He had black eyes and black pants and a black shirt. He tied her hands to the window and walked over the rope like a funambulist. “Without haste,” she said, lifting her belly.Read More >
Four Poems from Rebekah Morgan’s new poetry collection, Hotel Alexander (House of Vlad, 2019)Read More >
Collapse another year into novel.
You have become so mature and knowledgeable
Gabbling disjunctively about nutrition and diabetes
Mind muddled by emotional frustration.
Fold your body over it for several hours
You will feel closer to it, closer to your Self,
you dance. i don’t see it. “isn’t it so sad he died?” i asked my coworker, but i was accidentally smiling.Read More >
She preferred the difficult nubs half-buried under the first layer of skin cells. To prematurely coax out a fated ingrown hair. That was special to her.Read More >
She threw her Thomas Bernhard books at him,
it took eight or nine minutes.
even the slightest movement
like heating something
in the shared microwave
you were probably talking about how easy
it would have been to kill
some tiny enemy when
you were younger and smoking
the most beautiful cumshot
I ever saw
was under water
When I said I was an animal in bed
I meant a sloth