& says stab this knife into her spine & I say do alligators have spines then Google it. I return to the yard & my father is inside the alligator’s stomach. How terrible: being swallowed before you are ready to be swallowed. Hello Father inside the body that does not belong to you. There are too many teeth inside that mouth. There are too many bodies inside those teeth. I use a torch to return you to the light. You are naked. The alligator is dead now or the alligator is pretending to be dead now or I am pretending that my eyes have stopped working.

- Justin Cater, from redlightbulbs issue 10

# justin carter

# poetry

# poem

# redlightbulbs

# lit

ellesugars asked

princess

Thank You, Elle, But the Happiness is in Another Castle

The architecture of your sadness is sound.
Ivy slithers and clouds refuse
to fight back. To fight would mean
removing the armor of your dress,
looking into an enchanted mirror
for a spell, for a curse, for to find
you’ve been the dragon this whole time.
Your scales clash with your tiara,
your wings scrape through your dress.
You have to hide them each time you go out.
The blue bloods will never accept a creature
with such tremendous fire, so they say.
You’ve heard the stories hundreds of times.
You know how it ends too,
some knight with his head
on backwards coming in to spoil
the ending you’ve written for yourself.
But Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your guard!
The pen, the sword, are both yours.
Scribble on the floor or secede from yourself.
This fantasy belongs to you.

Some days I feel that I exude a fine dust like that attributed to Pylades in the famous Chronica nera areopagitica when it was found and it’s because an excavationist has reached the inner chamber of my heart and rustled the paper bearing your name I don’t like that stranger sneezing over our love

- Frank O’Hara

# frank o'hara

# some days i feel that i exude a fine dust

Circe

naliterarymagazine:

by Vanessa Borjon

I have turned all the women that have
kissed my lovers before me into gumdrops;
through cavitied teeth
I whispered into jealousy,
“Bring them to me.”
I keep them on my windowsill
and eat them when I’m hungry.
I have turned men into animals. I bring them to my bed
and tickle their snouts and kiss the bottom
of their hooves. I am no good, and for this
I have mastered purification.
My breastbone, white and milky, illuminates
when the lights go out.
From my black deeds, I birth the puritan
in you. I bathe you in holy water.
I watch you in your sleep
and when you awake, I bring my lips to you,
their sweet taste of snowdrops exchanged
with your sweat, and laugh
as you spin further
into drunkenness.

Vanessa Borjon, born in 1992, is a poetry student based out of Chicago where she is currently studying at Columbia College Chicago. She is a Libra and lover of all things sincere.

This poem is featured in issue 3 of N/A Literary Magazine, available for purchase through Big Cartel. Pick up a copy today for only $2 and support emerging writers.

We are also accepting submissions. Find out more information here.

↵ Reblogged from naliterarymagazine

# n/a literary magazine

# vanessa borjon

Nihil Americana

naliterarymagazine:

I wanted to get involved with the idiom
I wanted to write a novel where my heart
breaks and your heart breaks because of it
but I’ve never had a single wet dream
in my life or believed in my own origins and
I never finished Women In Love . . .

instead let’s spend the day hounding the natural
sublime on skateboards through a graveyard and
blurbing each other
since we’ll now be known
forever in our circles as dissenters and everyone
else will ask to eat our flesh
probably

how groovy to be called a poet!
it didn’t make me any happier, but hey
–– if you ever meet a line cook who doesn’t drink
you’re looking at God himself,
or that’s what they tell me–––
I don’t even read anymore

presently it’s 2:38 a.m.
I’m at a diner bar in Haledon with two shattered ankles
trying to accrue some human details that I can poeticize ––
how am I doing?

my friend, look at New Jersey
now look back at me
if the idiom is everything then let’s get hammered
and subject it to violence

- Zachary LP

Zachary LP lives in New Jersey, works a dull job, and forgets to refill his prescriptions. Here are some insults he has lately accrued: he needs a shave; almost never calls his family; has more than once tried to write a poem about being “nobody’s sandbox;” has been investigated four times on charges of operating an illegal bed & breakfast; only drinks root beer because of Kierkegaard. And if you need a website or something of that sort you can use this one: zacharylp.tumblr.com/

This poem is featured in issue 3 of N/A Literary Magazine, available for purchase through Big Cartel. Pick up a copy today for only $2 and support emerging writers.

We are also accepting submissions. Find out more information here.