A warning to you all…

December 16, 2017

Oh, so very true…

December 16, 2017


December 16, 2017

I say I love women & men’s faces crack open
like a jawless throat to swallow me

whole. They say, that’s hot. They’re thinking
sultry eyes, pay-for-more-action, queer

cured by cock. Body as sport. Eyes on everyone
but each other: a spectacle of choice.

Isn’t real unless a man is done proving he can
make a door out of an unopened envelope.

Question: if a girl kisses another girl with
no witness, does that revelation make a sound?

The catch in throat, trembling wrists, terror
blooming into wreathfulls of ribs, wearing

the future around her neck like a noose
— or the bullet caged behind front teeth

when gutted with a pistol in the mouth,
taught a woman’s place is with a cock

-ed gun in the belly if it won’t fire between
her thighs. The difference is when

the bleeding starts. Splintering drowned by
on-screen applause or dark-alley backhand.

I love women. I mean in the way that one
chooses her own murder over men.

Body softened with gasoline & ash. To be
unearthed by hands searching for rain

& crawl out of that grave into the story where
there’s no one else. Just her smile

set on bend of my skull, a coronet. Her eyelashes
the curve of two wings in flight.

I will always love her like walking into fire.
She will always be the kind of pretty so sharp

it feels like loving a knife.

Natalie Wee

The Affair

December 16, 2017

An economy of touches,
your hand, my hand
your hair, my hand
your swallowing throat,
my lips but no further.

Let me be tantalized
by your roundness
eclipsing the sun.
Let me undress
in the expanse of your light.

Turn your smile
as always for we are modest
in this place of imitation –
freedom like a ship

twice tethered that still
forgets itself in the wind

Elysia Smith

might hex you

December 16, 2017

The children on the playground all heard her. They took off running together, as far away as possible from Antonia Owens, who might hex you if you did her wrong, and from her aunts, who might boil up garden toads and slip them into your stew, and from her mother, who was so angry and protective she might just freeze you in time, ensuring that you were forever trapped on the green grass at the age of ten or eleven.

Alice Hoffman
Practical Magic

listening to the wind

December 16, 2017

listening to the wind

Some people might think Bob is just loafing around and not working at anything at all. But that’s not true. His mind is hard at work. Although he doesn’t get too far from home, he drives around over the country, thinking of stories, talking them out loud to himself. He’ll stop the car on some little hill, get out and walk around, listening to the wind blowing across the prairies. He says that on the wind he hears the tuneless little whistles the cowboys made as they rode, stretching themselves now and then, throwing a leg over the saddle horn to ride sideways to relieve strain, being almost unseated when the horse shied at a prairie-dog or rattle snake. These are the things he wants to write about . . .someday.

While he’s riding around in the country, he may see an old man sitting on a porch by himself. Bob stops the car, gets out and visits with the old man, just to hear his stories of the country when it was new and fresh and uncluttered with the trappings of civilization.

He reads history, too – the history of this country, about the settling of it.

Novalyne Price Ellis
One Who Walked Alone: Robert E. Howard: The Final Years

christmas boy

We’re like coke heads or chronic masturbators, aren’t we? Attempting to crank the last iota of abandonment out of an intrinsically empty and mechanical experience. We push the plunger home, we abrade the clitoris, we yank the penis and we feel nothing. Not exactly nothing, worse than nothing, we feel a flicker or a prickle, the sensual equivalent of a retinal after-image. That’s our fun now, not fun itself, only a tired allusion to it. Nevertheless, we feel certain that if we can allude to fun one more time, make a firm statement about it, it will return like the birds after winter.

Will Self
My Idea of Fun


I’m very aware of good prose-writing being a lot like music, even partaking of a kind of music; the sounds of the words, lines and paragraphs as they strike the “ear” of your perception as you read them. So I try different sounds, different rhythms. I try to race you, lull you (sometimes into a false sense of security) and then maybe hit you with the kettle drums all of a sudden. I think it’s also important to pay attention to the starts and stops. When the sounds stop – at the end of a chapter, a section of a chapter, or at the actual end of the story – I want the silence that follows to have resonance, to stay with you like a tune you can’t quite let go of. Because usually that’s when you have your best chance to contemplate the meaning of the thing.

Jack Ketchum
Interview with Lisa Morton, November 2016 for Nightmare Magazine