Tag: creative writing

N.A.S.T.Y(!): Call for Submissions

Happy New Year Babes!

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Babe Press wants your nasty. We want your “highly unpleasant”; your “spiteful behavior”; we want your dark voice of dissent and empowerment; your light voice of humanity; &we especially want your grey matter.

Poetry, prose, and art welcome and encouraged from ALL identities. If 2017 is the end, let us exit LOUD! Submissions open until January 15.

It’s Shark Week Y’all

I do not remember my first period.
Does this make me less woman? less uterin?
except It is all blood, all blushing blot and clot.
It is forever pink leaking. It is forever thick,
deep summer ache.

I do remember when I learned gender: by exclusion,
by a him’s abandon. Dirt sweated skin rejected
for feminine. I didn’t get it. I still don’t get it.
Just warm with shame and blood.

If I could hollow out my womb, I would.
It is not my woman, though I lead with it.
I like it filled, empty, filled, empty, full.

These hips make for width. They weigh,
wait for work: earn their keep
with prowess and draw.

Moon Poems

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II.
Spring solstice and light lingers in peach milk skies
leaking violet into the soft violence of horizon;
and the cornflower blue twilight lasts forever
and dawn calms the ache and the stretch
and it will be warm soon and the concrete will thaw.

excerpt from “Give & Calm.” look forward to more excerpts and more moons leading up to the book release, first week of May.

Allow me to reintroduce myself:

I’m Mandy. I’m two weeks away from my last semester in my MFA program for Creative Writing and Publishing Arts. Right now, I’m prepping my manuscript for said last semester. In the next three months, I’m going to finalize that manuscript, design a book from cover to cover, publish it, and promote it ……. Geez.

so I’m going to try to chronicle this last semester here. Already on here are a lot of old drafts of poems. Some of them might even be in my book!

In two weeks, I’ll be working three jobs and starting Thesis, so I’ve been working hard at revising and writing and designing while I still have room to breathe. Thus far, I have 32 poems that I have tentatively separated into three sections and ordered. This might end up being fruitless work, but it kept me amused during two days of 15 degree weather spent without leaving the warmth of apartment or changing out of pajama pants.

Pants are overrated.

so, Look forward to updates on my manuscript, possible designs, handmade elements, and how much I love my fellow poets that I have the pleasure of being in workshop with! I can’t wait to gush.

moon slip–poem

how silly my moon slip
into down     my lips
pocus wrap in yours
and I’m sorry about
celestial ache and howl
and how are you
getting down from here?
will you climb cloud
humid spilling? crawl?
beg the ailing air
to backbend into ladder
place your foot in the
spinal gnocchi rung
stumble out of this skin

——————————————–

life is crazy. my apologies for the sabbatical. 

cement

I am warm with peach dinge sky
always spotted with light slice boxes
and cement understands my grey
echoes the hollow of my breast

dream (poem)

all liquored up in bed and I am threaded into skin
and my sour sweat is sweet on chapped lips

and I dream in infants, their soft skin and endless chub
dangling limbs and gaping mouths

my mouth agape alone in a bed filled with body
filled with body and my skin dews as afternoon

rises, noon rises before ready and I am liquored
threaded in sour sweat

dreaming in infant skin and dangling limbs
and I can’t wipe the sweat from my skin

can’t wipe the skin from my skin
and it’s too hot here, too humid

and I dream in infants
but I don’t dream.

to wait (poem)

how silly of me to read your skin
pressing, your pressing as subcutaneous.

deep is relative. i know. and my reason
dizzies drunk on nonsense

on fancy on romance. on nonsense.
&i knew better than my excited

utterance, braided in borrowed sheets
in childhood bedrooms and now

i wait. like spoiling food, waiting
for teeth to sink and my nectar

to spill over lips, to be lapped up
to be savored, to be loved.

you&I

You don’t have time
for me
&i respect that
i respect
Your time
i am time
rubberbanded
i am
rubberband ball
i am knee knot
&skin blemish
i am Your rash
i am rash
You know that
by now
that my flannel
sheets
that my piece
              mealed
sleep
that i am piecemeal
is my arm
outstretched?
elbow lock
&i can almost
touch You
from here
almost
touch
test
          is this a test?

 

Poison in the pressing of skin

oh opium bud–my lips are fat with your poison
fat with your skin pressing

the pressing of skin is a precious thing
and so are your soiling words hushed
against my neck

against my neck     I use my breasts to brace
for work
for efficiency
they hold more than milk

you leak nightshade all over my sheets
all over my skin     the muscle
of your hands     the bend of my muscle
under your hands     fingers like oleander
petals pressing

and I am sleep love drunk
rolled in flannel
the fire escape moon silhouettes
on my thighs     on my thighs
on this skin     love like luck
could be a myth     and me

 

this is my poisonous flower poem. I’ve memorized it for recitation.