grow more hands if you’re happy and you know it become a monstrosity If you’re happy and you know it and you really want to show it give me the skeleton of everything that’s gone extinct give me the fossil of optimism If you need water or
Nicholas Alti writes with and about trigeminal neuralgia, depression, addiction, and an affinity for strangeness. He’s an assistant editor for fiction and poetry at The Black Warrior Review. There’s more of his work at Dream Pop Press, Hypertrophic Press, The Hunger, Pretty Owl Poetry, and elsewhere.
My body was seated in my soul under blacklight- bound to analysis though I could bare no judgement as I sit and spin for aural opium. I had pictured a panorama of my trauma as an infernal, despicable whole. I made myself sick to purge my past as illness. To
Listen in on a reading by poet Kristin Garth by visiting the video above. Poetry Demon A poetry demon won’t clean a house. It burrows in clutter, writing it out. Language is legion. Words only espoused. Diabolism requires fingers devout. A poetry demon does not have friends. It listens
This is the debut of Elisabeth Horan’s column, Arsenic Hour. Here is its namesake poem. Here comes a bad one. Pearled teeth, gnarled hands, knife fingers, bomb breasts, snake limbs, tortoise pelvis, wolf anus, pronghorn genitals. Here comes the malfeasance. Ivory ban, fingernail grind, tusked cheeks, flat bill
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