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Extinct I burn From the light of the moon I burn In this soothing darkness I burn While watching the green shirt Hanging on the wire In the green garden Behind the green studio I burn In my solitude Of loneliness And because of it I burn Just looking at the Glass of milk I burn Like the cigarette In my hand I burn Like the first Venereal disease I burn Like the first torch In the tomb of the Last pharaoh I burn From all the bullets Bombs WoMDs I burn In this darkness Of greed I burn Like Adam I burn like God I burn While I wonder Why I wrote “I” Instead of “we”? #Unreal #Poetry #Salvation #Solitude #Truth #Rawness #Rebirth #DigitalCollage #DigitalPhotography #PoemAndArtCollab Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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Appendices from a Diagram of a Human Heart Skin. 2012. Multimedia, paper, fabric, and body. Appendix H Fig. 118: A silk scarf, painted with a map. Unrolled but not yet straightened over the table so that the rivers and mountains are shadowed in cobalt ink. Fig. 120: A question, posed by an airplane mutely scanning the landscape, Which of the lakes is mine? Appendix K Fig. 217: A map with red lines sewn in from city to city, crossing state lines and ending abruptly in places without dots, without a known name. Each line anchored with a different smiling photo of the same elderly couple, holding hands. Nowhere on the map does the figure of my father appear before 1983. Fig. 217a: A map full of pins with flags with dates beginning 19-- and ending in 20-- marking a a series of locations, enigmatically linked by the numbers, silent when concerned with story. Appendix H and Appendix K are previously published in The Infoxicated Corner. #Unreal #Poetry #Anatomy #Mapping #Heart #Past #Human #Photography #Collaboration #PoetryAndPhotography 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 Rock-cut Tomb You cut me down from my high-hanging view amidst the hill of skulls. You laid my shrouded body upon a pedestal, and carried me to the still mines by the city wall. There you laid my broken body on a stone slab, but I didn't fit. With rough hands you bound my arms and sawed off my bleeding feet to tailor me in the confines of the tomb. The solemn chants claim that I died for you, echoing off the ancient quarry walls. I'm missing, you say, but you don't remember where you buried me. #Unreal #Tomb #Skulls #Death #Burial #Broken #SolemnChants #ReligiousMotifs #HolyLand #QuailBellPoems #AltLit 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.
Cartography Words: Emily Shearer Image: Tawny Davis QuailBellMagazine.com I am a man with a penchant for studying maps and their narratives trapped in the dimension of border and landmark, squiggle of river, brushstroke of shoreline. I quantify canyons and caves with the tools of a surveyor: compass, prism, pen. The places I venture implore excavation, but I cannot extract or draw conclusions against the backdrops where you women prop your friezes, where you shudder and quake, where your ground is firm. This is how we map the world: lines converge in even measure. Metered footsteps. Steady drumbeats. Logic of Polaris. Every key a notched fit in the lock for which it was tumbled. And I stumble to follow the lines drawn out, out beyond the corners [of your eyes], the stories [of your evers] the echoing chasms [of your journeyed hearts.] I am a woman my pockets pregnant with apples. Studying maps belittles the act of wandering. As I travel, I mark land and time by absence. Remember the furniture store, you bought me that chair, I later painted it blue, the same color on our bedroom walls, when we framed ourselves by walls. Gone now, that dark encapsulation. Whatever I pretend to understand about intimacy I learned from walking the labyrinth - me to you and tracking back again. Masses and bodies between us were extant before the pens of cartographers, the equipment of surveyors determined their dimensions and contours. And this is how we commemorate distance. We circle to the center to discover where we are. Where we are we find by spiraling outwards. #Unreal #Poetry #YinYang #Female #Male #Logic #Emotion #Photography #Collaboration #PoemAndPhotoCollab 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 Pirate's Pretty BirdThis 20"x20" mixed media piece (acrylic, tissue paper, found objects, etc.) is on display as part of the exhibit "Rescue Me" at the Vola Lawson Animal Shelter in Alexandria, Virginia. #Unreal #Painting #Collage #MixedMedia #Beads #FingerPaint #Acrylic #NailPolish #Ribbon #Parrot #PrettyBird #Pirate 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 Lions of Everest By Robert Walton QuailBellMagazine.com She mimics holding a butterfly in her hands. Tenderness softens her face like gentle snows as she strokes invisible wings. Her eyes lock with mine.
I am the butterfly. Eyes glittering, she tears the butterfly's wings from my body. The maimed butterfly flutters, quivers and dies. Her lips form a moue of feigned surprise. Rage. Rage at that insolent smirk engorges my muscles with rich, red juices. I leap off of large holds onto steep, tilted rock and climb. This buttress arches like the spine of a dragon. A corner opens fifty feet above and twelve feet to my right. She smiles and taunts me from there. I swarm up the cliff face toward her, fingers and toes making decisions The holds are in-cut, perfect. Then my right foot skids off a toehold. My left foot holds an edge for a second and then slips off. My fingers bite sharp edges and are bitten in return. I glance at her. False solicitude wrinkles her brow. Eight thousand feet below is the East Rongbuk Glacier. Fingers scream for attention. Let them scream. They are good for a minute, perhaps more. I look at my treacherous feet and find treacherous rock, glacial polish. Ice has been here, but a glacier's kiss is never complete. Small imperfections remain. Sometimes they are enough. A coin-sized flaw just above my right knee will be useful. Not yet. Balance first. That edge where my left foot formerly rested will do for a microsecond. Then I must make an upward surge, an unceasing surge. I take a deep breath and explode into motion. Weight flows onto my right foot. Fingers leave the bitten edges. Finger pocket, toe-edge, almost nothing, a good side-pull - the polish is below me. I surge on. My breath roars like breaking waves. My forearms knot with strain. I tumble into the corner's alcove with the last of my strength. My vision dims to gray until my gasping forces oxygen back into starved muscles and brain. Awareness returns. I glance up the corner. She is gone. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
“Manet’s Musician, |