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
everybody,
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
today,
oscillating between
dirt and Jamaicans
help
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
Atwitter
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
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