HomesickDo not let them see you blink,Homesick by salshep
Mother said, so I am careful to turn
away when my eyes dry out. My grip
on the brush is clumsy. Colours speck
and dazzle, slop like foam on rocks;
the teacher dabs their brilliance
from my flaking arms. Children whisper
behind starfish hands; they go to play
in the bright, hot yard but I stay in,
as Mother told me. Below the window
theres a tank of golden fish that circle,
circle, following their own reflections.
I dip my fingers in to scoop one up,
watch it flip and shine, cool in my palm,
and press my face deep into the water.
Membranes slide across my thirsty eyes.
I breathe, and breathe, and breathe.
WitchesWitchesWitches by salshep
Perhaps you thought we were gone
when the puddles of fat and ash congealed,
and our stink unstuck from the back
of your throat. When you exhale
into the face of your wife, does she smell us?
Lately at night, familiar as cats,
we've taken to creeping into your room,
reeking of bonfires, empty-headed
pumpkins, poppets of wormwood and rue.
In your sleep, you eat our bodies
and brag come morning, you dare not
pass a hedge for fear of whispers
nor linger where three roads meet.
We are slowly collecting your fluids,
your fallen hair; we hide in your socks
like foxtail, we diffuse our dust
into all your meals. Soon we'll leach
as salt from your skin, fly like spittle
out of your gaping mouth. We are the hook
and the bait. We are always to blame.
Field Notes.Field Notes by salshep
I snap: a sling-shot
of sinew, tendons whipped
to joints that buckle in lines as cleanly creased
as an origami crane. Poised on a tripod of paper tips,
I anticipate the wind but there is only steel
shearing bone and then it all unfolds
with a scritch-scratch and tickle
of segmented limbs sprouting,
barbed as berry-canes.
once fed on your skin;
sipped at honeyed pores
with a thousand tiny, hollow tongues
and those words you said, the ones that closed
like fists to cinch me mute but for this
thin-bodied whine: please
don't ever speak
They're predicting swarms
this summer: better batten down the hatches,
Better To Be HorsesShe pretends to be horses. Not one,Better To Be Horses by salshep
but a herd hurtling breakneck
past homes where other children sleep.
Better to be horses
than flattened under sheets,
to run until her body breaks:
Mustang, Arabian, Pinto, her tails
pluming as she streams
through the dark. Hooves flashing
on pavement, their thunder
proof against silhouette and silence,
she strains to be free of earth
until she comes to the edge
of the world and the horses, panting,
drop their heads
to catch their breath
before the long walk home.
I SPY: Final Days for EntryJust some updates on I SPY competition, and I hope those entering have had a good time writing for this comp.I SPY: Final Days for Entry by salshep
The COMP DETAILS and PRIZE LIST Can Be Found Here
Please Note: COMP CLOSES MIDNIGHT, FEB 29 GMT.
Use the World Clock to find out what time that is for you!
Entries entered AFTER that date and time will not be included in the list of entries sent to the judges.
The I SPY submission category is filling up nicely, and there's a lot of good work to be read there, too, so even if you're not entering, make sure to browse through and check it out!
There was a problem with the comp categories yesterday which appears to be fixed now. I don't know if that might have affected entry to the category, so if you had a problem entering yesterday that should all b
Underlit Radio GOES TO AIR Well, this is all pretty darned exciting!Underlit Radio GOES TO AIR by salshep
salshep and skufti are the presenters of this first Underlit broadcast, which will go to air at 3pm EST, today, the 24th Feb.
Along with Sal and Heidas rivetting discussion on poetry, writers block and Jim Careys behind, theyll be reading poetry by E.E. Cummings, Dylan Thomas, Charles Bukowksi and Pablo Neruda, as well as a marvellous poem by our own bewareofthesnowman.
Theres a few other special features, too, including a reading of one of Dylan Thomas love letters by Adeimantus and the first of our Weekly Literature News updates presented by our roving reporter, mossi-mo.
Right now we can shoutcast to around 200 people at once (we are hoping to expand that number soon ) and of course podcast is available to all.
The text to all pieces read is available here, on the program schedule page.
The dA Poetry Community: Some Very Unlikely PoetryHey again, guys, Crowhesghost here to spread some more literary love to the masses.The dA Poetry Community: Some Very Unlikely Poetry by crowhesghost
*pause for collective groan*
Okay, now that you've got that out of your systems, I'd like to talk to you today about poetry from a rather unexpected source.
Now, before you read any further in my meandering missive (huzzah for alliteration!), I'd like you to take a moment and check out these three poems. It's all right, go ahead. I've got coffee, I can wait.
Back? Okay, good. Now, in case you were wondering, from the account username and whatnot: yes, each of these poems was written by prison inmates.
When I started the Literary Underground a couple of weeks ago, My very first member, <a href=http://onemorefreek.deviantart.com>OneMoreFreek (there ya go, Toby, there's a gratuitous plug), asked me if would be cool if he also joined the club under the PrisonerExpress account, and I was good with that. Poetry is poetry, and that's th
Soundzine Issue 5: We Want Your Goodies Soundzine 5 is now accepting submissions! </b>Soundzine Issue 5: We Want Your Goodies by Soundzine
After the tremendous success of #4, were looking forward to yet another issue packed with local and offsite talent. So, get those submissions polished up and sounding hot, and send 'em in!
Be sure to check out our submission guidelines here.
We do prefer authors to record for themselves, but are happy to provide in-house readers when this is not possible.
Flash fiction should be less than 1000 words, and can be on any theme.
Please keep in mind that Soundzine will not be producing submissions to the Beat feature.
The Soundzine Editorial Team:
:iconAdeimantus: -- Editor-In-Chief.
:iconsalshep: -- General & Art Editor.
:iconapocathary: -- Prose Editor.
:iconsrsmith: -- Technical Uberbeing.
....and for this issue, please welcome the
SnowMonths grouped together like careless footstepsSnow by Roulle
stroll upon the lashings accorded to me by the sun.
In January I am caressed by ghosts
or something as cold and invisible.
They intrude upon hair, clothes; books
dampen with monstrous hand prints.
Are these shells of half-dead creatures
holding themselves, ancient in a cavern somewhere
or tethered to the earth by thought?
Bits of cloud, the flesh of heaven
picked off like a soft disease
nestle on my shoulder as if pulled from my sweater.
they emerge quietly like droplets of blood. Whisper:
we are the teeth of ancient things.
White drift presses upon the house
and the window. Its cool breath scales
my chin, pries open my mouth like a tenacious lover,
and settles with a small sigh on the tongue
like a hiss of steam.
We have made and unmade warmth.
Stage DirectionsSTAGE DIRECTIONSStage Directions by Boogster
The actor rose,
the moon on his face.
Say it was the third take.
As if they had never met
the electricity tightened
in her eyes and in his.
I saw everything in a flickering silver light.
They did not know me. It was perfect.
She shot him once in the chest and he died,
and he let one hand fall across his face,
and the grey trees quietly shook in the wind.
Still the moon shone on his face
and was the same as ever
and lit the grass as usual.
I was so finely poised between things
it seemed as though the sun would never rise:
never past the guillotine horizon. A clean cut.
Now the sky slips between my fingers.
I tense at the edge of the street.
Across the street, two white faces. Why
are there gaps? I should like to see
two things meet.
The tremulous light solders
and goldens and slowly
in the turning light the world
explains itself. I cannot see
|-WHAT I'VE BEEN DOING LATELY-|
Avoiding sinkholes, mostly.
-WHAT I'VE BEEN READING LATELY-
Only Forward - Michael Marshall Smith
I love a book in which you cannot guess the next twist. And love better the book wherein you shouldn't, but do, and then the narrator calls you a 'smartarse' for having done so. Best narrator ever. Genre-defying, exciting, freaky, esoteric, brutal, horrifying, true, fantastical - loved this to bits.
Ring - Koji Suzuki
Compared (unjustly) to Murakami, the book makes the film look better (the Japanese version, I mean; the USA film isn't nearly as good). Still, a decently creepy read if you can get past the appalling translation (or wooden writing, I'm not really sure which it is.)
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
Chick lit for morbid people. Beautiful, strange, uplifting. I also find myself suddenly obsessed with sinkholes.
The Riders - Tim Winton
This book gutted me. Gorgeous. Sad. Funny. Read it.
The Invisibles - Grant Morrison
Makes Gaiman look like kindergarten.
Focault's Pendulum - Umberto Eco
Dan Brown, for people who don't breathe through their mouths.
Some Poetry-Related Journals:
Derek Walcott Walt McDonald
Lord George Gordon Byron William Blake
Christopher Smart Maya Angelou
Richard Wilbur Robert Frost
I'll cut the hearts from pharaohs
I pull the road off of the rise
Tear the memories from my eyes
I drink a thousand shipwrecks
Tonight I'll steal your paychecks
I paint the sheets across my bed
The birds will all fly from my head
Take every dream that's breathing
Find every boot that's leaving
Shoot all the lights in the cafe
And in the morning I'll be gone