︎︎︎︎︎ Hieu Nguyen

︎ Sept 24, 2023

       copy       look up           extend          manipulate 
  freudenfreude           the cat        scan and
         his little scoundrel    raises        The
        hairs                    on my back.             okay
  so what  were drugging
    we skip class to do                  the more seductive work
  followed you   all the way            new haven
gingerly      not on the same platform
no we were        actually.    this private beach
     does not                 contain     sea fleas
    now again      the current strong is          very
savage image              screen     shotted
      that was insane.             wasnt it
          like literally woke up with          this last
    message         lol     youre my scapegoat I pull
      a black           feather out         from my             teeth,
the twins     explain to me          the game           of crabs
         yet skip rocks                  by the sound

Hieu Nguyen is a writer and student living in New York City. His work can be found in Silver Operation, The Citadel, Fruit Journal, The Drunken Canal, Emerge Journal, and The American Anthropological Association. Lana Del Rey used to follow him on Instagram until she deactivated her account forever.

Also by Hieu: Portion Control

Pre Sleep Nap

︎︎︎︎︎ Haydée Touitou

︎ Sept 21, 2023

Lie down on your living room floor.

Breathe to warm up the back of your neck, turning your own back into fire.
Breathe to make your stomach as big as an elephant.
Breathe to elongate your tongue.
Breathe so your knees can touch the ground and your thighs touch the ceiling.
Breathe so you don’t vomit your lungs.
Breathe for your eyeballs to reach the stratosphere.
Breathe turning your ears into shellfish and your nails into fakes.
Breathe to tangle your toes and open up your hair.
Breathe to water your mouth and your nipples while your elbows start to shake.
Breathe for your ankles to fly high.
And breathe for your snoozing butt.

Wake up before the sun goes down.

Haydée Touitou, author and translator, began experimenting with poetry in 2019, her work appearing in multiple publications. In March 2020, We Have Been Meaning To, a book of poetry by Haydée and photographs by Marie Déhé was published by Art Paper Editions. In the last couple of years, Haydée attended a series of residencies where she experimented with still life poems, resulting in two books, In Constant Hilarity published in 2021 with Thoughts Of Me Press and Still Life Poems / Poèmes Nature Morte which will be published in a bilingual edition with Pois.é in 2023.

Also by Haydée: I want to danse


︎︎︎︎︎ Conor Truax

︎ Sept 20, 2023

Seconds stare at us in threes: Two for you
and one for me. The crackhead is
sitting by the water. He is smoking.
Now, of course he is smoking crack.

He steals a smile like a limo;
a cop here swallows a donut
like the business end of a sleeping pill.
Addictions, convictions, conflictions of the

Times, sliced into threes. Spring now,
Things changing the way they do
Every season, seconds sweeping from black to white
And Stitching the streets together, into a sheet

That covers everything. This is a real
issue for us stains. Worse than seeing you
happy is seeing you sad. So I'm sorry,
lol. There is wine all over your chemise.

Eventually: please give up on
Language, its arrogance, its fictions,
There is no money in it anyway! Plus the
Summer is replete with possibility:

its saturation. We need a gaffer, this shot
is dark as fuck, a real problem in
streaming TV. Somehow porn is doing
OK? Their cinematographers? Just wow!

First AD, "Ass Munch of the Year":
My old friend from NYU. His fave first director:
Michael Cimino. His fave 1D: Zain, obviously.
He was also a virgin that couldn't

Read, which, sort of explains it,
The fact that he went from doing Sprite commercials
to Bukake Blowouts and then lost his mind.
Not in that order. Crack, heroin, you name it.

All in his ass. That said, super body. Somehow
has more hair than me? People pity him,
For what; being more honest Than all of us,
water travelling down a truss, under a greyhound

Bus going cross-country. An abortion in a blue state where
Mommy will reverse time, avoid a fine, technically a sign
Guilty of fiery hell! Which, no offense, I equate to New York
in August when it’s so damn white

Out that you can hardly breathe. Those days I go have a nice
Bite of ice and smoke a pipe with my friend. By water life
becomes One long movie with great lighting, and for a while,
all the uneven beats start to make perfect sense.

Conor Truax is a writer in New York.

Also by Conor: Working on my body

I’m Not Afraid Anymore to Call It Sex

︎︎︎︎︎ Nastasia Koulich

︎ Sept 19, 2023

The miracle of life came
From the great sacraments of your mother tongue
Merely dying and empty vessels filled
With the white light love
Equal to all messiahs
I will fill them too, as chalises do
Their mouth recovering under an opening sweep of a new day’s gold
We eat each other’s bread fervently, earnestly
Like bags of tea
In one another’s
No more am I self-sealing
I make their stomach blush
Elbows sweat
Fingers pop
Balance their skins
I waited for you in each person I saw

Nastasia Koulich was born and raised in Vegas and now lives in a 500 sqft box in the City of Angels. She's an actress (she’s really good) and an artist. Some things that inspire her are Eurotrash music, the Mojave, and the steppes of Russia.

Also by Nastasia: I’m 25 Miles Outside of LA


︎︎︎︎︎ Annabel Evitts

︎ Sept 18, 2023

O images developing like foetal spines,
Ectoplasm – coloured Alice blue
And seafoam, and jade -
Thrown up
Against the umbrous
The penumbrous circumstance of
Night and body
Is this my tremor
Or the world’s
Is this my eye or the needle’s
Needing to penetrate something

This sun limb
Is a minaret
Forgetful of its own worth
This cigarette is a dream
This dream is a bloodied
Bird’s wing in the snow
A minnow in the spoiled river water

Hashtag: am reading
Hashtag: corporeality
Hashtag: mess, feral, mourning, wormhole
Hashtag: grace
Hashtag: dawn
Hashtag: i have fallen

Doom mistress
Flowers stained like nicotine
Like book pages turning their
Faces away from the future
Grace is a word so often lost
Elusive, misremembered mistress
Undressing in solitude, in
Half-light, in June, in rings of fire

Grace is my flaming, suicidal kite
It says, come feed me to the night
It says, remove your lipstick, your perverted, lined eyes
Come feed me to the night and I’ll make the reparations.
I’ll be your violet, your blue horizon –
I’ll hover eternally like the memory
Of an explosion (a detonation)
I’ll hang like a question mark
Look, here is the imprint of my body
Look, here is
The sun
The sun
The sun

Annabel Evitts is a writer and poet living on Kaurna Land. She holds a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Adelaide.