Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen

“ Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover and the poet Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold, That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow…

Soul Defect – Jamie Lynn Martin

I’ve often pictured myself as the girl born to hide in the shadows, overcast by all the stories marked with love. You see those are the ones who get to feel the light, their shine is pure, untainted. You see I’m broken, defected the moment my soul hit land. I’m meant for different things, my…

MOON ATE THE DARK CHALLENGE: INTERVALS IN SESSION – MB

the reason: the lighthouse built in 1874 and lit the same year stood like a resplendent bride against the blue and lavender aging father sky giving her away the edge was just there one four inch move and then the back story: i would gulp my chocolate milk shake with my little fat legs dangling…

MOON ATE THE DARK CHALLENGE: DEVON BROCK

When the moon ate the dark, I went hungry. Hungry – not for stars as dry old rice on a pan, on a counter, in a bowl, but for a blackstrap night – thick, sweet and bitter run on my tongue – on a pancake plain, forked through and wedged out In sections, forty odd…

The Black Naught: Episode Two

Episode One -2- Out of Orbit/Paradise I hate the day you were born. Because Dad’s absence crushes me, too. I haven’t forgotten his voice. Low, and warm like a dram of scotch whiskey, neat. When I was a kid, I would listen to his stories and lessons for hours and hours, and I’d never grow…

The Black Naught: Episode One

-1- Birds/Bleeding Hearts I remember lying down between cool cotton sheets at dusk, when the black naught in the corner of our once shared bedroom would yawn awake. I was always sent to bed early the night before the big trip to Tawas, even though I was old. I’d ignore the sentinel thing—it and I…

Sister’s Silent Psychiatrist

Sister’s soundbox/ only re/peats/ phrases she has taught herself,/ as if/ there is nothing more than./ My mouth/ is a question mark that/ hers can’t diction/ary,/ but those amber orbs I love/ open a dimension,/ meant;/ and I try to/ si/lent/ psychiatrist. © 2019 Kindra M. Austin

Moon Cactus

I dreamt of you, again. It’s been years, but in my sleep I recalled every feature of your fine pale face, and the guttural tone of your voice. I could smell you; I held my breath against the scent of menthol ciggies and gin and tonic sticking to your saliva.   I spent the night…