Nicholas Alti writes with and about trigeminal neuralgia, depression, addiction, and an affinity for strangeness. Heās an assistant editor for fiction and poetry atĀ The Black Warrior Review. Thereās more of his work at Dream Pop Press, Hypertrophic Press, The Hunger, Pretty Owl Poetry, and elsewhere.
rules caught in the landslide swept away in madness and diamond filled rocks reason is an unmarked map the unfamiliar wild envelops me I am lost in chaos theory there is no light on the windowsill to guide me home I will not be entombed
How odd to be him, here in this place of fierce thoughts and solid fur. All the best games in the sun, the cold windy bars keeping us tight from one another. She says “look up” I see long necks with spotted long lashes eating from trees. Bears with paws
C.A. Scheherazade is an Indo-British poet, whose work has previously been published in Figroot Press and Kingdoms In The Wild. Her fickle muse can occasionally be found wandering under @caliphascheherazade on tumblr.
An Update from Baptist Country Like a ghost swallow, Christ was lifted into the wide, empty fields of heaven by the wind. Yes, wide. Indeed, empty. You donāt want to die before you see the face of God in the eaves of a pink dogwood tree. If
and then She was shipped across the world to work and produce, and to work and produce, in a fortress of infinite greed, tending slot machines, for donald trump in february of ā93. She met the man she married after a lapse of two years. his belly had grown
It’s nothing / hangs / like toile / white gauze / surgery / comes and goes / lab coats I never wore / monkeys & rabbits / guilty / I am always / I hate the inaction / I hate the mascara / raccoons flood my airways / knowing what
take a scalpel to my temple and carve out; frame your questions and let my dreams splay out on your petri-dish. ask me what I really want. and hereās what Iāll tell you: sometimes, I want to be framed like a Guru Dutt film, I want to be nothing
During my silent days, your corpse leans its heavy weight against the door. I lie in bed, on the shards of a smashed phone, burning incense, burning the sheets and any bed bug that might have kissed you. I breathe the fumes and hope to kill withstanding memories. I
i keep a pinch of soul on the nightstand & leave open the windows of this room plagued with fear of the great unknown of my heart continually exposed to grief stricken events a bible nestles close, perfumed pages advertise ageless wisdom our fleshes meet briefly as stares are visited
