August 29th, 2020
The Second Time
She offers flesh beneath aromatic trees
against dark gates without password, key, sign
her kind is welcome here — save kerosene
in lanterns near. Arms in grate, stretched supine,
between dove gray sky, columbines, beside
cobblestone of almond, slate. Closes eyes,
her half-hour wait, disrobed of even pride
while dandelions roar between her thighs
muffled by his wooden wheels, the breaks
of blades as he kneels. With breaths bereft
of any touch upon what hollows pulsate,
demands coy fingers clutch, spread wide cleft
by her own hand — eyelids, too, he commands,
the second time she spies this gentleman.
In A Pink Plastic House, It Always The Season For Sex And Ghosts:
I went on a walk last night and passed by a house that was gated with the lanterns outside of it that mimicked old kerosene lighting. I love to walk by this house — which is nowhere near as grand as an old Victorian estate but gives off those vibes to me. It’s certainly inspired me as I write Crow Carriage poems, and I feel very lucky to have geography that does that.
Last night, it was raining and I was in a mood. The rain awakens something in me — especially in the heat of a Florida summer. The heat of the panhandle of Florida is a cruel master that deprives you of your will to move some days or leave your house. I’ve been busy this week making a space for a small bookstore and moving things in this heat almost caused me to pass out at a point.
I had a nice dinner though and hydrated, and I felt up to my walk and longing for the peace I find in that activity — especially because it had rained. People who have never been to the panhandle of Florida often say to me, “Well, you don’t have real trees. You have palm tress.” Or some iteration of this faux belief. I laugh because where I live — which is literally a walk to Alabama from my house is very woodsy and full of longleaf pines and other conifers. I actually live in a dense woods, and I love everything about that.
Here is a picture of my very real trees:
When it rains in a woods like that, a woods that has swallowed harrowing heat into its limbs for too long , the wetness of everthing has a positively orgasmic feel. As relieved as you are, as pleasurable as you feel, you can also sense a buzz in the woods of the pleasure of the plant world. At least I do. The combination of all this is very erotic to me, and so I wrote an erotic poem about a girl waiting naked at the gate of a stranger as an offering, submitting, in a difference sense that I will get to now.
I have two new parts of my journal Pink Plastic House a tiny journal which are called The Haunted Dollhouse and Poke, a journal of kink and erotica. I opened both of these for selfish reasons because places I knew that published erotica and scary things had shuttered their sites either temporarily or permanently. During the pandemic, many magazines are not as active for understandable reasons. Also for understandable reasons, many places are asking for “light-hearted” fare that would be more comforting to people and probably the editors reading that work — which I totally get.
I’m a weird girl though and, for me, scary poetry and artful, kinky poetry is comforting. I was having a harder time finding places to submit such work and also to read it. So I made a space. I really didn’t know how it would be received, but I knew that I would be happy getting to read and curate material like this, and I am. What surprised me was how many people reached out to me thanking me for creating this space and sending me dazzling dark and erotic works of art.
Today I published a new piece in Poke, (poem VII) called The Forbidden Man by Rachael Charlotte and this week I published a piece in The Haunted Dollhouse called “dead leaves and rose hips” by Rachael Gay. I promise I publish pieces by people who aren’t named Rachael, too, but these two make me like the name Rachael quite a lot. Just accepted two new pieces for both of these journals in fact, one by a Janie and one by a Meagan but we’ve had a Sam (poem IV), a Jonathan (poem I), a Tyler (poem II), a Clayre (poem III), a Lindsey (poem VI), a Carly (poem V) and a too. You can check out their works as poems
I love that my journal has become a neighborhood of genres that I adore within poetry. I also have a feature called Victorian Dollhouse, for poems from another time (and also poems about dolls) and a page called The Lost Library, which homes work that has been displaced due to journal closure or misconduct.
I decided I would write up a little piece with all the guidelines here and an invitation to you to submit to any of these four categories. I also have Pink Plastic House submission, which are booked out through February and hence closed for the time being for submissions. I plan to open again close to the end of the year.
To submit to The Haunted Dollhouse, Victorian Dollhouse, Poke a journal of kink and erotica or The Lost Library, write to me at firstname.lastname@example.org. Please indicate in the subject the mini-journal you’re interested in publishing with (sometimes I decide your submission might be better for another of my pages). I do not accept prose though I do accept prose poems — in addition to poetry of any form or shape I can get on my site. 🙂 You can send up to five poems. I’ve included links to further guidelines for the Poke and Haunted Dollhouse page below.
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