Photography: Matthew Lyons
Dentist - Night Swimming: Reviewed By Michael Mitchell Just because I am from the great "First State" and Dentist have a song from their last album titled "Meet You There (In Delaware)", I will in no way be biased in my review. That being said, their new album, 'Night Swimming', should be in everyone's rotation this summer. From the pounding opening beats of "Upset Words" to the last pulses of "The Latter", this album never fails to give you catchy, upbeat melodies that will have you humming as you head out to your spot on the beach. Their brand of lo-fi surf pop is often reserved for West Coast bands but these Jersey-ites are claiming it East Coast! Imagine The Pixies and Belly having a baby and you'll have an idea of the frenetic, jangly sparkle that they have on this, their third album. Memorable as the melodies are, don't be fooled too much by the happy tones. Lyrically Emily and Justin Bornemann's songs go into heartbreak (the title track 'Night Swimming') and failed relationship recovery ('Figure-Four's lyric, that has become one of my favorite new buzz phrases, "The world has gone to shit and I am over it"). Also noteworthy is 'Corked' which has to be the next single. You need a Corona-colonic if you don't have this song stuck in your head long after the album ends. Clocking in at a little over 30 minutes, this shimmering jewel will be on repeat for quite a while to help me bop through my daily grind and I don't even have to wait until two-thirty to enjoy...see what I did there? Bad dentist joke......sue me. Preorder Night Swimming now ahead of its July 20th release: Bandcamp Keep up with Dentist Website | Facebook | Twitter | YouTube | Soundcloud | Instagram | Bandcamp | Spotify | iTunes Keep up with Cleopatra Records Website | Facebook | Bandcamp | Soundcloud | Twitter | YouTube | Instagram Keep up with Shameless Promotion PR Website | Facebook | Twitter | Soundcloud | Instagram | LinkedIn | Email
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7/15/2018 0 Comments Pleasure By Lisa FolkmirePleasure Like an exercise. Like an improper delivery. The nights in your bed and the insistence seeping from my own throat of more breakage, more pushing, more pulsing, until the pain turns to white. Marrow or bone white. Breath shaking pain. Like the taffy pink and pulling back on itself in the window. It has an existence and its existence is this: to turn and thin but never break until devoured --there is something to be said about the way a pair of thigh muscles can hurt in equal amounts in that soft humming pain. The taffy pulled over and over in shop windows. I always wanted to take its pink sweetness. I’d watch and wait for its skin-- always thinning, never tearing. 16, sweat, crotch on the narrow piece of hard bike-seat. For 23 miles, I’d push myself, pulsing past cars and trucks and vans and busses. Girl on wheels flying through the city streets for her own good. The biggest damn secret yet. And my halfway stop, my sweet release, letting us both fall to our sides and feeling the green grasses tickling my neck. Coolness, to lay there, arms spread, back in the dirt, breath catching. It’s something they don’t teach young girls, the pleasure of getting off. All by yourself. Like a threat. Our ears covered during adult conversations about female pleasure. The pleasure talk in front of our eyes, like the taffy behind the glass, turning itself in the window. Even in the almost pain, even in the almost rubbing. Upper thighs against upper thighs. Young girls don’t joke about masturbating on their parents’ couches. Young girls only joke about masturbating with a dick. We must all be self-masochists. Certain butterflies and birds change colors based on their surroundings not like chameleons but more like ideas. You see the purple, you see the blue. (Pleasure is a word that sticks in my mouth.) Lisa Folkmire is a poet from Warren, Michigan. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts where she studied poetry. Her poems have appeared in many journals, including Heron Tree Literary Arts Journal, Gravel, Atlas & Alice, Timber, and Ann Arbor Current Magazine. She is also a reader for The Masters Review. 