thewriterscaravan:

At some point I began swallowing
entire cave systems for the hell of it

Whole stretches of black cloth
flapped through my belly

I felt a dark planet
growing old in there

The people had flippers
and were made
entirely of cork

Someone started a fire
between a row of steel drums

Like some alien Berlin
there was really only one
suitable wall in me

It stood covered in shadows
from the strange procession
floating down mainstreet

I met the band leader in a bar once

A pale fish, wearing
my exact glasses and jeans

It told me it had traded its soul
many years ago
in order to play
perfect harp music

for that day it finally managed
to crawl back into heaven

kdecember:

Submit up to three poems for the second issue of Little River!

I am looking for art, photos, and illustrations, too. send me your work! x 

viperslang:

iii
sometimes we kiss as though our mouths were deboning the softest rabbits for a civet. hunger tastes like damp grass and juniper berries. your hands turn volar; a copperhead sidle by the lit match of a liquored fuse; we came too soon to the end of that forked bridge, its hinges folded into the laziness of a boa constrictor before the nudge of a prong. above, the faint venus hung as an amulet. something blistered formless in a heap of human bones collected as cues. lilac smoke rucked up against the chartreuse. 
we watched the breeze stomp its feet over that burial as it chew up the last marigold. we lay flat on our backs by an empty well’s palm dressing our bare backs in lichen the color of bread mold.
we fucked like we were erasing all echoes of past tense from our mutual grammar; discover me through my darkness as though you are an astronomer au fait and i am the hidden masterpiece: a constellation of scars scattering the geometry of this night.

from “Dulce Muerte”, Scherezade Siobhan©

(via viperslang)