(not quite) a literary journal


The moon, sinking, tangerine drip licking plumb drop, by Nicole Brissette

The moon, sinking, tangerine drip licking plumb drop spitting venom creation.
Bits of crusted sun sit on skin burning,
Liquid wood nibbling at my roots,
Grounded in the shine of peach juice.

Peeling back layers of electric geode

Expanding itself into all of the other,
Joining rind with rind in order to prop up the magnetic tide with its limbs,
Stretching wide open oceans of time and rust and limestone doors creaking open with the slightest effort of foot.

Flesh and water and wood and fruit.

The sensation of growth peering out of eye sockets sneering at the day,
Basking in the nights murky stone and
clay mountains shuffling beneath
The air waves boat docks make happen.
Whistling cloud cover burgeoning a windmill ambition and several sets of speedy rattling teeth will continue in their chatter.

Shadows continue in moving at an equal speed,
Indicative of some mass unseen but present,
Dancing like they know something we don't,
Sleeping with a secret solids cannot know,
Melting star seeds crinkle connected strings as seedlings sway tugging at their mother leaves.

There must be more to this
than a proud, patient blistering ball of yarn,
Tied to microscopic, concrete creative beads birthed in a work of invisible circuitry
Contrary to popular belief
Nobody wants or needs
any other God.

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