The Breakers
︎︎︎ Damon Hubbs
︎ Dec 18, 2024
The bartender is telling a story
about a party he worked
at The Breakers
that served rattlesnakes
in champagne flutes.
He says the Titanic's menu
went up for auction
111 years after the ship sank
and includes dishes
like tornadoes
of beef, mallard duck
and Victoria pudding.
Once, you
ironed my underwear
into tiny triangles
and said the word Wallonia
made your clitoris
tickle. That was before
you threw the plates
and I punched
a hole in the bathroom wall.
The bartender
has a sorrowful mouth
and an eyepatch.
He tells people
it was a gardening accident
or a shark attack
and that flies land
on limes with confessional
intensity. I agree
and the list
goes on and
on.
about a party he worked
at The Breakers
that served rattlesnakes
in champagne flutes.
He says the Titanic's menu
went up for auction
111 years after the ship sank
and includes dishes
like tornadoes
of beef, mallard duck
and Victoria pudding.
Once, you
ironed my underwear
into tiny triangles
and said the word Wallonia
made your clitoris
tickle. That was before
you threw the plates
and I punched
a hole in the bathroom wall.
The bartender
has a sorrowful mouth
and an eyepatch.
He tells people
it was a gardening accident
or a shark attack
and that flies land
on limes with confessional
intensity. I agree
and the list
goes on and
on.
Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. He's the author of three chapbooks and a full-length collection, Venus at the Arms Fair (Alien Buddha Press, 2024). Recent publications include Revolution John, Don't Submit!, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Horror Sleaze Trash, and The Gorko Gazette.
Also by Damon: Lulu in Biarritz
Also by Damon: Lulu in Biarritz
19 MURALS FOR MY BEDROOM WALL
︎︎︎ Charlie Zacks
︎ Dec 13, 2024
Mural of a microscopic image of my blood cells
Mural of me scraping my face off the sidewalk
Mural of the joke in your tone
Mural of the thing poets call a “nape”
Mural of your head
Mural of your head on my chest
Mural of your head on my chest watching me jack off
Mural of your head on my chest watching me jack off and I cum on your face
Mural of your head on my chest watching me jack off and I cum on your face and I can still feel your impression in my mattress
Mural of your head on my chest watching me jack off and I cum on your face and I can still feel your impression in my mattress and you don’t want to sleep over
Mural of your head on my chest and you’re leaving
Mural of your head on my chest and your body in the door frame
Mural of your head on my chest and you’re dressed by the time I’m out of the shower
Mural of your head on my chest and you’re on the last train home
Mural of the way I can’t remember your face
Mural of the photograph of your hickeys you told me to delete
Mural of the last time I saw you
Mural of you at the edge of the world
Mural of the edge of the world
Mural of me scraping my face off the sidewalk
Mural of the joke in your tone
Mural of the thing poets call a “nape”
Mural of your head
Mural of your head on my chest
Mural of your head on my chest watching me jack off
Mural of your head on my chest watching me jack off and I cum on your face
Mural of your head on my chest watching me jack off and I cum on your face and I can still feel your impression in my mattress
Mural of your head on my chest watching me jack off and I cum on your face and I can still feel your impression in my mattress and you don’t want to sleep over
Mural of your head on my chest and you’re leaving
Mural of your head on my chest and your body in the door frame
Mural of your head on my chest and you’re dressed by the time I’m out of the shower
Mural of your head on my chest and you’re on the last train home
Mural of the way I can’t remember your face
Mural of the photograph of your hickeys you told me to delete
Mural of the last time I saw you
Mural of you at the edge of the world
Mural of the edge of the world
Charlie Zacks is a writer, editor, etc. from Atlanta, Georgia. He lives and studies in Montreal where he runs Stimulant, an independent literary publication. He believes in all the right things and hates all the things you hate. 852002.xyz
mistakes
︎︎︎ Dizzy Turek
︎ Dec 12, 2024
I apologize to the spiders, eviction day
what do I want my life to seem like, they ask
trespassing, tearing off pink ribbons on oaks
I find my life to be difficult, I say that
convertible airplane with the drop-down top
we must eat bad fruit, says the spiders
got to do what you don’t know you shouldn’t have done
only way to take a comma the right way
off, they leave, like fabric in wind
what do I want my life to seem like, they ask
trespassing, tearing off pink ribbons on oaks
I find my life to be difficult, I say that
convertible airplane with the drop-down top
we must eat bad fruit, says the spiders
got to do what you don’t know you shouldn’t have done
only way to take a comma the right way
off, they leave, like fabric in wind
Dizzy Turek writes in Chicago but is originally from Ohio.
Lists so I can remember / Affirmations
︎︎︎ Annika Gavlak
︎ Dec 10, 2024
I’m jane birkin, I’m perfect. I’m made-up just for you
I’m easy, breezy, I’m having your baby, I’m two-hundred dollar shoes
I’m the lead singer of the opening band, I’m never jealous, never sad
I’m every book you’ve ever read, I’m dainty white powder from the tiniest bag.
I’m salty eggs and single serve coffee, I’m the canned goods aisle
I’m overfilled detergent for a small batch of laundry, I’m waiting all the while
I’m sharp red pieces of plastic, I’m mismatched dining chairs
I’m neatly folded t-shirts, I’m young men’s silver hairs
I’m the forever chemical in a McDonald’s breakfast, I’m birds on a church roof
I’m jello shots and four kinds of liquor, I’m the last baby tooth.
I’m peeling skin, I’m a tickling throat, I’m a mossy green
I’m a rolling stop, I’m a stiff cloud, I’m a tight class ring.
