Reading poetry to lions

Reading poetry to lions

We need to read poetry to lions. We need to convince ourselves our creativity can change the world. Everyone does at least a little bit of that.

Anarchism is taking responsibility for who you are and what you believe in.

Your actions and memories are the composition of who you are.

Who you are is the constant aspects of you no matter the environment.

Spirituality is composed of your memories.

To…

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Shooting the cats on your tablet

Shooting the cats on your tablet

I Can’t Smash My Computer

or

don’t go train hopping with a tablet. you’ll get shanked

Spent years of work humping Google
Years writing shit and okay shit
Compiling manuscripts, sending submissions
Optimizing my blog
Publishing zines and anthologies
Promoting submission calls
Responding to tweets
Coordinating cross promotions
Hunting designers who’d work for free because I’m horrible at making your…

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Lick me

These are my personal voices
any may use them.

These are my personal songs
any may sing them.

Let’s get lost in the 100 acre wood

Make love without touching each other
touching ourselves in front of each other

feeling like pre-mature ejaculation
then shoving your tongue inside her because you don’t want to leave her unsatisfied.

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Collaboration piece

We drive sun strained roads
watching Colorado rain wet open fields.

A beaten conversion van waiting to die
collaborates with Time for poems I’ll never write.

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"My God could kill yours."

the Eucharist 
by Katie Hogan a priest with greasy fingers
shoving french fries
through his chapped lips,
smiling through his rotting teeth.

this is the body of christ.

and he laughs with his mouth
full, remnants of swept up
potatoes glued to his cheeks,
as his white collar grows tighter.

let us rejoice and give thanks.

he grabs his soda, lips eagerly
kissing the rim, chugging down
the ounces of…

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Busted up ears

Punching my skull because I couldn’t draw blood with a knife
The woman sleeping next to me wakes up
I freeze
She falls back a sleep
I aim for teeth
loosen the metaphor with something tangible
grab the horny by the dick
and twist
stab a needle in each goose bump
blood laden pimples
leak along arms
I can’t fucking write anymore I can’t fucking write anymore I’m whipping out my skeleton so I can…

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Emails from the Stream

essay & poem by Bradley Coy

“Hey man! Thanks a lot for your help. Here’s a little essay type thing I wrote about the millennials and our context in the current world.
We are a little whimper.

Irrelevant in a haze of mediocrity. There is no more cultural or generational cohesion. We have been splintered and splintered and splintered into tinier bits and pieces and niches and obscure subcultures to…

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When I grow up

When I grow up

When I grow up I want to be a poem
When I grow up I want to be a student
When I grow up I want to a teacher
When I grow up I want to be a river
When I grow up I want to be dead
When I grow up I’ll be growing
When I grow up I want to be graffiti
When I grow up I want to be a Naked Lunchable
When I grow up I want to be a new language
When I grow up I want to eat stop signs with my cereal
When I grow…

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Pomegranates are petrified blood oranges

Florida Winters
by Jesse Stewart 

Juicy orange groves flood
as oceans crawl from the skies-
in a somber sheet.

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Your goosebumps are New York City of wind and fire

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Tempests
by Ben Riddle

The wind whispers worthless words;
each biting as the cold of dusk,
piercing my ideas of self.

My eyes glaze, and I remember
other cold and worthless nights;
some familial, others intimate – all lonely.

I recall the reckless abandon
with which I chased storms
and winds and validation -

A perpetual quest for something inside,
for what gives me breath, and why;
why do the…

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Creative brain juices of youth are worth fighting to maintain through age

Belgrade
by Zeena El Gindi,

Big clouds grey skies,
annoying flies.
These are no lies.

Bakery store on your right,
A tram roaming all night.
Named after a color of white,
Filled with might,

The roads sometimes tight.
Blegrade the white city,
is cute just like a kitty.

___

Zeena El Gindi is a grade seven student and lives in Dubai. Her poem “Sudan’ about her first visit to her father’s homeland been…

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The Agony of the Artist (with a Capital A)

from e.e. cummings, The Agony of the Artist (with a Capital A). Vanity Fair. 2 (April 1927): 68 & 98.

The Agony of the Artist (with a Capital A)

from e.e. cummings, The Agony of the Artist (with a Capital A). Vanity Fair. 2 (April 1927): 68 & 98.

This was posted 1 week ago. It has 2 notes. .

Why riot?

I don’t want to bow down to my personality.

Shooting birds before they grow wings

“Why riot?”

The Ferguson challenge is composed of mace and tear gas
Viewers will be able to share your heart felt pain and misery

Love poems sent in Facebook messages go seen and un responded to

The People’ skulls are fished by immortality, an angler of mutation
front porches and lawn chairs compose enemies that…

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Busking on the side of the road in Denver, I received more marijuana donations than food / change

Busking on the side of the road in Denver, I received more marijuana donations than food / change

Sidewalk Treasure
by Sasha Kasoff

I don’t want you to walk down sober lane alone
Over the yellow flower bridge
With clouds reflecting in the sidewalk
Seeping into me
My feet are getting wet from the holes in my shoes
I wish I could have that lady’s three pennies
How nice to be able to walk away
While poor students
Find joy in rain-soaked coins
Pocketed from the road

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Childhood is dead. It’s time to move on.

Childhood is dead. It’s time to move on.

Childhood
by Brian Huntress

The high beams showed down the street
And blinded passing drivers
The brains in the passenger seat spit pretentious words
I could hear them
But i did not listen
A rolled cigarette
And gas station coffee
curled in my stomach
My childhood died today
I woke up at two
And grew up by nightfall
The car stopped and i scraped the brain out of my car with a goodbye
And left it…

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