Writing

Smiles and Serenity and Other Things Plumbed from the Depths by Paul-André Betito

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Smiles and Serenity and Other Things

Plumbed from the Depths

 

by Paul-André Betito

 
 

"The Wet Secrets, February 2015", Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

“The Wet Secrets, February 2015″, Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015

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Towards An Authentic Voice In Poetry: 5 Statements by Stephen Morrissey

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Towards An Authentic Voice In Poetry:

5 Statements

 

by Stephen Morrissey

 
 
dancesteps
 
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Overexposure by Erica Anzalone

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Overexposure

by Erica Anzalone

 
 

“Hi. I’m Melody. Charmed, I assure you.” Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015.

“Hi. I’m Melody. Charmed, I assure you.” Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015.

 
 
There, where her face is blotted out by the sun, in this overexposure, we will make love for the first time. We will not call it making love or even refer to it at all, not as fucking, or doing it. Even though you texted me, I will do you hard, like a stampede of horses up the side of a building running into the sun, like a line of flower girls in white dresses that become a stampede of horses suspended for a moment over the sharp, red noise of traffic.
 
You will not mention your metamorphosis or mine, how our insides will become our outsides and when this happens, you will become a dragon on my back and I will become a white cow. You will not mention how you will bite my neck and blood will spurt out, each bead making a necklace of fantasies I will never say out loud.
 
There is a rape fantasy turning an emerald green slither by your feet, and over here by my hand with your hand pressing it against the wall, the colors keep changing. I want to fuck everything alive and dead and inanimate. A fuck rainbow made of furniture and banisters and doorknobs. Dinner plates with roses on them shoot past our heads and wedge into the wall. They are too high for me to fuck so I make a footstool of you. Read more

Misfits by Tim Beckett

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Misfits

by Tim Beckett

 
 
BC-Shots-1
 
 
T

he camp was at the end of a dusty logging road, a hundred kilometers up from the highway. The only other settlement was a tiny Indian reserve, just visible through a stand of trees from the road. The camp consisted of four portable trailers, each a city block long, and two smaller trailers, one for the administrative office, the other for the cook shack, the whole lot plunked down in the middle of a clearing shorn of all vegetation down to bare earth.
It had been a tough season, the worst I’d had in the four years I’d gone tree-planting, and I thought the camp would be a good place to go into myself, read the books I’d been meaning to read since I’d gone into the bush, prepare myself for the transition back to the city. The loggers weren’t due back for a few weeks, and we were all given our own rooms in one of the long trailers. The rooms were bare but comfortable, and the steady hum of the generator out the window blocked out the sound of my fellow tree-planters yelling back and forth in the hallway, or playing guitars in their rooms. I found the camp beautiful in a way, an echo of the Northern towns I’d grown up in and almost totally forgot about when I was in the city. The smell of oil and exhaust mingled with the sylvan-sweet scent of fresh-cut timber, and broken logs stuck out of the mud like the remains of a building after an earthquake. Next to the railway cars, a tractor with a claw the size of a small house shifted logs in and out of a twenty foot pile, while fully-loaded logging trucks appeared regularly at the opposite ends of the clearing, sending up plumes of dust, their tottering loads of freshly-skinned trees glistening in the sun. It was like a giant factory dropped in the middle of the woods.

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Beer Mystic Chapter 33: Furman’s mom visits his East Village apartment by bart plantenga

Posted on by bartplantenga Posted in Audio / Video MnemoTechnics, Bart Plantenga, Essay, Fiction | Leave a comment

bartMnemoheaderHappy birthday/mother’s day, mom, 2015

The decline of my mother, now 90 on 14 May, has been a slow, long descent since I was a teen. In my youngest youth, she was beautiful and loving. But as I turned 13 or so, her inability to navigate her way through reality became more evident. Things, jokes, music began to bug her. Her loving was replaced by a kind of obsession with the formalities of mothering, the rituals, the cleaning, the forbidding – the mechanics. This has increased over time and even while me and my brother were growing up, neighborhood kids would mock and tease my mom and call her Crazy Tina.

I never tried to analyze it until about 10 years ago, when I realized that her life had probably been more adversely affected by World War II than we thought. She was a teen in Amsterdam and had her best years confiscated by circumstance and any hopes she had for using her artistic inclination toward something satisfying in life somehow became secondary to survival and recovery.

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