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Literature Text
Bathers' feet print the stone,
the smoke of shrimp frying in oil
making sweet meat of the air.
Fat Ojibwe sucks the grease glazing his fingers,
peels the crustaceans from their ghost skins,
twists off sheaves of their toothpick legs.
The carapaces ooze when pressed:
Black pearl eyes, wet pebbles –
juices welling between the soft armour plates.
He reaches for a bottle with an oil-dark label,
lugs legs of slow sunshine into the pan
embossed with pepper slices.
Starfish of sliced chilli skim the surface.
the smoke of shrimp frying in oil
making sweet meat of the air.
Fat Ojibwe sucks the grease glazing his fingers,
peels the crustaceans from their ghost skins,
twists off sheaves of their toothpick legs.
The carapaces ooze when pressed:
Black pearl eyes, wet pebbles –
juices welling between the soft armour plates.
He reaches for a bottle with an oil-dark label,
lugs legs of slow sunshine into the pan
embossed with pepper slices.
Starfish of sliced chilli skim the surface.
Literature
The Fuguist
Jonah hated Mars. He hated everything about it. Every minute he spent there he was plagued by a vague feeling of unrest: Mars was not quite foreign, not quite familiar, an endless mirage or coma dream. Maybe he was dead, and maybe this was purgatory. Sometimes he considered praying at night, asking for forgiveness, just in case, for whatever sin might have banished him there, but then he looked out over the barren, forsaken wasteland and thought his time was much better spent sleeping, or walking.
But he hated how soft the ground was, how little clouds of dust exploded under his soles with every step, and how he could turn around and see his
Literature
Bathtub Escapade
I am writing this to you
drunk,
From a bathtub in Jerusalem.
This room is gold
like the city itself:
stone sitting smugly
on strata pedestals
looking down haughtily
at my scrawny form:
Scribbling ego
into scraps. scripts. dusty dreams.
Humming history
Till tongue is soaked
in movements and images of
people burying all mystery
in the same old void.
I was speaking to
the Rabbis wife tonight,
Slurring my words
and cursing myself
and only thinking about
The dead bird stuck in the Wailing Wall
Its beak jammed in there
like a personal love letter
to God,
its wings flapping like dead weights.
From here the world loo
Literature
April's House
The man who would be my lover through April had a daughter.
I showed her Playboys from 1999 and she grabbed at my breasts.
In mid-April my lover's grandmother died in a Michigan hospital.
The night before we had hurried sex on a friend's floor and in his shower.
I lay naked on a dark blue couch watching B list horror movies
with names like Frankenhooker and drank carbonated strawberry wine.
The floor was covered in empty Bacardi bottles and powdered Cheetos
while the bathroom smelled of concentrated bleach and urine.
I could crawl out onto the flat tarry roof through a second story window.
On the fourth of July I sat on the functionl
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Random thing: I got a portfolio coming up so I'm gonna be writing a lot for the next few weeks.
Comments2
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And now my mouth is watering. Really slick imagery here, so vivid. The breaks come in the right places, and the last line to me recalls the first, as well as completing the whole oceanic imagery.
If I had to pick it apart at all, I'd struggle... somehow 'carapaces' in its plural form strikes me as having an ugly flow, but it's a VERY minor niggle, and the word is just right anyway.
Ugh, this is such a sloppy comment. I'll just wrap it up by saying I'm very taken with it.
If I had to pick it apart at all, I'd struggle... somehow 'carapaces' in its plural form strikes me as having an ugly flow, but it's a VERY minor niggle, and the word is just right anyway.
Ugh, this is such a sloppy comment. I'll just wrap it up by saying I'm very taken with it.