Two Poems

by George Zamalea

The Eyestone
 

In a burning hell my shell
Broken free and with it 
The parade of gashed angels moving in step
By the edge of the enormous
Galaxies starting to sing:
 
          I'm the sexier one you hate, you fool!
          I'm the uglier one you kill at last, freaky seer!
          I'm the seamier one you need to feed, you pervert!
          I'm the freakier heart you kiss at last, you bimbo!
 
So under the obscure curvaceous paths,
Where I am unfinished like a beast,
I am everywhere I am the real explorer
And if you do not believe me,
Go! Go! Go! To the hottest valley
And find underneath any rocks
The virgin snake and squeeze her to death.
 
Could you feel the strange sensation of emptiness?
Could you feel the fenestration of my fingers?
Could you feel the decontamination of my pain? 
Could you feel the warm blood running heavily through your large fingernails and palms? 
          Can you like it? 
          Can you feel it?
          Do you believe me now that I am a dangerous animal?
          Do you?
 
          Well, welcome to hell, my dear!
          Welcome to the same ghostly hour, 
Because there are few men who like it
And who love it...
          Just a few of them, my dear hawk!
 
          Now you will see you are going to vanish
Into you the veins of the sweetness of this flesh 
Explosion of your mind, like a rebirth circle, alone against
The black wall of your desire, not the limitless 
Thoughts of being your haymaker and the final deliverer,
          It will make you see a hibernal angel;
          The plotter, you are strong and sick and unique;
And again, and again the sound of Evil rebounds freely:
 
          I'm the sexier one you hate, you fool!
          I'm the uglier one you kill at last, freaky seer!
          I'm the seamier one you need to feed, you pervert!
          I'm the freakier heart you kiss at last, you bimbo!

          Ha! Ha! Ha!
          And the sky closes in.
          Ha! Ha! Ha!

 

The Black Spell Magic

At the foot of the Wichita Mountains
Where wolves and coyotes and foxes
Grew fat from human fleshes and hearts

          A Savannah’s eye reproduced an enormous

Screen of tropical meadow; a face
Lit up like gold underneath a bright shadow

          Fascinated by the comical unborn sigh

 

          Or the affection of an equal line:

Iodine lips totally visible come to me
Dancing in multiple but unusual fingernails

          Beware!

          This isn't God I am talking about.

          It's the Mind.

          The Beauty of Being Humans!

          As they turned fastest without faces

          Less weight than a body with a throne of cloud

          Detesting the picture filled with Wonders

          Their hands then hoof along their bodies

And shake them with large tongue and cracked heads.

 

          I think they're ghosts or pieces of dead flesh

          Coming with it! But wait!  

          The finite winter emerged from the emptied holes

Of their faces, looking around, as I was asking:

          "Are you Isis's maiden goddess from Egypt?

          "We're the Black Cloud...!

          The Spell!"

          We are the mutation

          We are the salutation

          We are the dilatation.

          We are the sickened love as tooth-like projections!!!!!!

 

          What do they want? Or have they just arrived

From vacations to visit the tribe of Azteca:

          Non-human here nor yellow toque or white

Snake who wished to gallop beside me. I'll not allow it.

 

          "Oh, no," they said. "We're the possessive snake!

The underworld journey and the breathing Grief

          Eventually it will bind you!"

 

And when they kiss my lips (hundreds of them!) these inflaming lips

          Under the cold water of this fallen afternoon,

In a reverberating wave below my kindling tunic

          I saw the transparencies of the stone

I received all the embraced ashes as an absolute

Night shifting into memory...

          The racing Mind!

 

A memory for a day or so

          Filled with passion in its possession

By the rumble glitter tits

          Tits of Velvet ants

          Tits of my own shadows.

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Two Self-Portraits

by Daniella Michaels

portrait

 

 

feet

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Photography

by Caitlin Crowley

Edge


"The pen is mightier than the sword," — Edward Bulwer-Lytton

I re-examine the surrounding world with my photography: taking a second, closer look, to realize the texture of plant life or see previously unnoticed details for the first time, or the change in perception a strange angle creates. This leads me to photographing small objects in extreme macro, things old and forgotten, and the natural world. 

I chose to work in medium format film to achieve a very shallow depth of field. This allows me to print large with high detail. The use of bellows and macro tubes enhances the macro images and creates an even shallower depth of field. I process and shoot with standard roll film, polaroid film, and bulk film I re-spool myself. The technical aspects achievable through medium format film is why I chose it initially, the analog process behind it is what made me continue. 

My film never leaves my hands. Whether it is roll film I shot, developed, and printed in the darkroom; or polaroid film that was shot and manipulated to create a transfer, emulsion lift, or recovered negative. I have total control, which comes with the knowledge of where every modification came from. The digital revolution has automated time consuming tasks, aided problem solving by readily providing useful information, gives instant feedback, and makes things more cost efficient. But the ease of use can make it easy to work without thinking. Working in an analog process forces consideration and builds a vested interest in each image. Each image can represent hours or days of work, each has a story of the journey the film and I took. 

Caitlin Crowley is a film and darkroom photographer based out of Fort Wayne, Indiana. Her work has recently been published in F-Stop Magazine. In addition to photography, Caitlin enjoys painting, running, roller derby and cooking new foods.

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My Picture Book Days

by Robert Leeming


You lined up empty metal film canisters, like bullet casings, across the glass dresser top and filled each one with paper scraps ripped from your notebook covered with bits and pieces, patterns of thought, observations of endless fields through train windows, nothing special, nothing particularly revealing, just little written trinkets ready to be given away.

After each one was loaded you would pass a dozen to me and keep a dozen for yourself and we would duck below the wooden window ledge of our fourth floor room in the Bristol Hotel and toss the canisters out as gifts to the city. Christ Almighty people don’t half kick up a fuss when confronted with the milk of human kindness, consumed by the unruly nature of the presentation rather than the contents, hammering at the door, summoning porters and night porters who would flee their elevator homes throwing back the cage doors with a flourish calling for explanations and room keys.

You were all frowns and vapour in the wardrobe mirror as I threw you your overcoat and you threw me back an inflatable beach ball and you told me to let it down or leave it behind because we couldn’t move quickly with that and I decided to let it down.

In the street I slipped on our own canisters and you cursed me with one of those words you’d picked up while working the zeppelins in that brief period during the twenties when you could make an honest living checking tickets up there.

And I seemed to be recognised in the street, you weren’t, but I seemed to be, everyone seemed to be looking at me and I didn’t know why. Perhaps they recognised me from my television days? My radio days? My Kinetoscope days? My picture book days?

You waved your hands and gestured towards me to hurry up and I did and then I fell backwards and I slipped away again.

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Spirits

by Jeff Boyes

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