in parentheses

Category: Prosetry

  • Foreground… by Brittney Bullock

    Foreground… by Brittney Bullock

    I dreamt of our demise like clockwork, now I don’t belong to anyone anymore. They used to talk about freedoms such as this but I never understood it or even thought to ask their names; I wish I did. They told me that the day is nothing but the night in disguise rolling along and…

  • He Died Alone… by Brittney Bullock

    He Died Alone… by Brittney Bullock

    I think it must have been beautiful when you died laid up in such perfect solitude counting sheep until the cows came home, until the daylight broke, until the sheep were gone. I imagine there was nothing less than a flood of color clouding the perimeter of your face like a Byzantine idol and rushing…

  • When the sky is no longer a safe place…by G. Mramor

    When the sky is no longer a safe place…by G. Mramor

    When the sky is no longer a safe place the chest of light shall close upon widows like sodding bones wailing on the quai to explosions of feathers like the wet petals of carnations into the sound of the oily sea falling grace stones and fate for a sin you do not even know and…

  • Was there ever a time…by G. Mramor

    Was there ever a time said my friend, said my friend there was a time we feted the even rage, squirreled through trash, papered our bed, joined our sleeping arms, crashed our crying head. My friend said there is a time, a time to remember all our dead, time to speak again all those names…

  • One drink and seven or ten…by G. Mramor

    One drink and seven or ten…by G. Mramor

    Because he does not want to believe that one drink and seven makes no love. Because in the far back of the taxi he can see her head on his shoulder and her hand on his knee and his on top of hers like they’ve never been away. Because the boy next to him sees…

  • Not for this selfish giant…by G. Mramor

    A chain of clouds like peaks so unreal, beneath a yellow moon who breathes a pale green and love is passing. Who sits on the river and breaks with the river and moves in pieces, up the town like streaks of fire on the lie and mountain or cloud all around and love is passing.…

  • I who make with water…by G. Mramor

    With my hands I cut the valley and raise up the earth beyond the clouds. A whisper and the flues meet icy black at the falls. A shout and the land spreads. A cry and the ocean snaps wave rove upon wave. My heavy cough makes sharp the cliffs and the smoke from my lips…

  • The Contents of a Box Filled with Artifacts of My Father’s Life – by Lulu Carrigan

    The Contents of a Box Filled with Artifacts of My Father’s Life – by Lulu Carrigan

    Lulu Carrigan has a bachelor of arts in creative writing and three typewriters (two are broken). She has only been published, with a loose definition of the word, on her blog, luluthezulu.tumblr.com, or on twitter, @lulucarrigan. Talk to her about poetry, art, mopeds, music, people, places and things! More work by Lulu featured on IP. First of…

  • To erase all sound…by G. Mramor

    The girls are crying on the seaboard. They swing from ropes and bash into boards, their small fat breasts half bare, clawing at their throats. The water cuts black and makes no sound. Behind the hill across the way the sun sets a waving dread behind Saint Stephen’s stand. The clouds are still, whole bodies…

  • And the river makes no sound for you…by G. Mramor

    And the river makes no sound for you…by G. Mramor

    Because the river makes no sound for you, it can only wake, like the past walking with you, going before you. Because how many memories must you remember to get it out of you? Who was like a mother to your love and a name to all the quiet of your living. Who was a…