I’m letting my floors get dirty, I’m logging into your google drive
I’m open palms, I’m two months now, I’m learning what is mine
I’m overstaying my welcome, I’m open to new things
I’m sticking with old habits, I’m reeling when it stings
I’m posting and reading and watching and feeling, I’m waiting for friends to call,
I’m cooking and feeding and fucking and bleeding and I’m consuming it all.
I’m easy, breezy, I’m having your baby, I’m two-hundred dollar shoes
I’m the lead singer of the opening band, I’m never jealous, never sad
I’m every book you’ve ever read, I’m dainty white powder from the tiniest bag.
I’m salty eggs and single serve coffee, I’m the canned goods aisle
I’m overfilled detergent for a small batch of laundry, I’m waiting all the while
I’m sharp red pieces of plastic, I’m mismatched dining chairs
I’m neatly folded t-shirts, I’m young men’s silver hairs
I’m the forever chemical in a McDonald’s breakfast, I’m birds on a church roof
I’m jello shots and four kinds of liquor, I’m the last baby tooth.
I’m peeling skin, I’m a tickling throat, I’m a mossy green
I’m a rolling stop, I’m a stiff cloud, I’m a tight class ring.
I’m letting my floors get dirty, I’m logging into your google drive
I’m open palms, I’m two months now, I’m learning what is mine
I’m overstaying my welcome, I’m open to new things
I’m sticking with old habits, I’m reeling when it stings
I’m posting and reading and watching and feeling, I’m waiting for friends to call,
I’m cooking and feeding and fucking and bleeding and I’m consuming it all.
Annika Gavlak is a former America's Got Talent contestant and private school dropout from Los Angeles.
The Children’s Reverie
︎︎︎ Dan Darrah
︎ Dec 7, 2024
Teenage
carnies at the end of the summer
in fuck-off land psychologically
Amy and her armfuls of rumors
under oak trees old as parents
Jealous of the teachers’ husbands
Shooting fireworks at your cousins
I wanted to be him
Cut my hair in the hallway
Red-faced fathers in the rink’s bleachers
Our half-wet hair drying in December air
On the grad trip meeting punks from Vermont
Watch ghosthunting shows in a Best Western
I heard Dave’s dad lie on the diner phone
My coffee now resembles my father’s
In June classrooms hating Katie Leary
in who I saw myself so clearly
Taking the first bus home delirious
from all-nighting at your brother’s apartment
At a dying party where your hair covered the stain
and aren’t you glad you came?
Instant summer moon smile
Taking peculiar drugs watching Grind
Light poured through the keyhole
Making shapes on our faces Marcy and me
Dream of your DUI
Dream of your cul-de-sac
Crying Saturday tears
Consulting the I Ching
Hearing hymns through clerestory windows
walking to Wingstop
Trying barely
Failing inevitably
Three years of senior pranks involve farm animals
Numbered pigs and tipped cows
On a humid porch writing
and waiting for the band to show
On Highway 7 flanked by Thanksgiving hills
Gold apples Cranberry teeth
The kid on the bus who always hit his tambourine
later collapsed on the shopfloor
Amy in the army
Dave in law school chanting Hare Krishna
Dream of your gangly arms
Dream of your car’s golden exhaust
We were stranded on Lookout Hill
watching rivers cross making impossible plans
Whip around a thin, disgusting string of gum
Yack from a balcony
Observe circus-going boomers
losing their shit over planes doing aerial eights
Cut off the deadwood of the past,
that which can’t become a good story
Lose the irretrievable minutiae
Banisters railings salt-stained tires
We remember in brief flashes
through the people we hurt
When I sleep
I see you now as you were then
in fuck-off land psychologically
Amy and her armfuls of rumors
under oak trees old as parents
Jealous of the teachers’ husbands
Shooting fireworks at your cousins
I wanted to be him
Cut my hair in the hallway
Red-faced fathers in the rink’s bleachers
Our half-wet hair drying in December air
On the grad trip meeting punks from Vermont
Watch ghosthunting shows in a Best Western
I heard Dave’s dad lie on the diner phone
My coffee now resembles my father’s
In June classrooms hating Katie Leary
in who I saw myself so clearly
Taking the first bus home delirious
from all-nighting at your brother’s apartment
At a dying party where your hair covered the stain
and aren’t you glad you came?
Instant summer moon smile
Taking peculiar drugs watching Grind
Light poured through the keyhole
Making shapes on our faces Marcy and me
Dream of your DUI
Dream of your cul-de-sac
Crying Saturday tears
Consulting the I Ching
Hearing hymns through clerestory windows
walking to Wingstop
Trying barely
Failing inevitably
Three years of senior pranks involve farm animals
Numbered pigs and tipped cows
On a humid porch writing
and waiting for the band to show
On Highway 7 flanked by Thanksgiving hills
Gold apples Cranberry teeth
The kid on the bus who always hit his tambourine
later collapsed on the shopfloor
Amy in the army
Dave in law school chanting Hare Krishna
Dream of your gangly arms
Dream of your car’s golden exhaust
We were stranded on Lookout Hill
watching rivers cross making impossible plans
Whip around a thin, disgusting string of gum
Yack from a balcony
Observe circus-going boomers
losing their shit over planes doing aerial eights
Cut off the deadwood of the past,
that which can’t become a good story
Lose the irretrievable minutiae
Banisters railings salt-stained tires
We remember in brief flashes
through the people we hurt
When I sleep
I see you now as you were then
Dan Darrah is a poet, writer, and musician from Toronto, Canada. He is the author of two books of poetry, most recently Perennial Fields, published by Permanent Sleep Press.