7/14/2018 0 Comments Days By Isabella Esser-Munera Ben Seidelman Days In the hospital, I am fed until I sleep. I eat. I eat until I sleep. I dream. They bring me my colored pencils, markers, paper. I don’t touch them. Ma waits. She tells me a stories. “There was a little girl,” she says, “locked in a tower.” “I know this one,” I say, staring up at the ceiling. I’m thinking about how all ceilings are the same. “Shh,” she shushes me. “It’s about me, and you.” She says, “There was a little girl fighting an ogre.” “Does she win,” I ask. “Yes,” Ma replies, “Don’t you want to know how?” “No,” I say, and shut my eyes. Ma pauses. Then continues. “There was an old woman who had never seen animals.” “Where did she live.” “In a place where animals can’t survive.” “So the city?” I interrupt. “The city has hundred of animals,” Ma corrects me. “That’s not true.” “Let me finish,” she says, wearily. But Ma doesn’t complain. Ma brings me fresh vegetables and soup, “instead of the crap they serve you here,” and I smile because I know this isn’t helping me, this sort of selection. But I’m grateful. She brings a bowl of cherries. They’re fresh, and good. I remember picking cherries, Papa holding out a hat. Filled with gleaming rubies. I tell Ma a story. “Once, there was a world full of cherries. A planet of cherries,” I clarify. “Only cherries grew on trees.” “Okay,” Ma says. “The people took very good care of their cherries,” I continue, spitting out a seed in my palm. It is as sleek as an acorn, peeled clean by my tongue and teeth. “They loved their cherry trees.” “Did they eat the cherries?” Ma asks. “Course,” I say, waving the thought away with my hand. “But not all of them. They were moderate. They planned out how much to eat, how much to chop down, when to rotate the planting to new soil.” Ma smiles. Because she sees how I have, over time, come to understand farming. “Then, there was an attack.” I let myself chew for a Maent, enjoy the soft, tart flesh. “It wasn’t a loud one,” I say. I watch Ma’s face. She looks back at me calmly, sitting on the chair. Her back is to the window. She listens, hands pressed over her jeans. “A subtle one,” she says, slowly. “A sneaky one.” We smile at each other. “Yup,” I say, delicately spitting another seed onto my palm. I drop it onto the napkin, take one of the wipes Ma has brought for just this occasion. “It happened at night. In the shadows. The cherries were disappearing.” “Ohh,” Ma says, leaning back. Her dark hair tucked behind her in a clip. “The planet was being invaded.” “The whole planet?” “The whole planet,” I confirm. “Remember, the whole planet was all the same, just filled with cherry trees,” I remind her. I am smiling, and Ma frowns. I feel a sense of delight start to creep over me. I think she understands. I continue, tearing off a cherry stem, popping the fruit in my mouth. “The thing was, the cherries weren’t cherries. They were rubies.” “Rubies?” I nod, chew. Spit. “There was a prince,” I tell her, swallowing, “Who decided to save the cherry trees.” I wipe my hands. Ma nods slightly. “Again, it was sneaky.” “So they didn’t fight,” Ma assumes, jumping in. I nod. “Correct. They didn’t fight. The prince waited by the fields, by a young tree that was just--just bursting with life. And it got dark.” I roll a cherry in my hand. It’s so round, almost a perfect ball, deep red. I drop it back in the bowl. I feel Ma control her expression. I’ve just made it dirty again. “Sure enough, he sees someone come. He’s shocked. The alien looks like a person.” Ma tsks her tongue sympathetically. “The alien knew he was there. She said--” “It was a she?” Ma interrupts. “Yes,” I say, irritated. “Very Adam and Eve,” she remarks. “She sits on the ground,” I continue, ignoring her. “She pats the grass next to her, leans on the tree.” I bite into the cherry finally, to refresh myself. With a mouthful in the pocket of my cheek, I carry on. “The alien says, ‘This bark makes for good chairs, don’t you think.’ ” ‘They do,’ the prince confirms. ‘And the leaves,’ the alien continues, plucking an oval from over her head, ‘they make the shiniest playing cards.’ She displays a few in her hand, fanning them out in her fingers. ‘Yes,’ the prince says. ‘And it’s fruit,’ she says, and the alien turns to look at him. ‘What is the fruit for?’ ” Ma is rapt. I continue. “The alien opens her hand. She already had one there. ‘What is this?’ she asks the prince. ‘Life,’ he replies, ‘A cherry.’ Ma smiles. “So then,” I say, heat rising to my face. A plan is hatching now. My heart hammers. “The alien passes him the cherry. And starts to unbutton her shirt.” Her smile drops. “ ‘You’ve never seen skin before?’ The alien laughs at the prince.” I am determined to finish. “Because her skin,” I roll a cherry around in my hand again, swallowing, “her skin was reflective. It was a mirror.” “Mirrors just reflect light,” Maa says, as if to stop me from continuing. I realize she’s afraid. I bite into another cherry and smile, feeling the juice gather in my gums. It’s something I would have said. “Yes, but the prince didn’t know there was a way to bend light, to see differently. So when he looked at her chest,” and I laugh, this line suddenly funny, my mouth coming open, the flesh of the cherry, the chewed up pieces starting to gush out as I smile. I look out the window, swallow, taking great pleasure in the texture down my throat. I swallow the seed too. Grin. Ma now looks uncomfortable. “When the prince looked at her chest that was a mirror, he saw the cherry was a ruby. ‘You have been eating,’ the alien tells the prince, with great condescension, ‘treasure.’ ” “And the prince leaned in closer. He saw his face,” I pause, letting myself linger, “He saw that he was a princess.” Ma blinks. “Are you saying...the prince was a monster?” “I never said he was a monster,” I chide her slowly, “only that he was a prince.” “Not like the princess and the frog?” “No,” I say, now panicking. “No?” “No.” Ma is silent. I take another cherry. There’s only a few left in the bowl. Blood-red pearls, three of them in a porcelain clam. In my hand I squish it, in a fist under the sheets. Ma doesn’t see. “And the prince wanted to reach into the alien’s body, take out the ruby. He saw how it had a different shape, how it was unbreakable and bright.” I swallow. The juice is sticky in my hand, I can feel the tear, coming apart into pieces. “Did he?” Ma asks. I regard her. “The alien said, amused, ‘Do you want this?’ Swept a hand over her chest, her body. Seductively.” Ma holds my gaze. I look away. “ ‘I do,’ he said. And the prince reached out for the ruby.” I pause. “But he killed her. He had the cherry in his hand, but he took the ruby he saw reflected in her chest. And never again could he unsee the cherries again as rubies, sure he would choke and die. And when he looked at his hands, all he could see was the alien’s hands, feminine and silver. He felt her everywhere, unable to undo that guilt.” I stop. “What a story,” Ma says, finally. I take my hand, wipe the guts of the ruined cherry discreetly into the wipe, clean my hand. “He starved. The cherries kept disappearing, he had whole fields of them, but couldn’t bear them, couldn’t eat them. And his people, begged him to do something, unable to keep up with the sudden disappearances all over the world. Even though they could see he was dying.” “It’s not over?” Ma asks, appalled. “So finally one day, the princess took off all her clothes.” Ma says nothing about the character change. “She stood out on the balcony. She bared herself to the people. The aliens were no devils. They were only wise. But. Everyone only saw a prince. So. She...ate a cherry.” “It saved her?” “It killed her,” I respond, shortly. “She choked on the ruby.” Ma’s face doesn’t change. “Now the story’s done.” Ma’s arms are crossed. She’s unimpressed. I sink back into the pillows. Again, I study the ceiling: all the marks, the color fading at the edges, rows of squares. “You are just,” Ma says, looking at me, “like your father.” “Where did you get these,” I say. It occurs to me suddenly that cherries are out of season. “Everything’s international now,” Ma says. I feel my heart break at this, a crack dropping through my chest. “You’re right,” I murmur, and hearing my voice say it aloud breaks me further. I swallow the cherry. All my confidence and spite begins to crumble away, become brittle. I feel like crying. I spit just saliva into a napkin, trying to get rid of the taste. “Just like John.” Ma is at the window. She looks out. “You both have such imagination.” I watch her. I still want to hurt her, somehow. “Dad didn’t have an imagination,” I say. “He took photos.” “Yes, Eva,” and Ma turns to me now, “He took photos. Exactly.” “That’s not...you don’t create anything with that.” But Ma is shaking her head. “No. You can’t take photos or