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Three Poems by Alexis Karlsen

Ferdaminni [XI/24 – X/25]

The dust on the road
Rotting leaves on a cold autumn morning
The faint scent of hasty intimacy hours earlier
The dogs are nervous tonight
There’s blood on the wind

Floodstained thaumaturge
Pyrolatrous and atavistic
Smudging our faces with ash from bridges burnt

I’m following a blood trail
My ego has been freebleeding
All over the place again

Shamanic nights under a bright full moon
Snow in the deep forest
Moose tracks in the frozen bog
Hematite rocks the colour of red ochre
Spells of protection in the night
I met a strange god
One that no man has ever named

. . .

Myrmalmens ballade [IV/24]

I found God at a gas station in Nissedal
Now I’m siphoning gas here in Niflheim
There’s a radio tower on the heath
Amongst the cows with their GPS trackers

My mind is a swamp
Where the air is thick with things
That are out to drink my blood

I’ve got a new best friend
The red forest ant, Formica rufa
Is it all in my mind or are they all
Moving with strange synchronicity

. . .

Purple Prozac [VIII-X/24]

Chafing on my chakras
Inflammations in my legs
Stains on my soul
And I’m standing over here
Trying to laugh it off
Saying pretty please, Pleiades

With your New Moon Theory
And my dharmatology
Trying to figure out
Where all these gulls go to die
I’ve got a bad back
From looking over my shoulder

The smell of rotten petunias
In autumn grey streets
I love your geometry
Even when you taste like dead dreams

If love is solitude gone bad
Then I’m sitting here fermenting
With your pyrolatrous autumn colours
Alight in the early evening sun

The man I’ve become has no reason
To be ashamed of the boy I once was
You laid me down among the lupines
Placed a cigarette in my hand

Landscapes of IKEAs
And your crepuscular smell
I’m standing in the middle
Of the wrong side of the road
Trying to snap a picture
For our interdimensional trophy room

Wake me if you wanna smash
You said, fell asleep
And ran a fever all night

. . .

Born and raised in northern Germany and emigrated to southern Norway in his late 20s to take care of his child, Alexis Karlsen‘s work spans three languages and reflects the life experience of a disillusioned underdog drifter. Alienation, death, restlessness, substance abuse, sexuality, and the unquenchable thirst for love are recurring motives in his writing. Karlsen’s background is in social ecology, and his German-language novel Am Ende des Fadens, which touches on themes of magical realism, is nearing completion after 13 years of work. He can be found on Mastodon: @brisling@merveilles.town.

Dancing On The Silk Razor, a film by D.W. Young

Dancing on the Silk Razor was born out of a discussion I had with my friend Dan Wechsler. We were contemplating various writing work we’d done when younger, and he mentioned there was a first line for a story he’d always wanted to pursue but had never quite been able to. I asked what it was and he replied, “Somebody had been stealing Harold Solomon’s ideas.” I liked it immediately; it had the kind of lead in I relish, and although it wasn’t my normal way of working, I asked if he’d object if I tried running with it. He said to go for it. And like often happens with the right catalyst, a written story poured straight onto the page.

Although the writing took a prose form, from the start I had the notion of it also being a film. So, with extremely limited funds but some phenomenal, longstanding collaborators who were game, we shot the whole thing in four days on 35mm with about a 1.5. to 1 shooting ratio running around New York City. It was a great challenge and a great time.

The narration is really the main performance, and we wanted to find someone for it who could really elevate the film. We felt Wallace Shawn would be perfect, and as a writer might particularly appreciate the role. We sent him the piece and he liked it and agreed to do voice-over. But this was still the COVID era and regrettably I came down with a case right before the recording session. I directed via Zoom but it was excruciating not to be there in person. Fortunately, Wally completely got the tone and humor and, with the kind of thorough preparation every director hopes for, nailed it on the first take.

I’ve taken to calling this a multiform work, as I feel it can be equally a written piece and a film. And I’ve since been working on a series of new pieces in the same vein, with iterations that co-exist across mediums. All, however, begin in primary form as the written word.

. . .

Written, Directed and Edited by: D.W. Young
Narrator: Wallace Shawn
Harold Solomon: Dan Wechsler
Producers: Judith Mizrachy, Dan Wechsler, D.W. Young
Cinematographer: Arlene Muller
Composer: David Ullmann

. . .

