Tag: 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.

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.

Five-Fifteen

How silly of me to think I would be the one to hurt him, that I would turn a heel upon the left aorta of his heart. No, how silly of me. I am watching me bleed out.

 

Things feel very.. unsettled. I know I haven’t posted in weeks, I apologize. I became rather preoccupied with finishing out the remainder of the semester–halfway through a Masters of Education program with a 3.95GPA and I won’t be returning. I’m still designing the move to Baltimore. It makes me so nervous.
I’m mostly roped up in mitigating my involvement with the aforementioned man. I thought I was a basketcase but he really challenges me. It’s nice to have a man that occasionally craves involving me in his life, but he’s so inconsistent. Irrational. I can’t let myself believe desperation is sincerity. His emotions are all muddled but intense. He gets immersed in them and pushes me away when I try to help. He wants help but he won’t accept it. Nutty.
SO, I enjoy his company when he allows it and when it’s convenient for me. The sex is still solid.

 

—————————————————————-

 

I’m mitigating my involvement
with his lips but signing blind
contracts with his hips. Love
is an itch at the back of his
throat and I’m tonguing it
like a wound, keeping it raw.
Too sore to touch. The heat
of his breath on my chest
when I’m thick with sleep burns
holes in my lungs. I’m short
of breath and short on luck
when I’m ankle deep in the slow
crawl of dreams bathed in the legs
of cicadas floundering like I do,
squirming away from love.

 

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.

Day Dreams–poetic prose

I know the sound of a cricket song, abrasive to the ear—those crooked legs aching away at each other. They burrow under my skin in dreams while the thin spindle limbs of spiders tiptoe across my nails. It’s never well to hear an insect walk—never well to see my eyes veiled with lace as I start to think, muse horrid things in sleepless nights [the slow dripping rot of skin off bones, exposed cobalt veins, itching flaking skin that melts at the touch—tired eyes with the red wire lines ache for a sleep without the locust creeping] These metal chairs bear gumball spot-welds—effective and ugly like the play-out of each afternoon. I’ll hide in the shade until the awful crawl of insects on my hands awake me. Eating the evenings and drinking the sober smoke of night.

written sometime 2011.