Author: Director

Poetry
Kofi Fosu Forson
Vanessa for the years. A caption would read—Disentanglement. Leg of it predator supposing an undertaking come up from filth, Like laundered sheets after menstrual cycle. Ninotchka Madam, If in a garden, tulip or else demoiselle. Heartbreak, his command. How it roped her into coil. Pull...

Poetry
László Aranyi (Frater Azmon)
The evening of staggering drunks, he is after hangdog, Weasel-faced streetwalkers. Whom he points his carved stick at, . or whom he stigmatises with his finger on the bare skin, they will not be disgusted ever again by the touch of his rigor mortis, but...

Poetry
James Diaz
why the long way around and maybe not just this one time wrapped tiny against that warp in the woods holly-hills singing lost little dear I know each thing that burns I feel it too skin deep the bone the neon sign missing a few letters we’re all missing...

Poetry
Peter Marra
haunted nursery rhymes slowly strumming with patient measure vision mental (including psychosomatic) taste of her juices . at 4 a.m. she buried the pistol in the bayou mud sweat blood ...

Poetry
Luiza
It is hunting season. Cover your ear If you don’t want to hear The loud bang around the city. Oh, do you think I am out to catch deer? Not really. I am after the dirtiest beasts and awkwardest queers. I will chain them with my legs...

Poetry
Kevin Higgins
I’m secretly posh and I’m protestant and no one believes the accent I got off a man in Stoneybatter is real. . My dad earned the Krugerrands, with which I paid for this house, flogging rockets to good-old-days South Africa. My given name, Giles...

Poetry
daniel Galvin
She keeps coming back to me, this yoke— Erin O’Brien put her in the Corrib with a half-bottle of cider in ’99. . She said she didn’t drink cider not to mind share it and she wouldn’t take her jumper off either. . Maybe a fortnight after that Jack...

Poetry
Louise M. Hart
I dedicate this poem To the loves I have not known The nights I have spent Alone Chastising myself With my belt of desires On a bed Of moist memory foam And sheets That drip with sweat And dread of exposure . I dedicate this poem To the hearts I have not...

Poetry
John Grochalski
The brunch people Are lining Saint Mark’s Place On an early Sunday afternoon The brunch people women wear cute little dresses And the men wear polo shirts with the collars up They are named Becca and Staci Todd and Blake and Kyle And they are as boring as a...