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Love Song for a PsychopompEditor's Note: This piece originally appeared in The Horror Zine. Reaper, Your abysmal gaze, Bestills the mortal heart. Lulled into a sweet, surreal daze, Spirits and bodies part. Ectoplasmic marrow seeps, Through frenzied spider-hands, Weaving a lucid noose which keeps, Throats bound to Your command. Strokes of crisp, autumnal breath, Scatter dead leaves and runes. Blessed be, the angel of death, Lord of the darkest moons! This world’s only certain promise, Dwells in the freedom of your kiss. #TheGrimReaper #TheGrinReaper #Halloween #Samhain #Trick #Treat #Unreal #Poetry #Horror #Occult #Pagan 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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A Post-It Commentary on Turkish Pop Culture Sultans “It is known that, by these 3D post-it portraits I create cult aphorismas, political humour and powerful play with the viewer. Silkscreen printing is used in the process prior to the invention of polyester mesh.”
Ardan Özmenoglu is a versatile Turkish contemporary artist who works in a wide range of mediums including large-scale glass sculptures, works on Post-It® notes and neon lighting. Since her first exhibition in 2006, her unique work has been featured in over forty exhibitions in the U.S. and abroad including Istanbul, Berlin and Croatia. Özmenoğlu adheres hundreds of post-it notes to her canvases and then silk-screens colorful, pop-inspired imagery on top to create a three-dimensional surface. This singular composition made out of a multitude of similar parts lends the work a formal variety and literal depth. After the canvas undergoes the printing process, each post-it note can behave differently. Some can lay completely flat, while others can curl up and reveal their true colors peaking out from under the overlaid images. The work’s three-dimensional depth also translates into a depth of meaning—on the surface, it is colorful, lighthearted and extremely fun, yet an entirely different character and tone threatens to eclipse these surface appearances from underneath. Her playful work, ripe with sociopolitical commentary, challenges the viewer to reconsider familiar images, products and ideas. She cleverly uses ubiquitous items, Post-It® notes, to create pieces of art that unite seemingly opposing ideas: the past and the present, art history and contemporary art trends, creativity and consumerism, repetition and individuality, the whole and the fragmented. She unites the centuries old practice of printing with modern colors, glitters, paper and images. Her brightly colored, bold art forces the viewer to consider everyday objects and ideas in a different light. The result is anything but predictable. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
"In the Oven," "Night and Night," and "Gulls Calling over Corcaigh" Editor's Note: These poems originally appeared in Luna Luna Mag and have been reprinted with permission. In the Oven
behind the deli counter behind the man in white the moon is dripping fat like candlestick wax on the countryside below (valley of flesh below). I ask him, is that meat clean? like the silver dollar I polished when I was four—drop and rattle-- in the metal horse’s belly, a slot up in its withers, the bank lodged in her ribs. I’d stare in that void and wish myself in. You see, I’ve been saving myself up since I was young. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Curse of Caring By Charice Cejas QuailBellMagazine.com It’s just a burden, really, to hold the heaviness of hope, to have two eyes that can see things of wonder in the wicked, and to have a mind to know that the world is deeply sickened, but still a heart to love it so and hands to hold a cure. There’s a way it can be fixed and, although it’s failed before, through and through the earth is sifted and a seed is upward-staring. Of this, I swear, I’m sure. But I can see that doubt is glaring from those I’m fighting for. Disbelief is quite a force, its power—overbearing. Maybe my cure is but a curse. It is, the curse of caring. #Unreal #Poetry #Rhythm #Heart #Love #Compassion #WordImage #LoveCure #LoveSick #LoveMind #PowerOfLove 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.
Spanish Moss Tree By Jessika Malo QuailBellMagazine.com The tree was pronounced dead, Its leaves dry, black and withered. The sun shines on it still, Distributing its beams between its branches of wings. The Spanish moss glowing in its darkness, in green and light So people forget it is dead, Though it is only standing. Perhaps as a memorabilia of all that have passed, But that’s still dignified enough to stand… And there, just there, unbothered by the lost mourning, Leaning to that dead tree, You had me seated, On a swing of emotions. With words flying out of your mouth, Like a hurricane of blasphemy, Swords that know no direction, But still pierce my whole being. And you left me As if yourself, just like all the people, Have forgotten that I am now dead, Though still standing! #Unreal #Poetry #JessikaMalo #Nature #Love #Heartbreak #Strength #Imagery #Florida 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.
