Drive
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
Sometimes,
I get lost in you
for days at a time,
following the dusty maps
in your rusty abdomen.
And sometimes,
I find you thumbs up,
hitchhiking
around the daydreams
I keep tucked
in the naked nook of my right arm.
There is dirt on our faces
and weeping pennies in our pockets
but we are
happy?
Tell me there is something
between us.
A difference, perhaps.
That makes us,
wandering city-drenched lovers,
distinguishable
from those
who know the way.
Or that maybe
the polluted mile-markers
stabbed into the backs
of the grass that hug gravel roads
will one day
take me somewhere familiar
and that you
will be with me.
I wonder
where we’re going.
New York New York, That Wide Penetrable
Posted by Alysia Harris | Filed under Poetry, Print
Few things are more beautiful than watching the city
open up before you- a constructed
pearl in oyster dark.
It does not snake, like most cities
thickening
and thinning, emboldened by a sudden dip/ sink in the landscape
Gotham asserts its trauma on the skyline. Unapologetic
a child striking an immense and wonderous piñata till it caves.
This weekend, we thumped to electro pop, spiked the sprite
and gorged fast food in fast cabs driven by taxi drivers
with laughing black tongues.
To be young and scale 4 flights of stairs older than our mother’s mothers
press wildly into the arms of expensive sheets,
rest in the thought of my thighs.
We strolled in the finest of November light,
admired street artists
and purchased foreign fruits in the markets of Chinatown.
We were underdressed amongst her groupies and
thus remained uncompromised;
holding hands as the hours fanned into color panels and sound.
Then we went home, claiming the itis, to the same sheets
as the night before.
Writhed for awhile. Did not struggle with our honest bodies.
Watched porn with subtitles and felt cosmopolitan.
I claimed I was disturbed.
Secretly, I was wet.
What is it about this city
that turns us all into such eager sluts
such willing experiments.
MEN
Posted by Alysia Harris | Filed under Poetry, Print
There are female
photographers
taking pictures of
geniuses. I don’t know
why,
we’ve all seen
dicks before.
untitled
Posted by Aysha El Shamayleh | Filed under Poetry, Print
One day
I was sidewalk cracks,
Pick pocketing midnight freaks with drunken feet.
These men danced with the rain,
She was nickel of theirs that got stuck between my teeth.
Weird…
I never prayed for a man to leap over me,
Every once in a while,
I like dare myself to feel what it means
to be down-to-earth enough to get stepped on.
Whatever shine a nickel can have
I have downed in one gulp.
Whichever moon I craved
She has grabbed by its hair
And stapled on.
I think I’ve come to know her,
Better than I know myself.
I know
She is a revolutionary.
She wears her past on the dark side of her face
She has beheaded many men.
But made sure she stayed long enough to own their tales.
She has too much Venus specks.
She complains of stomach burns
Too much heat…
The supernova in her blood,
Kept her on the run
Until she got into the habit of stepping out of her footprints
Just for the sake of it.
Today,
I am high.
I live like crescents.
I stay away from falling out of grace
by biting on to the sky, and holding on..
I gurgle whatever darkness is out
Open my mouth just to taste its magnificence.
I’ve tried swallowing the heavens in breaths before
But last night I choked on stardust
in the static moment
following… “I love you”
I waited for the aftertaste of everything
…it wont come to me.
I might sound awkward
But some days…
Even when its undeserved
all anyone needs to be to someone
is something worth looking up to.