D.W. Young is a New York City-based filmmaker and writer. His two most recent feature films are the documentaries Uncropped (2024), about Village Voice photographer James Hamilton and the heyday of alternative print journalism, and The Booksellers (2020).

https://www.dwyoungfilm.com/

Womannotated – Macabre Burlesque

November 14th, 2020

Macabre Burlesque 

I live in a genre the aged read.
Decrepit men tell their mendacities 
before a final tomcatnap beneath 
cracked granite mausoleum roof.  This squeezed 
social register, not quite weatherproof,
trickles on nipples; a drooping sundress
exposes flesh, rose, only ghosts reprove 
or molest, witness this macabre burlesque.

Continue reading “Womannotated – Macabre Burlesque”

Riverbed Reunion by Abiodun Usman

Very soon,  I will embrace my wife again as a farmer embraces the rainy season, or, like a groom embraces his new bride. I will be drenched in water. A sorrow–hidden moment it will be, just like January 1st, 2005. That was the last day I saw her heavy dimples and swollen abdomen. 

Continue reading “Riverbed Reunion by Abiodun Usman”

Shore by Abdulbaseet Yusuff

  1. To say I love you is to say you have flooded

my knee with rain 

: is to say the viscosity of my synovial fluid

has been adulterated & I have lost anchorage

Continue reading “Shore by Abdulbaseet Yusuff”

Summoning by Laurie Koensgen

Ridges in my fingernails––   

worrisome trenches, etchings that  

presage diseases and loss, niches where 

suspicion insinuates itself. Instead I summon:  

ridges of my knuckles, thumb-tucked fists,   

taut brown skin tallowed over the bone   

as I brace to take on the icy lake, 

to punch the water’s skin; 

Continue reading “Summoning by Laurie Koensgen”

‘Nceba, mzala’ by Perfect Hlongwane

Son of my favorite aunt,

I greet you from above the waters;

Waving but not drowning.

Continue reading “‘Nceba, mzala’ by Perfect Hlongwane”

‘bit the water’ by J.I. Kleinberg

blue groaning
Continue reading “‘bit the water’ by J.I. Kleinberg”

Fear Thyself by Stephen Embleton

I lie on the bottom of the pool, my back resting lightly on the rough, cool marbelite; staring motionless up at the surface of the water. Four feet of water separates me from fresh, breathable air.

Continue reading “Fear Thyself by Stephen Embleton”

Kids

I became a widow at the tender age of nine.

Continue reading “Kids”

A tale of three descendants

always.the.same.year (2020), 2048×2048, digital: Here our faces plunge into the endless vanity of social media until the bubbles stop. Our digital selves/saviors are the ones bleeding sanity from our tarnished skin.
Continue reading “A tale of three descendants”

this body sinks in a dead sea

ghost undead

i still ache for emptiness like i

             would silence in a 

                    sequence of 

                         sighs.

Continue reading “this body sinks in a dead sea”

The Red Thread by Stephanie Parent

My Ariadne can see the future.

(My Ariadne. This is my version of the story.)

She spins her red thread, and it twists into shapes before her eyes, hearts and nooses. It tells her that Theseus turns out to be an asshole.

Seven young men and seven maidens arrive on the island, and Theseus outshines them all. His eyes are the sky blue of someone who believes he cannot fail, who believes he has no darkness within him. Those eyes make Ariadne dream of flight.

Theseus wonders how such a creature as the minotaur, half-beast, half-man, could be allowed to exist. Ariadne doesn’t tell him the last of the halves: the monster is her half-brother. In the evening she dreams of blue eyes, but her hands twist and turn the red thread. At midnight she dreams of mazes like arteries and veins, running red and blue.

Ariadne gives Theseus a coiled ball of thread the size of a heart. She tells him the thread will guide him out of the labyrinth.

Continue reading “The Red Thread by Stephanie Parent”

Phobos Lab by Edwin Evans-Thirlwell

E1M1

Orbit if you follow, if you quit
the rail of Cassiopeia.

Point the toe if you flow
backward from the altar.

Be appointed dirt to an Easter scene,
breathe as low
as an overbearing ceiling.

E1M2

The ankles for the trees,
the kestrel square and trim,
as a kestrel is begotten
and bent inward from the rim.