In Response to Rapt by Karen O. At least the Devil is in the details she needed context. So I was giving it to her. THE TRASH STENCH THE POTHOLES THE SIRENS THE MISPLACED ANGER THE ACTIVE VERSUS THE PASSIVE. These are all thoughts worth Tuesday's pondering. I am bidding on an election campaign. Words are still meaning nothing. This is no idle threat this is what happens when reason contradicts itself. I move through the days as I memorize my schedule got back up plans for a few back up plans simply put, the most heroic thing I’ll ever do is clean the dishes without being asked. #Unreal #Poetry #Politics #Change #SelfTrust #Activism #ActivistPoetry 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.
Saudade for Our Seventh Year I. Watching the freshwater stream find its way between moonlight and stone, we are unusual, if so they say. But we are common as well- occurring frequently in Persian literature: those two who fell in love by word of mouth. II. The confession turns my words into crowded conglomerations, traffic jams stuck thick in the throat. I ran into him- an accident- resulting in a run-on sentence to explain an event without leaning on others. Oh, but you know it when you see it, I assure, you know the caustic grin attached to the face of a rejected suitor, and how it billboards clear as advertisement that he aspires little, only to remain, somehow, the sarcastic best friend. At worst, in the fine print beneath the ad, he aims to be a mordant: corrosive as crab apple puckers your cheeks the force by which your face sours into frieze. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Whipstitches #Unreal #Poetry #Film#Iceland #Landscape #Mindscape #Collaboration #Video #MovingImage 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.
Artist StatementEditor's Note: This piece was originally published on The Feminist Wire. I pluck my hair from the root because my scalp can make the sacrifice. Because I want to create from my own body. Because my children are hungry.
Open the studio. There is no paint in the house. Open the fridge. There is no milk in the house. Open the cupboards. There is no bread in the house. We don’t have eggs or peanut butter or carrots or canned beans or anything edible at all. We finished the last bag of corn chips before the weekend crept up and shook our shoulders in another one of its cruel tricks. “I’m here,” the weekend slithered. “Here to haunt you. Kill you.” At school, the children eat because there is some fairness in this world, or at least pity. My daughters line up in the cafeteria, fill their trays with permitted items, and punch in a special code when they step up to the register. Then they sit down and fill their stomachs. But at home, we have no special code. There is no acrylic in the house and my children are hungry. There is no charcoal in the house and my children are hungry. There is no pastel in the house and my children are hungry. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Death of Romanticism Barbie was baptized Penelope because only names change Penelope murders cold hearted make-up artists Who paint lips too Anna Sui pink She hides their bodies in airport bathrooms See how you like it Lips cannot take the pressure of a Viola—petals or instrument All the while the models piss away dandelion small talk Jasmine tea is a weak bastard (There is only one airport) Ostracized sharpies and the word bitch lose bags Soft coats turn coats or just a waist coat. Too many coats of many colors But religion died when that movie came out This isn’t 1820 but it should be Because men laid blankets over mud Hearts are guttural make believe bad black and white Cookies, or a photo of people French kissing Or French people tonguing each other You be the judge Powder puffs caught fire when face lifts became The new block party Old skin chiseled into the skillet Leather shaved into a Hello Kitty wallet morphed fad to fashion to transatlantic trouble Scotland fell down a well If you have no mouth you cannot celebrate Mourn the appropriate time for your missing mouth Your kissing mouth your whispering slippery mouth The only super-size is chaise lounge The only color is Roberto Cavalli And all of his Peter Pan nightmares The last living talisman is an Ugg boot Stuffed with dead sparrows, symbolic feathery bows Crest strips stripped of possibilities As far as the mid-century can see, only recycling is quaint Every box car is burned I dreamt my uterus had three names, Linda, Labia, and Luke I heart you, little box animal, Oreo eating swine Synthesizer miscreant vagabond treatise time Cosmos spill and drown all Benetton advertorials When Penelope is on the throne don’t tell her to wash up The Indiegogo campaign robbed us all So bruised from the last ruling, we don’t even know our own dreams anymore No one belly laughs James Franco is finally avant-garde because no one understands his choices She/he produces brassiere fashion shows and unicorn light up wands Penelope dictates we wear a yarn cap for protection Pray it never meets a nail in the door #Unreal #Poetry #JenniferMacBainStephens #Fads #Superficial #Irony #Masses #Imagery Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |