Promises tugged.
Skin awaiting to be sawed.
Free from the loose strangle of wandering.
Lonely, bellyrubbed, kissed
like Christ on rosary.
Each new Moon a stoning.
An oxymoronous gorge of tangles.
Oxidization of cerulean incense.
All altars melt in rapture
as feathers fall from the sun,
angry, nuzzled, blessed.
Descending from dawn
their fruits pendulant,
unfurled, throbbing,
a quartet of heads ordered in cardinal seductions,
four beasts brass engraved
with affinity for the forlorn violets your body
threading their maws,
sequestering adipose duvet.
Asphyxiating, the longing,
laying underneath sunlight in bare want,
ready for the taking.
Two hundred oculi
bestow the body in phantasmagoric lathe
erroneous & holy, holy, holy.
Oculi gyre across the body,
shoulders spin for the next head be tasted,
holding a lover over a belly full with seven breasts,
flaming, their swords
divinely procrastinate.
WYRD LEA was born of the bayou, cesspit squirming carcinogens and moss glint. They were a she, daughter, sister, plaything. They were, before all these things, a seed from an orchard of bad ass bitches. Now, they write. Follow their fundraising efforts to save a queer, disabled danmei author from incarceration they cannot survive due to severity of disabilities and updates on the anti-queer crackdown in China at @savedanmeiauthors.
I land in Boston early, hit the interstate in my rental car while it’s still dark. I cross the Piscataqua bridge into Maine as the sun comes up, thinking one of these days I should hike up
species: human
last seen: believing ownership was another word for love
distinguishing marks: pockets full of plastic weather
Unaltered photo by Sushanta Rokka A dusty Patria Pasi XA-180 painted in green camo trundles down the rain-slicked sidewalks of Boston. A few people glance at it, then look away. They do not see the Patria Pasi
Photo by Vince Gx I’m at the checkout of a local shop, sorting through my wallet, when the cashier says it. You have a muscle problem.” This isn’t a question, but a firm statement. I look up,
Welcome to Canopy Literary Review. This journal came about after a yearlong search for publications of its kind that turned up few results. Pride sections of bookstores are well stocked with material on the fight for trans
The foremost question about assholes: were they born that way, or raised like that? Do they result from nature or nurture?