Tag: poetic prose

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.

Poem that isn’t about Corn

One summer we grew corn. Cutting into the Virginia clay-sand soil. (My mother always cursed the dirt. Spoiled fertility.) I knifed three rows, ripping and clawing at clods of grass. Thick with sweat, slick skin slipping their grip on the yard tool just as suitable to cleave open his skull at the temple. That thought didn’t occur as the lower lumbar ache spread like a pandemic—flushing my muscles in a race of infection. Maybe somewhere deeper—nestled in a bed of arteries, feeding off fresh bleeding—it was growing. He was breeding me for domesticity. I loved those little pink seeds. I held them in my sticky palm. They looked like rock candy. I imagined sinking my teeth into the tawny flesh of that fruit. The hours, the labor, the loved poured over that fruit—the ache of that love would be tangible. I would sink my teeth into that flesh and sever it for good. but We let it die. Let it rot tall in its stalks. A mockery of that ache.

 

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First draft. Very in the works.

I Will

Scars mark my skin all over like waves of August heat… from scraped knees to razors dragged into the meat; teeth sallow from the nicotine, heart wary from the ache of latent hate. I lean with the creak of floor boards, pliable to the derecho winds that rip roofs from homes and ease from wills. I ache with the constant tick that reminds me and plagues me of mistakes decades old.

I want to be that girl that blooms in the barroom smoke with crystal eyes with will of fervor shining like pearlescent wings of some detested pest that thrives in separate airs.

but I am neither. I am on fire–letting my skin be licked by flames, letting my skin melt and peel like petals. My lips are velvet, rubbed over by decay–crushed scarlet from the flush of someone else but dried up. Wasted.

I’ll paint myself with the colors of someone famous and strong. I’ll sidle their spine through my flesh and stand tall with their strength. I will prop my arms strong with the proposition that I’m all I need. I can force feed myself disappointment. I need no men to help me with that.

Shouldn’t we all be feminists?

I feel like writing about women, as if we are opposed
from any other vessel of human emotion or blood
and guts or sex. I am no fragile fuckin flower, but I fuck.
I outwork some men and I wear it on my teeth.
Social construct,
I learned the term from liberal arts school–I wear it
as a brand on my breast plate—that rigid bone
you have to break to save lives. I’ve had more men
cry on my shoulder, clutch me as they shudder—
than women confide in me.
I hold my shoulders straighter than I ever have,
eat my emotions to hold me over for dinner.
I don’t need to feed another
off these breasts. I’ll feed myself.

 

Honestly… this is inspired mostly from watching Girl Code and too much wine. I’ve only watched the show in the past couple days and seriously… that shit is hilarious. I could legitimately throw in my liberal arts education as well. I had one professor in particular—he was raised by his mother and grandmother and doesn’t believe in gender roles. He taught me so much. He wrote one of my recommendations for grad school so I love him eternally.

Wake

It would behoove me to remove these lips
to make me mute, to rip from my throat
the chords of my voice that form
the horrifying words that no one wants
to hear, that frame the macabre
visions haggard in my eyes. My craven
mouth will meekly consecrate
our decrepit love, make homage to the rot
we bred. and What of dying love?
The frayed muscles of our hearts–drowning
on the flood of blood in the throat–the choking
of slipped tongues. I said I meant every word
and I do. Something is dying in this room.
This is the smell of a ten year wake. A sermon
churning in my gut, finally purged through
every numb limb–every harbored hate
exposed. One should never
crave a funeral.