draw a picture unless you see something there.” “What?” Ma looks at me, almost pleading. She sits again. “You see stories in everything. Every object or face. Everything.” She picks up the last cherry from the bowl. “This is just,” she says, “a cherry.” I look at it. I see the lighting from the window frame it, see the curve of its shape, how it is imperfect, lopsided. The gleam of my mother’s nailpolish, her soft hand, made smooth by cream, the notes of it eeking into the creases. The angle of her arm, the entire composition of her figure over the rectangles of the room. It’s not just a cherry, I want to insist. But then I understand what she means, because this is it, this is my problem and hers: I always see too much, she never sees enough. And I remember what she said, one afternoon long ago: “I worked for this. Your father was just talented.” “You are both of us, Eva,” Ma says now, as if she can hear me. There is sadness in her voice. “You have your father’s eye, and my…” She smiles bitterly. “My discipline. My little ruby.” She puts the cherry down, just as a woman appears in the door. We turn to look at her. “This way, honey.” The woman smiles. My mother rises. The three of us stand in the room. It is time for therapy. We will talk about food, relationships, bodies. Histories. Families. The stories that we tell ourselves, that I told myself, that Ma told herself. Outside, beyond the hospital window, all of Kansas City is spread out around us. Dizzying, pulsing with color and life. Isabella Esser-Munera teaches English to fourteen year olds and is an advocate for children everywhere. Her work has appeared in Faded-Out magazine and Maudlin House. She can be found on twitter as @esserisst, and is currently working on her first novel. Photo by Ryan Scott Reveries by Grace Vonderkuhn You know those radio stations that play your favorite rock songs from the 70s through the 90s? You know how those iconic riffs dig into you and pull out memories? Reveries, the Egghunt Records debut from Grace Vonderkuhn, is like that only you don't have memories that root the songs in your past. Instead, these songs bump and bang around in there until they have nested themselves in and sidled up to that memory of listening to PJ Harvey for the first time in your girlfriend's car while skipping 3rd period Chemistry class. The 10 songs on Reveries are relentlessly enjoyable. They mix some 70s-style bottom heavy riffs with 90s garage rock fuzziness with infectious rhythms with idiosyncratic, poetic lyrics. But wait, you say, I'm not a 40 year old person and do not know these musical references. Great, I say, even better! Take 4 minutes and go listen to Candy Buttons. Give it a chance. Listen to the whole song. It won't sound like anything you have ever heard…in the best possible way. Cellophane, Worry, and Candy Buttons are stand out tracks, but the entire album rocks. It is definitely a play-through-without-skipping type of album. I had the opportunity to steal a few minutes of Grace’s time recently and I asked her about the recording process. She said, “[Reveries was recorded] on a Tascam 8-track onto cassette. I love the warmth of tape recordings and have always been inspired by Kim Deal's All Wave movement. Matt, who engineered and mixed the album, and I setup a recording space in our house in Wilmington. We recorded half of Reveries there with my band. Then we moved to a log cabin in PA and did the rest there. I do a lot of writing in the basement of the cabin because that's our practice space but we actually recorded in the living room which has a lovely high ceiling. That definitely took over our lives for a while.” Me: “What has been the best part of recording/releasing/gigging for this album?” GV: “I think getting invited to play SXSW was really cool for us and just a totally new experience. It's also been great seeing people we've never met in the crowd singing the words to the songs. The response from people has been overwhelmingly kind and encouraging.” Me: “And the opposite...what’s the hardest part?” GV: “Just worrying about missed opportunities, wondering if I'm doing enough promotion, booking, etc. I'm often thinking ‘you can always do more’ but that runs the risk of burning out.” Me: “What does the near future hold for Grace Vonderkuhn?” GV: “Soon we're putting out a music video that