Pain rests within me like toxic algal bloom in the wine-dark sea. It courses through my body fleshing out the contours of a poetic impulse akin to renaturation, it screams in color—it screams in Homer’s presumed absence of blue. On some nights, it resurfaces the mind-body problem and reshapes it into a pseudo-debate before my eyes, into something that in its strive to go beyond experience, beyond the place where reason and intellect reside, erases itself in chaotic movement. In the midst of a flare-up, the mind-body dualism mutates into an illusion—illness both becomes and expunges the hyphen. And henceforth, it would seem that the ontological problem of hurting and aching and throbbing gains a curious and rather tragic destiny as well: that of being able to exist and be established solely at the cost of illusions, at the cost of reason’s chimeras. That of being unable to possess clarity except by analyzing its own decomposition, by disintegrating and dissipating its own chimeras, and thus obliterating all fantasies. Vertical like a pendulum’s rod, I let myself be worked on by death. Pain possesses and abandons my body at will. Before my eyes, philosophical creation becomes neuropathically synonymous with the confusion of the patient.Continue reading “PATHOGENESIS by Christina Tudor-Sideri”
essay: Insipid / Intrepid
As the adventurous person talks on, I am struck by a sense that they are confident and unperturbed by minor setbacks. I find myself specifically interested in the banal logistics of what it means to be that way, more than being interested in their actual stories. I feel that there’s no way for me to think cleverly about what it means to live an interesting life, or what it means to be fluid and graceful as you move through the world. Continue reading “Essay by Rosa Jones”
The following is a brand new poem written for The Meadow, my bdsm themed poetry collection about my time in the world of bdsm as a young woman. I wrote this piece as well as the Reader’s Guide I published below to enhance your pleasure and understanding of the text. Order your own Meadow at apeppublications.com.
Before you call yourself a womanchild,
you fly to New York City, college girl
costumed to be defiled, pigtailed, beguiled
before a bedtime story, too. A whirl-
wind trip in which he will present to you
Red, topsy-turvy, Riding Hood one night, Continue reading “Womannotated – Underneath”
story: The Dog
Their clothes are ironed on them in the shape of death. Soggy bread of a sky looking over, he gargles time release capsules. Not enough pills milled for the morning after. The frosted flakes expired; he flops between her shrubbery, bulge withering beneath a dress. “It’s no longer in style to be a bad lay,” she says. He vows to return her to the urn, drops her off for cognitive behaviorals instead. “Listen to a woman once and you become her therapy dog,” his mother always said, teeth gnawing through his skull like fly eggs, speaking through a bisection of his face in swarms. “We’re all Satan’s puppet, a populace atop the hoof.” He hears her talk to the shrink through walls so thin he wishes they were her clothes. He tends to end up overacting in the bear costume she makes him wear. They’ve been brining bite marks on each other. In utter silence their chalky mouths resemble apple seeds, if worms took the core. “What eats the worms after they eat us?” Entwined guts, reshuffling microbiomes a couple viruses at a time, they’re not worth the ekphrastic flesh of their penny masks.
Dirty Dancing Saves Your Life
When you are raised by fundamentalists,
at slumber parties you resist. Approved-
of-girl, goes to your church, sly fantasist
whom no one hurts, her mom insists
you stay the night — both look sufficiently up-
tight, lacy collars, skirts below the knee.
of two orders
something else entirely. some other thing to see. not only at night or when lost in the basements of this world but in the bright day. in the brightness of the day. to see something else among the common. to see something else even there in the light in the house in the street. something revealed. something that in the past might have inspired a new line. a new belief. to see it. so that two visions could hold me. that of the eyes and that of this other sight. whatever it might be. whatever it might have been. Continue reading “of two orders by Clark Chatlain”
KETA-ME: My Ketamine Experience
I’m not certain of the order of each moment once the ketamine infusion began. But I do feel certain that I was aware of everything that was happening and that I was consciously guiding my experience and my thoughts while this mind-altering drug was filtering through my bloodstream. This, of course, stems from my penchant for controlling everything. Continue reading “KETA-ME: My Ketamine Experience by Joseph Ellison Brockway”