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.
To Kiss the Granite Choir – A Textured Work of Fiction
Posted by Alysia Harris | Filed under Announcements
So, my mentor and friend and big brother Michael Ashley is an amazing short story writer and he has recently been published. I encourage everyone to read his story of a Mediterranean war culture that uses their voices as weapons. The prose is beautiful and borders on poetry. The story is called To Kiss the Granite Choir. So please check out the link. http://www.beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/story.php?s=59
Stomach It
Posted by Alysia Harris | Filed under Poetry, Print
Tear
me up
like a piece
of rawfucked flesh.
Between the teeth, I’ m
sweet. On plate just pity
Full. Isn’t that what love is?
Gravy you can sop with biscuits,
the punch drunk giddy, red, and empty,
a face once full of emotions licked clean.