we are so thrilled about and we'll be doing some more touring. Also, songs for a new album are coming together…” You can catch Grace Vonderkuhn this Summer at the Ladybug Festival in Wilmington, Delaware. Full Album on Bandcamp Website Ladybug Festival Jason Bates will interject movie quotes into conversations even when the person on the other end has never seen the movie being quoted. His writing has appeared in Before I Leave...Lit Zine, Figroot Press, and aLiteration Magazine, and upcoming in River City Poets Anthology. He is also the founder of Spider Mirror Journal. Last stop for fuel. I ain’t got no camera, ain’t got no picture to show. But listen: A road, long and straight. The mountains that way. The city that way. And desert both sides. Sometimes I look too long one way. Look too long the other. Nothing good comes from looking, what Ma used to say, and I buried her here. Right here. And this day I’m telling about, I’m standing out front looking cityward. Most times, all that comes from looking is the heat in the air making everything wave. Like God’s shaking the picture. But the times that the looking brings a car, what I’d do is draw the gas. Fill her up, what they say. Sometimes they say more. Not much. Never had to use the gun. Pointed it, is all. Anyways, this day I’m telling about, there’s a car. Long ways off, but I can see it against the the flat grey of the sky. And I don’t rightly know why I decide to turn myself around, but that’s what I do. Those mountains hang black in the sky, and it can be hard to see a car against them, but this day I’m telling about, I see one just the same. So, a car, one way. A car, the other. They’ll both stop, what I’m thinking. And I’m thinking, that’ll be funny. Two cars. Two fill her ups. Ma, she woulda liked it. But the closer they get, the more I get the feeling. I ain’t gonna be drawing no gas. The air is waving like God’s shaking the picture, and I’m feeling something like the night Ma died. Bad thinking, what I used to call it. What she used to call it too. That night the storm brought down the fence, I knew it. The morning Ma got sick, I knew it too. The night she died, I knew it, and I told her, but she was too far gone to hear. Anyways, this day I’m telling about. Car one way. Car the other. And I knew they weren’t stopping. Leastways, not the usual kinda stopping. I started to think, which one? Which one gonna swerve into the other? And it comes over me, real strong. The mountainside one. It takes a little time for them to get here. But they get here. Right in front of me. And it turns out I’m right. The mountainside car is the swerver. Like I say, I ain’t got no camera, ain’t got no picture to show. But listen: When one car swerves like that right into another, it makes a real mess of everything. Makes some real kind of a noise, too. I think it was the noise what did it. Set my feet on the road. Cityward, the way I starts walking this day I’m telling about. Who knows why these things happen? Not me. But let me tell you one thing. I ain’t never looking back. Jason Jackson's prize-winning writing has been published extensively online and in print. In 2018 Jason has won the Writers Bureau competition, come second (for the second year running) in the Exeter Short Story competition and had work short-listed at the Leicester Writes competition, the Bath Flash Award and The Frome short story competition. His work has also appeared this year at New Flash Fiction Review, Craft and Fictive Dream. In 2017 he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Jason regularly tweets @jj_fiction and has an occasional blog at http://jjfiction.wordpress.com. 7/11/2018 0 Comments Polartropica Brings Attention to Opioid Crisis in Stunning new Single ‘Golden Soul’ By Lydia ReedPolartropica Brings Attention to Opioid Crisis in Stunning new Single ‘Golden Soul’ By Lydia Reed Bubblegum pop psych artist Polartropica shines brightly in her new single 'Golden Soul'. The single’s poignant narrative is a contrast to Polartropica’s whimsical and upbeat soundscapes, making it an impactful and interesting track. ‘Golden Soul’ highlights the devastating opioid crisis which is facing many communities today and Polartropica is bringing much needed awareness to this. Known for her vivid and larger than life persona and quirky visuals, the Los Angeles based