Marion Smallwood
Exploding Faces
resurrection is dormantexperiments through holes in the windi wanted to drink the text quietlywhat makes the breeze a great work?don’t wheel an airplane drowning, choking on steps and chewing-gum depressionthere’s a pill for everything but the groundthrow the coffee back to where lifting clouds out of the sky is child’s playthere is no truth in night-time tonguesbubbles are put to rest on a sugar high and thenthe inevitable transition will hammer your hand to the wallclimbing trees make subways run through the sky andexploding faces in the glass are living before they are finishedan elephant in birdland say that the lepers live outdoors, so does the childrenthey said it was a skipping wave, just for heran ocean of planted lavender, pebbles and sagedodging shower-bombs homeboundJamaican dust to shelves andtangier oscillation.


Pimrapee Thungkasemvathana:

penis knockoffs victorian kind year innyway water farted hands scars older aces colder nation around loosens explodes soul nice merchandise paper garden roses noses twinkies performance sleep a loves and new nostalgic songs reggae moon aspect Metatron amylase cigars apology garden rum please fire rainbow came sun it everybody complaints olvides cristal Nachtmusik fraises dad another shape do drown gaze need leave cul-de-sac do going today rain bombs oscillated were dirt Jamaican help while sweeter Algiers park sheets breaths

a knockoff penis,

victorian and quite kindly

all year anyway

watered down farts

held in scarred hands

of a motorcycle ace,

now colder and older

the nation sleeps around,

loose and wanton,

selling exploding souls

as nice merchandise

in a paper garden of roses

grown for the weak noses

twinkled performances

of lovers asleep

a nostalgia for the new

the reggae aspect of the moon song,

full of amylase,

breaks down Metatron,

converts it

into apologetic cigars

and rum, leading

you up the garden path


please come

fire at the sun-shaped rainbow

it files compliant complaints

in forgetful foreign tongues

and glassy strawberry serenades

another dad

were our name from the same roots

and shapes and hairdos

drowned in gaze

needing a leave

from the cul-de-sac

it is going to rain bombs


oscillating between

dirt and Jamaicans


while Algiers remains sweet

do it

parked in sheets of breaths

Lindsey Todd

if there are two kinds of conditionals, the moon and the aspect, burn the internet in a campfire please. stop dropping aces down my shirt, the bullets are leaving prints. wipe the dust from your eyes, silly who asks yo opinion innyway? my esophagus exploes. i guess it would be waves and waves of merchandise to drift into louis vuitton roses. but who gives a fuck what anyone else chose? if the moon is not the moon, today is not tuesday. it is forgetting to be Metatron, bubbling in the rum. they said it was a backhand just for her. she never regarded me with benevolence.

Jessie Streich-Kest

Spring I can take or leave,

and unmocked sit on the dark side

of the wedding sun.

And I blink it on, say

wipe the dust from your eyes,

for they ever grow older.

And of course before it is all माया,

crawl into the numb silence of the sea,

for the night is a furnace burning dance and rum

and the ground beats reggae into

Me. Me he called "tristesse.”

I thought chocolate would help –

A cursive Victorian cocoa

written only for she. She

sipping down words like

smoke cloves in a cracking garden,

and in the plucked heart of a stemless strawberry

she just wished she could write like him

Do You Know

Do you know a place

where you can

roll between the grazes of yesterday and tomorrow

without landing on today?

The place where that boy skips waves in an ocean of pebbles

And the queen wears a crown of white lights and pink dress?

Like a place where night burns furnace dance and rum

and day regards the sun

like a kaleidoscope with 6 extra colors?

Where you can fall asleep on a sugar high

And wake up by a streetlamp in alphabet city

Right where you’re


Victor Gamez