Submissions.

An open letter to the muse.


Cringe-worthy,
That's how you describe my work
and you're so right, little one.
I explode across your sky
You reduce me to a wet firecracker
and I walk away, shamed.
You stab me with your pen, repeatedly
I bleed only idiot prose.

- Scott Ayan




Hurry!


Hand in the hell pot again
the other reconstructed on a moving chest
warm to the touch but bloodless
scurrying off to build lies, lies
you don't seem to mind
so I go deeper
force the shadow from under the mattress
push my fingers in the dark corners of the dresser drawers
find the hot notes of our first month
and press them to my naked heart.

I spread them out on the bed and you ask who they're from.

I sacrifice strands of my hair
light fat red candles
cover the floor in open books that you step over.
I follow you to the threshold
in the nightgown once ripped from me
that I've since sewn with dark thread
so I can trace it's scar, so it can be torn again.
My mind circles with lust
and I remind you the moon is almost full
and that the air is clean and bright and
that I want to fuck you on the neighbor's lawn.
You frown and force laughter
not knowing that I'm serious.
That I'm not asking- I'm telling.

- anonymous



Fiona and Elvis

This is alarmingly sexy, powerful, emotional and just straight up beautiful. A tremendous cover. I'm issuing a preemptive defense of this woman to any Fiona-haters out there. She is a hugely talented musician, song-writer, pianist, and delicious vocalist. Let's forgive her days of crawling around like an anorexic slut in that one music video. She was like friggin' 19 years old and pressured. Oh, and Elvis? He's the man, of course.