needed some gentle rocking. Even the waves complained of boredom, Coming and going effortlessly, Mildly touching the skin of it. The thunder came strong. The boat turned its womb into the sea, Like a flower closing on, early in maturation of the light-- A darkness it accepts rather than one it fears, For the sea is a better trusted friend. The thunder came strong. Indifferent to the awaited spring To the long hated summer, The thunder came strong; hungry and empty. And left even more Hungry. #Unreal #Poetry #JessicaMalo #ToureWeave #Nature #Imagery #Thunder #Emotions #EbbandFlow #Depth Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Clam Beard No More You said you loved me, lover, but you needed one thing to change. So I said, let me be your changeling, a changeling for love. You said you wanted to taste me, so I said feast, feast on. But you said all you could taste was my lady garden. The bush between my legs blossomed in the dark, longer and longer into a robust pubic Rapunzel. I felt my cheeks blush and my muscles harden. And how do my black curls taste? I asked. A chorus of crickets swept the bedroom. Crows hatched. Crows flew. Crows died. The moon cycled through her phases. Finally, your voice, thunderous, a boom: I want to taste your clam, your sweet jam. But I like your cock with hair./I prefer you with none there. You expect me to go bare?/Be my changeling for love. The flood of justification washed over my brain: He had changed for me—but those were habits, nuisance character traits, flaws destined for change. Not the way the stars had dreamt him into nature. Still. Be a changeling for love. Trim. Shave. Wax. Poof. Now my pussy cries red rain because the salon is a butcher. This form of torture hails from the formerly beautiful Brazil. 'Formerly' because Brazil is no longer beautiful in my mind. I, sans bearded clam, am no longer beautiful in my mind. Once I quivered with delight; today I shiver in disgust. I am a girl-child so naked that clothes cannot clothe me. Kneel before my bleeding altar because I changed for love. #Unreal #Sex #BrazilianWax #NoPubicHair #WaxingDownThere #BodyImage #BeautyIdeals #WhatIsBeautiful #Love Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Playground We embrace now, beneath orange midnight pollution. Our concrete shadows have merged, as we anchor between convoluted plastic. To you I am a plaything? Lounging among swings and slides. Pressed for warmth and spread for appeal. But if that’s true, What am I doing here? Basking in your silence as an excuse for my own? I sulk with you, your pretty play thing, skinny in tights, Velcro shoes, your baby doll blue. Until this place seems familiar. Branches of entities unknown, cover the sky in a loose knit, melding into flighty ideals. Sex. Love. Maybe comfort? Last time I was here, I did not know of these. Nor do I now. Breaking plastic ties, I jump down and flee your mold, I swing. #Unreal #Poetry #Photography #EleniKanakis #TylerRosado #Caged #ToxicRomance Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Lol Wat Is This #Unreal #ExperimentalFilm #StopMotion #FestToo #Convergence #AlexandriaVirginia #NoVaArts #DCArts #FilmWorkshop Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Devil Wears Suspenders Words + Image: Courtney Barron QuailBellMagazine.com The devil wears suspenders He wants to be my friend. A voice like knives beckoning, He wants to play pretend The devil wears suspenders And he has a wonky eye. He tells me its okay now To kiss the world goodbye. The devil wears suspenders Standing close beside me. He reaches out with needle hands And finds the soul inside me. The devil wears suspenders He's taken now with anger. Because in my soul is only love, And evil stays a stranger. #Unreal #Poetry #CourtneyBarron #Devil #Imagery #Love #DontHate #Appreciate Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Multi-Talent 2Ties Down the Rabbit Hole. Photography was like a gateway drug into the creative side of my mind. I first got into photography when I was doing T-shirt screen printing. Somewhere in that process, I found that I enjoyed photography much more than screen printing. Something Borrowed into Something New. My photo alias is 2Ties, which comes from Ty-Ty, the nickname that my little sister gave me when she was first learning to talk. When I took up photography, I just took pictures. I didn't know the technical side of it. I couldn't even name a well-known photographer. I didn't even own my own camera. My step-dad let me borrow one of his older cameras, and a handful of lenses that he never used. He was into wedding and portrait photography. He was the only photographer I knew. I remember him explaining to me how to use a DSLR. It was like a foreign language. There were too many settings. I just wanted to put it in "take a picture" mode and roll with it.
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Leyla's LamentMama, how do you make the pain go? Do I wear my veil and tuck my tears in for sweet dreams? Mama, do I cover my skin? Will the thick, black cloak hug my scars the way you hug me? Mama, do I sit behind latticed windows? Are those lacy shadows just whispers of your lullabies? And, Mama, will my scars shine? Shine like the sun through my window, where wind parades past the bars and twirls my eyelashes into a curtsy? Wait, Mama, what about my eyes? Will they crystalize when tears flow? Like gems in a dark cave? Will they still shine? #Unreal #Poetry #DenizZeynep #Veiled #Feminism #Caged #Scars #MamaDaughter #Womanhood Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Three Autumn Memories #Unreal #Photography #Collage #FemaleForm #FemaleFigure #Autumn #Fall #SeasonalChange #WomenInLeaves Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |