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 May 2015 E
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
 May 2015 E
erica court
i'm really high
clutching a ****
between my legs
               and the threats
               come in all individual invitations
               can i feel you how are you erica
     do you feel me,
     do you bite
     are you hungry
           the hands of time slow
       and i feel like touching them
       until they grow petals and bloom
       but im not that fast          not         quick
                       enough for thirsting
               for the colors that a god has given me
                  and allowed me to see them differently
                  i cough and lean my head back on the wall
 May 2015 E
Sag
I asked you to read to me.
(I always ask them to read to me.)
(There's something about the way their fingers flip the pages
and their lips linger on certain letters
and their unique strategies of correcting themselves
when they stutter or mispronounce a word)
(Although your narration was smoother than the cliched flutter of a butterflies delicate wings.)
You agreed to be my raconteur
of the novel I let you borrow
and you painted pictures like no other,
of vivid skies and snowy German cities, all for me.
I couldn't recognize the medium you used at first.
I've seen watercolor landscapes and acrylic abstracts,
but you preferred oil portraits.
You knitted quilts of time passing train rides and hiding in basements.
Your voice was a foreign feel of fabric.
I once laid in satin, and then wool.
You were velvet.
Your head was in my lap while I braided your sheepish curls
and your fingers sheepishly traced patterns on my knee caps
and I could have fallen asleep right there,
easily, perhaps,
had I not been falling for the rise and fall of your breaths
in between cleverly placed asterisks,
chapter titles,
and clumsy kisses.
So tell me, what happens next?
I feel like this is a bit exaggerated/romanticized/cliche,
but hey, isn't all poetry?
No? No... Ok. Well... oh well.
 May 2015 E
Andrew Tinkham
Hard
 May 2015 E
Andrew Tinkham
It ain't easy...
Transponding...
Transfixing...
Trance...

What will those geese do when I see them again?
Will they still look at me as the tiger?
I sang to them.
What do they think I'm Leonard Cohen now,
Just because I sang Like a Bird?
What they should know is I ain't no tiger,
They're gonna have to go farther up the food chain.
I could **** a goose.
I could massacre their whole clan before lunchtime.
And now I just sit in my bedroom as the sun rises behind walls of thick cloud...
And they honk.
Maybe they're bored...
They ought to be calling reinforcements.
I would probably never hurt a goose.
Most likely not.
 May 2015 E
David Rosson
at one point i threw myself into a puddle of negligence and reveled in the sickingly delightful pleasures of self indulgence and cynicism

i knew no moderation and i knew no god, and without a hint of balance i nonchalantly stumbled across a tightrope that was threaded with desire and desperation

beyond the point of no return i realized the scars i bore were testaments of ******* that cried crimson tears of a faith long contorted

i needed a catalyst, and i fell from the tightrope in a similar way i fell from grace

all of the time i spent moving backwards sent the hands of the clock in a frenzy, and the last i remember they had moved backwards infinitely more than i ever could
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