by RM Graves
Smiles and Serenity and Other Things
Plumbed from the Depths
by Paul-André Betito
by Erica Anzalone
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
by Tim Beckett
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.