singer is an artist on the rise and definitely one to watch. Take a listen to her new single below. ABOUT ‘GOLDEN SOUL’ I wrote 'Golden Soul' watching someone close to me struggle through opioid addiction and the devastating effects it has had on the family and everyone connected. We got a call from Ava the day Trump got elected to office, and have not seen her since. When a trusted doctor prescribed Oxycontin for a back injury from horseback riding 10 years ago, no one would have known that it would slowly devolve into a full-on heroin addiction. Now, we see in the news every day that entire communities are destroyed by this. On one hand, you're fighting this incredibly heartbreaking and constant internal battle, while at the same time navigating responsibilities, stigma, family, the lack of resources available for treatment, especially for those not financially able to check into a privatized comprehensive treatment facility. The relationship with an addict comes from a place of love, and morphs into a whole other form of codependency, and the cycle continues. We are dedicating Golden Soul to Ava and anyone with friends or family members struggling with opiod addiction. This is a nationwide epidemic that needs to be properly addressed, both in the way we view this addiction and from the pharmaceutical and lawmaking levels. Responsibility needs to be taken upon individuals and companies who are approving, making, promoting, administering opiod painkillers, and are continuing to do so, while disregarding all of the evidence we now have showing that there is a potentially dangerous outcome when prescribed carelessly. *** Polartropica is the music endeavor of Los Angeles based, whimsical space-pop artist, Ihui (eeway) Cherise Wu. Born in Taiwan yet raised in California, Wu successfully combines quirky pop melodies, futuristic synths and classical string arrangements, creating a genre of bubblegum psychedelia that you’ve never heard before. Polartropica derived after Wu heard a song which couldn’t be defined by a genre - ‘Polartropic’ by Mark Foster. Admiring the contrast between both ‘polar’ and ‘tropical’, Wu decided to formulate a place where things can exist where they don’t belong. Polartropica fuses elements of complete opposites together with the outcome resulting in a unique, ethereal sound that defies all sonic worlds. Using both organic and synthetic instruments, Wu conceived a visionary dream world for listeners to escape to. Wu professes, “I wanted to create a healing, inspiring and empowering space with just the right amount of disco-party!" Integrating 90's pop, classical arrangements and intergalactic space-pop, Polartropica is guaranteed to feed your imagination, with their eccentric and distinguished sound. Visit: http://www.polartropica.com for more. 7/11/2018 7 Comments Poetry By Kelly CurtisUnsaddled There was a time when I needed you, anyone, really – to fill a void. But voids have a way of mending over time, becoming stronger than they ever were before. Nothing drains me now. Whole without you, so much more, without your threats and neediness. Unsaddled from your so-called love. Who needs it? I don’t have time for that shit. Inspired by Boy Shooting at a Statue “Children shouldn’t Play with guns,” They say. But children Will be children… A stick, a rock, a finger. It all serves the same purpose. They will always find a way. “History will never find a way to end.” We chase our tails, Looking for someone to blame Maybe the answer is just that humanity follows the darkest course, Time and time again. *“History will never find a way to end” is a line from Billy Collins’ poem, Boy Shooting at a Statue. Love Your intensity Claws its way Down the translucent skin Of my arms – Scratching, drawing Tiny droplets of blood. My mouth yawns open, Eyes squeezed shut – Tight against my cheekbones. The scream is silent, Stuck in my throat, As I choke on it. I chop my way free Of your grip, Gasping for air. Jerking away, A snapped rubber band – Stretched, but not broken. Kelly Curtis is a recovering middle school English teacher, who lives in western Pennsylvania. After eleven years in 8th grade, she has recently decided to embark on a new career as a writer and editor. Kelly is an animal lover, with a penchant for reading. She hopes to become a published author, as well as a