 TRIGGER WARNINGS: religious undertones, fire, blood, allusions to self-harm, death and dying, medication, car accident, casket, suffocation, alcohol, allusions to deceased animals. overwritten, overwrought. poetry by chris mccreary Broken Halo Fireball, wrecking ball, shield wall smashed to atoms or nothing at all by halves. I will punch a hole through this whole fucking planet I will do no such thing. What if I’ve done nothing but harm what if my love is nothing but a void a vortex a marked card a river burning an oar without a boat a vole without a burrow a sequence of letters now haloed & golden, now feral but in sequins spilling until they’ve spelled out a longing a long unspoken spell of protection circling spiraling spinning out in its lingering even after it’s been dispelled because nothing’s never nil for naught even when it’s overwritten, overwrought.
you were never known. poetry by seye fakinlede 13 Verses for a Hermit 1. Blessed are you oh recluse because ye are free from humans. 2. And there is nothing special in virginity. 3. (………………………………….) 4. You will die or fade away or both. 5. But mediation arms your soul, lo, you are free from gossips which harms the mind 6. Pamper your very self, do not wander unkempt, and be rediscovered like some prehistoric turtle. 7. And to live alone is not the closest route to God, whom you have not seen. 8. A cloak is a beautiful piece of apparel, so is lingerie. 9. When you die, all the tributaries would be lies. You were never known. 10. Prayer works, so are actions without it. If pray. Yet work. 11. Don’t hide your voice, while hiding your abode. 12. And your solitary won’t change anyone for, 13. Intellignatur semper essesimul in Perpetuum
build the pyre... poetry by julie forbush The Tower Invocation to all the loss I ever knew If it doesn't work for you Burn it down Are you greater than the sum of stones that build you Every arch and compromise Every crack behind your eyes Do we fear the flood and fire Do we reach with strange desire toward an endless ending Nothing bleeds that doesn't bleed for me Every cut and compromise leans into its own demise Every touch a lightning strike Who among us is not on fire Every wall that crumbles leaves an opening If it doesn't work for you Burn it down - Subject to None If obligation is the death of desire hope I never owe you anything Never wanted some great love to save me Never needed your healing hands We are not beholden to the ghosts who came before I am subject to none not a broken thing to gather from some freezing gutter and shelter in your warmth No need to fix me I am doing just fine Tradition is a trash fire and I will never burn for you Build the pyre on my own failings They are abundant and true but I will never burn for you Desire is so inconvenient Undermines the unassailable sense of self I grew so carefully Truss me up in lace and leather but I am not an invitation Light the match with incendiary accusations but I will never burn for you Keep your name and expectations I am subject to none I can hurt myself just fine and I'll never owe you anything
spiritualism and abandonment photographs by victoria zeoli 
 "some of my favorite cassadaga spots that seem to be abandoned, or at least left in unfortunate disrepair. It is this weird liminal space where tourism flourishes on one street while the old mediums' homes behind it remain visibly untouched for years. also included are the out of place jesus statue across the hotel, and of course the devil's chair."
where do words go...? art by grant beran 
 "I have printed them all myself in my own darkroom. All silver gelatin prints with ink drawn or written on."
no solution. only witness. poetry and prose by carrie redway Toil Your hand reached for mine, and you whispered, “I am sure going to miss you.” The recliner with your weight burned into the lumbar. Glucerna on the counter top. Cups of peaches. Oatmeal. Water. Sendekot. Oxycodone. All three nausea medications that your system never embraced. Eternal. Scorn is on the counter top. There was no helping. No solution. Only witness. Your hand pulled away and fumbled for the trash can at your side. You whispered, “damn it” between dry heaves. Legs and arms shook with tension, expelling a ghost. - Luna Moth Will we ever truly be gold again? And this we that I speak, am I even a part of this story? Of your story? Am I set on making you immortal –and is it a gift, or a burden? We were all once Luna moth, child, imago. Soft bellies, swollen with rust A Luna moth searches for leaves, a bed, and we cry for something to guide us but we now have a pitchfork pistol poison in our own hands and we find ourselves charged to purge, clot, die, rust, scatter. - Dandelions As you fell through the sky, a fireball forcing smoke through your lungs, did you know you would alight? Did you lose all hope for resurrection, witnessing the trees gain momentum? The smoke trailing from your barreling wake looked like creatures dancing in the clouds. Can I nuzzle into your voice once more before you set into the sun? Your throat split apart by glass and fire and grass blades. I created a crown of dandelions and wildflowers, and placed it on your head when I was a child. Maybe you will bloom with them once again. Come alive and begin in new form. One day you will knock on my door. Enter into my field of vision. Sometimes when the sun is piercing through the spaces between tree branches and leaves, I can see you. I read the news article about the crash every year. When your body was thrown to the Earth, I hope She received you; offered a dirt cushion to rest your frame, and you sunk so far down deep into her soft fluid folds that your bones never shattered, and your muscles melted into a rest you never knew you would relish. Kingdom, move me. I am afraid it was not that serene, but I hope at least it was a blindfold of grace, so dark so quick that your last sight was not the trees spinning closer and closer to your body. I pick dandelion petals, and spread their seeds with a soft whistle. Their slight bodies were once medicine, honor. And now discarded as weeds. My eyes grow heavy. Balls of yellow light adorn your grave. Spring up from your dirt bed. Weeds have thick roots, and I will keep them there. Maybe one day, their bodies will grow so thick and long, they will reach where you now lay. Sun arrive, and bloom. Sun loom, and decay.
my chest is a closed casket. poetry by kait quinn I MISS WRITING POETRY Air used to be so violet, so cerise, so attic-dust-waltzing-in-crepuscular- beam nostalgic. Now a stone presses firm against my chest, and I swear my throat is shrinking. They say cicadas are dead poets singing poems they never wrote while living, and I am already sanding down my vocal chords and thinking of where to hang my carcass. - I’M AFRAID OF EVERYTHING THAT WANTS ME after Sumaya (@sumayapoetry) The gold rush became tiring. Tequila and honey- suckle to keep me dizzy, crumpled just the way he wanted, swallowing rage into silence. How much glass can you shatter before the floor becomes a weapon? Twelve years later, I'm still digging shards from my heels. Thirteen years, what's your motive? Fifteen, my chest is a closed casket. I grow wary of being, even in my blackest dresses, a daffodil delight. I stable myself just to avoid the staleness of it all. A life in pieces. A starving horse. The next war is going to kill us all.
...bird's nests grow underneath my eyes... poetry by juliet cook Internal Suffocation Creepy bird's nests grow underneath my eyes like an expanding sign that the baby birds died. My middle-aged gut gurgles and brims with fatty tissue and bloody water. I see myself falling down the stairs and stabbing myself with the scissor blades I'm holding for the millionth time but this time I might actually die like a self-inflicted repetitive cliché drowning in watered down blood and alcohol. A bird of prey might peck out my eyes to widen the bird's nests underneath them, then crawl inside and peck out my brain.
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