Sunday, March 4, 2018

Two By Holly Day

Why I’m Still Her(e)
When I tried to leave
you came to me and held my hand
called me your love, told me you wanted to fuck me
that was all it took
because I’m easy that way.

I remember thinking
halfway through
that I really should tell you to stop, I mean it
I’m really going to leave this time
but the flickering of the overhead lights was too distracting.

The endless rumble of passing trains
lightning and haphazardly-thrown buckets of rain
kept me close to you, even after that night
it still feels like a sign.

            Of the Long Way

I’m in love with the lonely ones, the hairy jungle children that watch
from beneath the wide spread of green leaves and vinery, clutching rocks
smeared with feces and coconuts meant for throwing. Angry and violent
they are wrapped in thoughts of consequence and self-loathing.

There is a Heaven waiting for them, someplace safe
from people like me. If they come close enough, I will give them
duct tape and gauze to heal their wings, teach them to walk upright
how to act worthy of God. There are stars waiting for them, just past the clouds

once they remember they can fly.

--Holly Day

Sunday, February 11, 2018

Real Life

Young people locked away for petty crime, they wanna stop the criminals by giving them time. come politicians won't you listen to me, if you wana stop the crime you have to stop poverty, 'cause everybody living in this society has got the right to live good and with dignity. stop fight amongst yourselves, fight the powers that be for centuries now they've been your worst enemy. dividing the people and confusing our minds, while they stick together just to keep us in line. cause and effect a universal truth, about time the table's turned and we made our move. change up babylon, we can't start again, change up babylon, this system. everytime we plant a seed they dig it up before it grows, it's about time now we plant a seed that sows. deep down in our minds, where nobody goes, so when the time comes we can rise up and overthrow. this topsy-turvy system just has to go. there's a battle going on between the good and the bad, the positive and negative, the yin and the yang. whichever one wins you know is here to stay, that's why the force is here and he's leading us astray. so keep your mind fixed and live the right way, stand up for your rights, in this society, because many leaves fall from an oak tree, even though they fall together, they fall separately. so come together people, keep your identity. going back to your roots, you know that that should be a must, because a tree without roots shall surely bite the dust. one God one destiny, and one fate, war is not the answer, only love can conquer hate. the messenger is coming, on the wings of a dove, the messenger is coming with the message from above. there are many pitfalls, laid by the force, so think where you're going, so you don't get lost. stand up freedom fighters, and take your stance, the table's got to turn, you might not get another chance. so come together people, in one unity, believe in yourselves, God blessed pickney. make peace reality, and give war a miss, cos in the pictures of my mind, this already exists, people finding happiness and living in bliss. walking round the streets with smiles on their faces, black people white people all different races. harmonious music from positive sources, loving people, no negative forces. when you were very young they sent you off to school, conditioning your minds to obey their rules. cloning people to live a dismal life, of hire purchase, mortgage, working 9 to 5. in an abstract way you're like a bee in a hive, working your hardest so the rich can live the life, while your mind's stressed out jus trying to survive. when do you get the chance to find the meaning of life, when you retire from working at the age of 65, you'll know by then it's not your true destiny cos your mind's tired out and you can't see.  they don't want you to find out, that the meaning of life, is without a doubt, finding freedom from material ties, deciphering the truth from within the lies, believing in yourself and the power within, so we can all join with the source and the good shall win!!

--Gregory Tafari

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Fiction: Second Skin

From the evening of our first fuck until the afternoon that I buried what was meant to be our child within the mineral-rich, Midwestern soil, I collected his essence within a wide band of porous leather that I kept strapped around my left wrist. As his most primal aspects had, over time, seeped into the fibers, the once stiff cuff softened and molded to the curve of my arm like a second skin. Suffice it to say, I carried him and each one of our shared experiences with me everywhere my journey led.

I wasted nothing of our early encounters. The sweat that ran along his freshly-shaven skull and across his temple, that sweltering Wednesday evening which imprinted me in the last gasp of an extended Indian summer, tripped along his jaw joint and released, one bulbous drop after another. His vitriolic excretions splashed onto my face, blinding me for the briefest moment with their salty sting.

A couple of months later, the viscosity of his cum, which I had learned so well, held fast to my inner folds throughout the night and into the next morning before it poured out of me as I brewed by-the-cup coffee and watched as he slept in. The sensation of warm white globules of potentiality running along my inner thigh brought me such joy that crisp October morning within the curtained dimness of a second-floor suite in a four-star Detroit hotel.

As our lust grew into what we believed to be love, I collected the tears that fell from his eyes after he returned from a long evening of talking with the one he had deemed his soulmate but was no longer.  He sobbed into my shoulder for hours that night. After all, they had been together so long, had shared so much.

When he was hit with a particularly nasty mid-winter virus, I nursed him back to health with warmed-over Tom Kha and Massamun Curry. As he shivered in his sleep, once his fever broke, I disposed of the soggy tissues that had fallen to the floor beside the bed and scrubbed his vomit from the porcelain. When I laid beside him and drew the sweat-dampened sheets over me, I swear my skin absorbed every drop. Sure enough, the bedding was bone-dry by morning.

The afternoon I miscarried, the bloody remnants of our love expelled from my body, soaking through the sheets and deep into the mattress. Yet, I alone was left to dispose of the pieces of tissue which refused to dissolve, at least until they were returned to the earth to be consumed by the regenerative work of worms and maggots. I collected those shards of us in the cupped palm of my hand and walked in bare feet out of the city and along a winding country road, which led to the old oak I had once photographed in some unknown-to-me farmer’s field.

