Murder
︎︎︎ Tim Frank
︎ Sept 30, 2026
Let me press my cheek
against the clean, angled glass
and inhale
the nature of defeat.
This is a queue
for a crime scene
in an air-conditioned room—
the monsters have arrived.
There’s a child in a pram
amused by the myth
and mystery of flesh.
He’ll never forget this day.
Let’s drape some vital organs
from our greasy skin,
then dance into the street.
In this murderous cathedral
pray
for your loved ones,
as they reach their sell-by date.
When they’re cast aside
under sheets of sickly plastic,
the lights will start to fade,
like rainbows in the sludge.
against the clean, angled glass
and inhale
the nature of defeat.
This is a queue
for a crime scene
in an air-conditioned room—
the monsters have arrived.
There’s a child in a pram
amused by the myth
and mystery of flesh.
He’ll never forget this day.
Let’s drape some vital organs
from our greasy skin,
then dance into the street.
In this murderous cathedral
pray
for your loved ones,
as they reach their sell-by date.
When they’re cast aside
under sheets of sickly plastic,
the lights will start to fade,
like rainbows in the sludge.
Fall 6038 Years Later
︎︎︎ Kelton Madden
︎ Sept 29, 2026
If you really like it, you can explain why well.
You want to and people got paid for how well.
We called them critics—it’s confusing in hindsight.
He, though, needs a few more scabs on him
On the cross. He needs them to get bigger, harden;
Bubbled and wine-like, like footballs spaced
Like pads over and let them sit. A decent amount
More before he can be decent—a natural
Leader, no pain can teach that. Compliments!
Criticism is different when you hate: less hymnal, more
“Art as just the flower from the dirt of hating your
Race,” or the decay of it. Anatomize, what's the difference.
These days I’ve been meeting folks straight out of
The neolax, 2748, black-whip melt-a-run telepill
Maupassant type. Just arrived to Paris, spilling water,
Uppers, “when I run for office” type. No language
Fetish there and they were wrong—“Say hi to logos-born!”
The “I” was a great victory. The “I” has started to stink.
“What we had that day was a GREAT defeat, but we
Want a great victory”— “I” popped a pill down sou— I —
Back when policemen smoked and smoked in their cars:
Didn’t matter if they were just black and white.
A quarter native, the beady spiritual superior eye;
Hyper-Intelligence. Extraterrestrial, not even
This system; insect. Stunted, feather hats, bring
Them back, leave it in, leave your hand loose.
You can ring my bell, “You”— maybe—just do it
And don’t make it messy says the dang beauty
In heaven: his daddy. Different strokes.
The critics mattered ‘cause they liked an Irish
Play and novel best of the whole hundred years.
Different folks. Maybe, someday far-futured with the
Neon over the bed reading “Fax, Fax, Fa—,” Then
We can laugh maybe, over now. Ecloguey, griddy.
Get hit, get off the way the platform—the way
The platform of a gun—the way the 1911 platform
Just plucked off the wall of a bedroom empty
Excepting it, two blades of different—, and one
Mattress neat for use, beige burgundy covers
Thin enough to be sheets and sheets.—
Back to the other bed, animal blood, organs in
The mouth at some point, on some getting-getting—
Pale body. Good. Red. Hea—. Candle, wick first.
We still can’t start with the sun—probably distilled
Then when we get to it. The I was a victory.
You want to and people got paid for how well.
We called them critics—it’s confusing in hindsight.
He, though, needs a few more scabs on him
On the cross. He needs them to get bigger, harden;
Bubbled and wine-like, like footballs spaced
Like pads over and let them sit. A decent amount
More before he can be decent—a natural
Leader, no pain can teach that. Compliments!
Criticism is different when you hate: less hymnal, more
“Art as just the flower from the dirt of hating your
Race,” or the decay of it. Anatomize, what's the difference.
