@Mourning Tell us why you are sad/not sad Mad/not mad Conflicted/devastated/glad That ________ is dead (*click here for thread*) So we can tell you why you’re wrong It’s wrong to say You celebrate (Would you, in public, masturbate?) The dropping of a megaphone That magnified (*buffering*)
` I am tired of worrying my youth away, I am tired of being worried, I am tired You want to hold on to it, that certain lightness of being You said child, child: once it goes, never comes your way again ` Simone says “ain’t nobody perfect ’cause
ouroboros i am reborn again &again my toes crawl up to my eyes& plunge fractals apart i am a snake eating its own tail i am eve saying yes and fucking herself silly on her fingers sibilance cries make me whole again, whole again w/ pupils blown — coming
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
83. To Make Poor Paper not Flow When You Write on it. Dip the paper in alum water. I, Hohman, will hereafter pour a little water on the alum and moisten the paper. Then I will see whether one can write on it. From “The Long Hidden Friend”,
“another self-deprecating joke about my criminal record” and “Why Quit When You Can’t?” by Nicholas Alti
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.
Your sexual preference is the strand of spider web across my eyes this morning, Annoyed, I swipe it away; it is perfect and persistent; it laughs at my effort, yet doesn’t let go. My wanting you is for what – I don’t know – as if new clothes would make
BURN I sit in front of the fire, the wood so dry it pops, embers rain out, a small burn marks the rug, evidence of the offense. When I met him the spark glowed hot. How quickly I reacted, knowing to let it smolder could mean a home in flames.