Chris CC The Taste of Men little do I know of aging and fragility - it's not the twiglike bones creaking with fortysomething, which bother me it's the taste of men in my mouth from my twenties and thirties (but not like it sounds) - the feel of my head in a vice and a squeeze so implied the esophagus pops out, like a glass eye - until I slip and drown in a cocaine hottub; I wake and I am naked. The party has ended - some say glass tastes of nothing - but I say it must - if it's made of sand - grit n grains in everything I eat; I drink - ginger ale grinds new gizzard meat glitterati, we gettin' scissored was my boytoy beat and the slivers came and went made jagged scars - the ones I now curate never leave the egg salad; salt and peppered like my hair now - tupperware like an isolation cage - mustard & mayo; wrinkle cream... support hose there was even fiberglass in the Marlboro Lights - and the taste of those is still... ruby blood upon my mouth, forceful sex within my throat - and I flick back and forth this many-layered tongue - a film of slime for every man I loved, with soap and washcloth in hand; a toothbrush works between the lips - every woman I meet nowadays learns how to clean her mouth up. I Don't Wanna Ask, But Can You Hold Me While I Fall To Pieces when am i not crumble dome all things blue gathered around you my mask of sorrow my lullaby scar lay me out like night watching the terrible wheel spin slowly out of control quiet edge of town my face is so small compared to the down swell river and Donny says death is easy it all depends how badly you want it folds of your dress it's not selfish to want to be loved it's just naive might i disappear and no one notice might i love you broken into as i am no one takes you as you really are let alone could be off in the blue distance a woman screams and it won't end well I'm just trying not to notice how completely destroyed we all are in the end and in the beginning. Mother is a Giant Maple I cracked tonight Fell into black hands Not just a crumble Annihilation brand I am not the calm So little blue liquid Rinses me - it's red Red like my eyes Recessed, wrinkled Scowling at little children Shredded cape, fettered Heart caving The one thing Consistent is how I fall apart and that would be fine If it hurt no one Fall off a dock drown Save the taxpayers Poison myself Tantrum jump at bridge Who who who cares No one gives a shit But when I timber I crush The limbs of smaller saplings Underfoot, deformity as their Twigs snap away, like a zap Of mean light split in two They must survive the rest Of their lives like this. Funny, how they hold up The felled trunk of me Even as they succumb From my smothering - From the immense weight Crushing them. Was It Ever Really Worth The Climb that moment when a bird can no longer fly is there a tiny pulse that ricochets in her feathered heart and does she have words for that sweet little starling all bruised/used up I'd pin it to my skin little blur of... I don't know what to call it- that part that won't fit we are not one of those beautiful things they write about. Bio: Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature from Vermont doing her best to make the world a little bit better with her words. She is an advocate for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain - especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. She has work published and forthcoming at Occulum, Former Cactus, Moonchild Magazine, Hedgehog Poetry and Ginger Collect. Her column Arsenic Hour is live at TERSE. Journal. @ehoranpoet [email protected] Bio: James Diaz is a writer and editor living in upstate New York. He is the author of This Someone I Call Stranger. His work has appeared most recently in Occulum, Philosophical Idiot, and Midnight Lane Boutique. He occasionally tweets @diaz_james and wrestles with his thoughts at jamesdiazsite.wordpress.com/.
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