These days I’ve been meeting folks straight out of
The neolax, 2748, black-whip melt-a-run telepill
Maupassant type. Just arrived to Paris, spilling water,
Uppers, “when I run for office” type. No language
Fetish there and they were wrong—“Say hi to logos-born!”
The “I” was a great victory. The “I” has started to stink.
“What we had that day was a GREAT defeat, but we
Want a great victory”— “I” popped a pill down sou— I —
Back when policemen smoked and smoked in their cars:
Didn’t matter if they were just black and white.
A quarter native, the beady spiritual superior eye;
Hyper-Intelligence. Extraterrestrial, not even
This system; insect. Stunted, feather hats, bring
Them back, leave it in, leave your hand loose.
You can ring my bell, “You”— maybe—just do it
And don’t make it messy says the dang beauty
In heaven: his daddy. Different strokes.
The critics mattered ‘cause they liked an Irish
Play and novel best of the whole hundred years.
Different folks. Maybe, someday far-futured with the
Neon over the bed reading “Fax, Fax, Fa—,” Then
We can laugh maybe, over now. Ecloguey, griddy.
Get hit, get off the way the platform—the way
The platform of a gun—the way the 1911 platform
Just plucked off the wall of a bedroom empty
Excepting it, two blades of different—, and one
Mattress neat for use, beige burgundy covers
Thin enough to be sheets and sheets.—
Back to the other bed, animal blood, organs in
The mouth at some point, on some getting-getting—
Pale body. Good. Red. Hea—. Candle, wick first.
We still can’t start with the sun—probably distilled
Then when we get to it. The I was a victory.
Kelton Madden is a technologist in the Mountain West.
Memento Mori
︎︎︎ Paul Franz
︎ Sept 27, 2026
We make tea from water that has stood
in the kettle all night, some metal
has leached out into it.
The whistle
rang to the roots of your teeth, I poured
boil through seethe of mulch.
Should bone from flesh unsheathe,
should calcium leach
out into soil,
earth flows with milk.
in the kettle all night, some metal
has leached out into it.
The whistle
rang to the roots of your teeth, I poured
boil through seethe of mulch.
Should bone from flesh unsheathe,
should calcium leach
out into soil,
earth flows with milk.
GALILEE
︎︎︎ Cole Henry Forster
︎ Sept 26, 2026
Just when you decide there’s nothing left,
I decide there’s something more.
And I’m begging you to pull over
so we can fill the car with confetti
out on the road to Bethany.
And on the radio they’re chanting
“all men will be sailors”
by that songman who was much broken,
laid up, waiting for his stitches to close
at the hospital.
I decide there’s something more.
And I’m begging you to pull over
so we can fill the car with confetti
out on the road to Bethany.
And on the radio they’re chanting
“all men will be sailors”
by that songman who was much broken,
laid up, waiting for his stitches to close
at the hospital.
Cole Henry Forster is a poet living in Ottawa. His forthcoming collection Marble Afternoons will be published in 2027 by Prickly Exports in Montreal.
Also by Cole: The Adoration
Leonard Cohen Slave Sonnets at the Zinc Bar of Café Luxembourg
︎︎︎ Vladislav Davidzon
︎ Sept 24, 2026
For Z—
I.
Etiquette is my disgorged desire
cadence of my filth
social mores
contravene contempt
The bar tonight?
you can watch me drink—
No notion yet
how to exalt
your splendor...
II.
Should you share my bed tonight
I’ll anoint your grace—
pay
for your next adjustment—
you’ll finally
have
the perfect rack.
I.
Etiquette is my disgorged desire
cadence of my filth
social mores
contravene contempt
The bar tonight?
you can watch me drink—
No notion yet
how to exalt
your splendor...
II.
Should you share my bed tonight
I’ll anoint your grace—
pay
for your next adjustment—
you’ll finally
have
the perfect rack.
Vladislav Davidzon is a Ukrainian-American artist, writer, and war correspondent.
Also by Vlad: Advice proffered to a Polish Marxist Jewish Count on the steps of the House of Lords