October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Nothing more than a beaten baby,
fleeing down the aisle in my
virginal gown of naivety.
He wore my hope proudly.
Pinned to his chest like a
red rose boutonniere.
Concluding whispers of the
tired and disillusioned
pursue me as I try to prove them wrong.
Oh! Oh, no. I’m not
the stereotype of predictable
failure to thrive.
Through gritted teeth, I
learn to duck
and stay up late
Learning the dangerous buttons
and resisting the desire
to push them.
With a light step and a
careful eye, I execute
years of delusional bliss.
Life inside a Stepford skin
wore down the glorious
angles of imperfection:
my birthright and bliss.
She came with a dagger
forged in the ecstatic
flame of unexplainable
familiarity.
Immediate love. Fierce
unexplainable connection.
She cut through the skin
freeing the woman. I
was meant to be.
Always was. Hidden
brief and singular,
willful and ignorant,
But no more! She
rescued me. And I
rescued her. And
I am she, and
she is me.
by Rachel Holbrook
Rachel Holbrook writes from her home in East Tennessee and is anxious to leave her mark on the literary world. She was previously unpublished.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Take a bath, you filthy whore
And wash underneath your teats
Where the sweat tends to collect
And gel with cum lubricant.
Blow me off as we motor
Down Madison Avenue
Honking at every cab
And pedestrian alike.
We will piss on your sidewalk
And stack the trash on our curb;
Snickering at the tourists
We will insult the locals.
Letting cigarettes smolder
Between our fingers, we will
Make certain everyone
Breathes our polluting venom.
Now dress and join me, my love.
by Michael Gunn
Michael Gunn has previously published in Burningwood Literary Journal as well as Shotgun Honey. His country song, “If Her Grandma Didn’t Have a Kitty, I’d Take My Dog Over There”, continues to descend the charts.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Demo Tracks
They all want you to write
something sad about religion
where the train meets the rails
where the shaking knuckles
meet the trigger.
A handshake
(firm gripped) with God
that’s a shock to your system –
yeah, he gotcha good.
You’re still harmonizing with yourself
over some girl who never loved you
more than she loves her body, her womb’s
ability to conceive towheaded heartache.
The ghosts of your paintings
are crawling the walls
and your covers are quicksand.
Sometimes I see smoke but I can’t find
where the fire is. Sometimes
I catch you shredding yourself
but I don’t know how
to turn the machine off.
Even in my sleep, my teeth
are rotting out when we’re kissing
and there’s blood on your guitar strings.
When I wake up
my heart is pounding
like church bells.
Wet Graffiti
In this part of town,
the universe could be a girl
biking through brain waves in a tank top
or gas station soda
sticky on the bottoms of your shoes.
Your coffin is Ramen noodles;
your crown is a carton of cigarettes.
I am the advocate.
Snapping at sensitivity
until my jaw locks, clean.
I am the grocery store bouquet
and the toddler carrying the pink helmet
she’ll never wear in a two-fingered grip.
When you’re watching
the McDonald’s down the street
get demolished and picking yourself apart
at every stoplight,
a smashed skull
is a courtesy prize.
Bloodied Knuckles
Once we trailed after the same sunset
a parade of summer heat
but now we belong to warring tribes
painting our faces with each other’s frailties.
You’re running circles and I’m
dropping pebbles
to somehow keep myself centered.
You’re pitching up tornadoes and I’m
marking the sky
transmitting some sort of warning.
The river roars to life
a tumult of terror in my chest
as the battle reaches a fever pitch
and you stir up shards in your wake.
by Sarah Marchant
Sarah Marchant is a poet in St. Louis who struggles with being fully present.