On my return trek, the early spring sun had the gall to part the clouds, warming my shoulders while prompting me to shade my eyes. In spite of the moderate temperature and recent rains, the air lay arid against my skin. I felt a subtle crackling yet paid no mind. And, so, I kept on. As I set one foot in front of the other, I sensed my flesh growing ever more brittle by the moment. It was more than a flaking; rather, it was a chipping away, a merciless shedding of the sensuous woman I thought I’d become. A gentle breeze whispered within the spaces between the newly-budded leaves. Approaching a curve in the road, I, at last, heard the toll—the soft clink of a half-inch steel grommet striking the pavement—and turned to witness the lushest parts of myself scatter in the wind.

 And, suddenly realized, what a fool I’d been.

--Kelly Sauvage Angel

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Not yet

i'm just content
sitting here
not yet under
the jurisdiction

of the fucking worms

--Rob Plath

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Untitled by Indigo Moon

Sometimes my joy
feels and looks
a lot like pain
I’m exactly where I ought to be
my Life has been waiting for me to arrive here
and I feel that in the nerves of my stomach
Leaving one thing
and arriving at another
gives me aches
I am mourning the death of
what once was
while celebrating
new Life
born within and around me
Sometimes acheiving
feels and looks
a lot like a flashback
I am suddenly remembering all the trauma
I’ve lived through
and feel a need to reflect
on my whole Life
for weeks
after the fruitful change
It’s like a sadness pouring out of me
along with all the times
I thought I couldn’t
couldn’t do it, see it, feel it,
it’s a painful release
because the only way out
is through
I will claim a spot on the couch or bed
where I will stay for hours
in my own haze
Taking space to be in my own world
until I’ve fully rearranged what
my world
is anymore
My energy is low
I want space
but also affection and Love
I’ve learned that
sometimes fulfilling
your true Heart’s purpose
is the most painful of all

--Indigo Moon 

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Fiction: Expectant (The "Hard Labour" of Social Change)

You stand shoulder to jostling shoulder within the crowd, a throng of humanity which grows ever more aroused with each riff on the guitar, not to mention the effect of a relentless percussive thrum. The tide could turn at any moment. The collective unconscious vibrates with a propensity for an orgiastic expression of primal love or a violent manifestation of its, well, darker aspect. There’s no denying its potential, nor its power. The moon glows against the depth of an unseasonably warm and clear October sky, illuminating a lone heart-shaped swath of cloud cover. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear the wisps were growing wings—or perhaps horns.
Snapped out of your trance by the intrusion of your ruminations, which bring you to the cusp of an uninvited realization, you pocket your vape and nudge your way through bodies pressed mercilessly against one another, the result of a quest for expansion within the very constraints of each seeker's physical space. Though the crowd writhes around you, your movements prove sharp and purposeful. Your belly gently spasms around that which has coaxed your center of gravity ever lower by the day. And, you desperately need air.
Emerging from the throng, the moonlight intensifies. Your feet fall heavily upon the earth, leaving boldly stamped footprints within the silvered darkness, until you reach the venue’s gate, where the ground beneath you abruptly transforms to pavement. Easily pushing past security and a smattering of latecomers, you cross the street where the barricades stand and enter the corner market in search of ease.
Within half a minute, you make your way to the register with a bottle of Old Crow. The man behind the counter asks for $22.38. Your change is exact. As he counts it down to the cent within his calloused palm, his gaze meets your own and holds steady for a brief moment. He then tucks the bills and change into the register with eyes downcast, uttering not a word.
Back on the street, the thrum stalks you—reverberating against your sternum, throbbing upon your pelvic floor—until you turn toward the reprieve you seek amid the stench of a narrow alleyway, where the crumbling brick of aging structures absorbs the vibration, leaving you, at last, with some semblance of peace.
Honored as you are to carry this child, you find your task to be a lonely one as you make your way past the dumpsters and unconscious derelicts, stumble over the rats and recessed sewer drains. Just beyond someone’s back door, you set down the bottle and lower yourself onto the pitted asphalt.
Night falls. And, with it, a subtle yet relentless chill. You wrap your trembling arms around your core, wherein the forces of creation and destruction have merged to form nothing less than your own primordial chaos, an oh-so-solitary return to the void, on behalf of each of the unchosen. Tonight, there is no soothing you, and you know well that no one will care—nor dare—to try. So, you settle within your sanctuary, finding comfort in the padding of a couple broken down cardboard boxes, and remind yourself that, the next time your eyes flicker open, you’re all but assured of awakening to the golden glow of yet another fucking promise-laden dawn.


---Kelly Sauvage Angel

Sunday, October 22, 2017


I am the meeting of countless threads
carrying blood and light and darkness
through the holey bones of reality
the cries of every encounter
the network of complex alignment
the living record of what happens when

I am what I never wanted
what I don't want to claim as part of me
I am what they did, who came before
what I do, and what comes after me
the good and the bad, the violent, the loving
the culmination of everything collected in my bundle
from the spirit world and from this
the poison and the antidote

I am the harmed and the harmer
one who perpetuates
and is harmed by the selfsame

I am a shoreline
I catch relics of wrecked ships and garbage
and cry as I hold the beached whales
and there is a hard to see part of me holding space
for the dumping, the hunting, the violence above and below the waves
I am built by the sea of tears
contribute to its making
and witness to its outcomes

I am what I don't want to see
and what I do
and what I can show
and what I can't

--Dylan Lightbourn