certified Cicerone. Love Ghost’s The Scarlet Letter is a song of such haunting beauty it leaves you achingly mesmerized. Taken from their newly released debut LP Lobotomy, it sits like an emotional landmine between the controlled rage of opener Girl Pusher, and the punch in the face of Parasitical Identity. Based on Viola player Mya Greene’s own traumatic misdiagnoses of Autism as a child, and its far-reaching effects, the title refers to the nineteenth century practice of marking, or branding an individual (usually female), of their sins in order to single them out for judgement in the eyes of their peers. “…The lyrics to this song were inspired by a personal experience which I felt reflected a current trend and deserved social commentary. This experience was the degrading, devastating, and humiliating experience of receiving and living with a misdiagnosis of having autism while growing up…” The musical arrangement of The Scarlet Letter gives us insight into a state of mind which is reinforced by the lyric’s heartbreaking accuracy. The opening sounds of the viola and measured drumbeat are ominous and foreboding before the melancholic, almost dreamlike melody floats in. We are then carried hypnotically away by the soulful and questioning vocals of Finn Bell. It is powerful, it is breathtaking, and by the song’s end we are witnessing the musical shattering of a mind; a consciousness that, filled with frustration and no escape, implodes upon itself in anger and confusion. The Scarlet Letter is proof that not all is well in teenage America - that labeling people takes priority over addressing the real issues; the real people. Love Ghost’s musical maturity and their raw, articulated honesty goes to show why they are such an important band in today’s climate of denial. *** Love Ghost consists of Finn Bell (Vocals, keys, guitar), Mya Greene (Viola), Ryan Stevens (Bass) and Samson Young (Drums). The four-piece blend heavy rock, garage psych and moody pop for a unique fusion all their own. The music is influenced by the teenager’s personal experiences of addiction, mental illness, heartache, love and coming of age. The heavy alt rock band from Los Angeles, Love Ghost, were named to Music Connection's Hot 100 Unsigned Bands for 2017. The band has played in Tar Fest, The Our Life Festival, Make Music Pasadena and Echo Park Rising. They have been the opening act for such high profile bands as Smash Mouth, The Young Dubliners, Buckcherry, Berlin, Ozomatli and The Tubes. Their performance of "Forgive Me" on Balcony TV is currently the number 1 voted video of all-time. Keep up with Love Ghost via Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. Listen to The Scarlet Letter below
Andrew Velzian is a Scotsman currently living in Vietnam. He is sub prose editor at Under The Fable magazine and has poetry and short fiction published both online and in print.
7/9/2018 0 Comments Poetry By Sara Matson<thursday> she as elusory night // that unappreciated grey ligament rum splendid gently overdressed + judged with strict hyperbole (treasured obscenities of quivering ancestry + asteroid belts or ghost worship) she remained an unfulfilled moon pie sleeping on piles of black hoodies always bumming smokes <detox> unscrew reluctant fascination dependably overlong splashes measure forward – memory perspires beneath blankets sweat an abstract tomb /// she, a false emphasis on despair, conceded hair ribbons to the circus. against unceremonious destruction she // kept cooled bulbs in her breast pocket fingering thru glass anxieties until a grotesque distortion emerged a weary compromise of creamy indifference // maladjusted forefingers pluck pornographic appreciation of random animals / fucking / from raw pockets Sara Matson has her MA in Literature from Northeastern Illinois University. She shares her Chicago apartment with her amazing husband and their three young boys, who all happen to be cats. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in Poached Hare, Burning House Press, Occulum, Dream Pop Press, Snapdragon Journal, Waxing and Waning, her mother’s refrigerator, and elsewhere. Sara Matson self-published her first chapbook, corporeal sin in 2014, and her second chapbook, electric grandma is forthcoming in 2018. She tweets as @skeletorwrites. |
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