E1M3

A microscope slide of masonry
plied with ocular fluid, Continue reading “Phobos Lab by Edwin Evans-Thirlwell”

3 Poems by Kylie Ayn Yockey

HELL IS REAL

warns the interstate billboard
between pastures and pig slaughters

this landscape of disturbance
smells like home to my soul

the sun’s pollen heats
a body of cows
invisible behind dirt devils
mooing in another language

hell is a gas station
between nothing-towns
of glaring bony-leered eyes

the giant sky turns to me
with cornflower irises
through titanic turbine lashes
across unblinking horizon Continue reading “3 Poems by Kylie Ayn Yockey”

Strategies by Lisa Fazio

1. Calculate

I plan ahead
Preparing for the best outcome
and defense
I stay alert for the minotaurs
that live in my maze
Each day I puzzle and calculate
But in the woods
I wonder
Why do my decisions come so easily?
Trusting
I step off the trail
feeling my way around
Prickers
Thorn trees
Barbed wire fences
Picking up deer trails
I follow them without knowing where they’ll take me Continue reading “Strategies by Lisa Fazio”

Big Moves/Changes/ Feelings by Lauren Weik

When I first decided to move from Austin, TX to Los Angeles, I was leaving behind my friends, family, two jobs, and cat all in Texas to go finish school in a big, new city. I was freshly single after a relationship of two years, and I felt isolated, alone, but empowered to say the least.

The week before I moved from Austin, I said several goodbyes. To the job I worked for 3 years, to my students who I worked with in an after-school program. I moved everything out of my apartment and picked myself up after long sad nights.

During this transition period, talking about all the swift changes and new rules of the adult world proved difficult. I was only beginning to learn how to navigate my own mental health, and I went through my days carrying the weight of the breakup pain plus the grief of moving while others appeared to function and lead happy, perfect lives. I watched my 4 year old cousin turn 5, and we painted his hair pink. I went to Chicago by myself to visit an old friend. I packed up my belongings and dealt with the process of moving like a grown woman. Continue reading “Big Moves/Changes/ Feelings by Lauren Weik”

The Believer by Kristin Garth

She sleepwalks in your washi house in crin-
oline, emaciated mouse weeks you
forget to feed, a nibbler, toenails, skin,
until feet bleed free, soil sheets, bamboo
floor, trafficked hardly anymore except
somnabulistic scarlet toes who
map labyrinths, shake off bedclothes, accept
razored teeth in pale furrows.  Ankle chewed
until, unconscious, she seeks the ground.  Bandage,
next time you come around — rose macaroons
gunpowder tea — into a paper cage
fantasy, unbolted door, girl you freed,
six months ago, believes enough to bleed.

 

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna, and more. She is the author of fourteen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), the forthcoming Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), The Meadow (APEP Publications) and Shut Your Eyes, Succubi (Maverick Duck). Follow her on Twitter @lolaandjolie and her website kristingarth.com

Covert art credit: Photo by Aimee Vogelsang on Unsplash

Remixes by Shloka Shankar

shloka-swallowed hope - an erasure diptych
swallowed hope: an erasure diptych

For all the good it did

It was me.                                                        Should I go on?
The dark doesn’t affect
your nose.                                                      Never wake up

………………………………………halfway
………………………………………down
………………………………………the
………………………………………stairs.

A fraction of an inch— Continue reading “Remixes by Shloka Shankar”

There Might Have Been Horses by Rebecca Loudon

Oh sad potato wrapped in plastic like Laura Palmer I might have been Caroline Calloway I might have swallowed a yellow sundress a lemon yellow orchid a story to tell by a bonfire at night in a forest in Montana

my tell is a magnetic lie
my tell is a rotting animal
my tell is a broken knuckle
my tell is a tent pitched at Flathead Lake

where I traveled backward into wilderness where fire and blackberries devoured my girl soul where soil and conifers met at the trout mouth edge and blue water and black deep did not restore my sister but we rose her anyway we opened her stone and chanted up her finished flesh and worshiped her little dress her lilac crown her apples her plush rabbit

I played my violin in the forest
I thought music could fix my disease
I thought music could raise the dead

when my face doesn’t unlock my phone I panic I have become Caroline Calloway my life mere electricity I have disappeared into caves among the stalactite’s green glisten the ocean never closer than my memory of Montana there might have been horses there might have been giant hares there might have been my father building a fire raising my sister from the ashes look he said look at her perfection Continue reading “There Might Have Been Horses by Rebecca Loudon”

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