What comes after Post-Modernism?
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Name: …by Brittney Bullock
I learned your name. It was new, it was yesterday. It was newness on my tongue. I couldn’t stop repeating the syllables, the first and the second. And yet I’ve still to learn the last! The name that could be mine someday; could be ours, in fact. So I practice and practice… You’re the…
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Cast this air into the night…by G. Mramor
Cast this air into the night. Author these words for the wind. Dream the dying dream. Fore there is no war made with wind. There is only this. Red knuckles biting with hoar. Thumbs dicking raw scabs. Pink hands peeling from the web. Fore the rose light soars this dreamflight. But no war…
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Watering blue eyes…by G. Mramor
Watering blue eyes and the green passage between us Divets where tractors ran up the brush and you on a mounting road looking back down on a tree you knew Words written you can count the seven you spelt and the three she wrote after for your comfort The side of a cow open as…
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Homefree…by G. Mramor
I. Got drunk in the citysludge tonight. Ran the pockets lined with dough. Struck a poorman to his death and salvation. Regret the cigarette lost to a poker. Remember always that summer in november. Bronze days without remorse. Ugly throats for the hugging. Pruning babes for the sucking. Limp bodies for the fucking. Gather with…
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Snowblind…by G. Mramor
Burning snow and cold hands Black the dress wrinkled white Slumbring beasts and inverted eyes Snowblind the dreams hanging from the widow tree. Snowblind the naked doll bending down a wrinkled star. Snowblind the toy soldiers in the smoke of dreams. Snowblind falling this ruin the river runs in me. Somewhere snowblind my father sits…
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Fun… by Brittney Bullock
It was for the fun of it, or so I thought. I’d do it for the fun of it, for the great surprise and greater purpose of living on an edge- the edge. I guess I’d forgotten it’d already been defined, before in some past time, and re-defined again; a proper name to call the…
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Ripping Pages Off the Calendar by Julia Alexander
It’s May, and you are asleep on my couch. I count your fingers to make sure that you are real and you are all And, you are taking up all the space that my being has ever longed to inhabit. It’s July, and we are in my swimming pool. And everyone is around. And you…
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A Selection of Works by Joanne K. Cheung
Joanne lives and works in Brooklyn. *** To see more of Joanne’s work, visit her website: http://www.joannekcheung.com/
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That grows from your hands…by G. Mramor
And indifference bears its heart stone, Though a million words be spilt Love lords only the is. In time remember will divest me of this, For a voice in a box An unwanted stone sings its spring. A rose is no flower that grows from sand, And a love is not remembered When…
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Underground Sound: Beggars in a New Land by M. Pitter
The recent music by Beggars in a New Land brings to focus their increasing mastery over modern organized sound. While the genres of their many tracks revolve around House and Breakbeat, they exhibit the effort to bend and warp what we define as these musical styles to create something new. As a duo, consisting of…
Do you create?
