Guest Writer: D.B. Devilliers “The Only Good Poet is a Dead One, and I am Not That”

1960s-fashion
yes hello it's a pleasure I'd say except
look where we are
and how the fuck did I get here
guess that speaks to the reason why I
am here
you too huh
same old story why tell it
differs largely just in names dates other such
uninteresting particulars it's
an impact and oh yeah oh fuck yeah it's
happening here we go it's another
ethanol-fueled escapade a jet ride to
oblivion hard landing read: a crash
see you don't get to survive when you
strike at five hundred and thirty five
miles per hour so bail bail bail
before the hard stop before the zero
what's the co-pay on a parachute
a question I didn't ask when I saw the
ground racing up at me
oh shit I went and did it again
no more job no more girl just this
bottle and me
fickle companions we are
and onward goes the story
excruciatingly boring if I'm being honest
each chapter same as the last
copy paste change the date
do it again
do it again
what a waste it feels
to spend more words
on this

well then why not say goodbye
fond farewell to all the good times
the not good ones too
the printed labels promising proof
but none to be found there
or anywhere else for that matter
just pain
but the words
fuck the words
if this all means they'll never
come like that again then
I hope they never do
they'd be a small small price to pay
for so much.

D.B. Devilliers

About

Vitesse – Shreya Vikram

i run 3

A litany, a promise, a prayer.
Run.
I run so fast, I will tear out of this sordid flesh, out of gilded skin and ivory bone.
I see myself: I am hollow, a pit of red.
I am the colour of blood, the colour of rage. The colour of flesh, the colour of shame.
I am shackled, by these strands of vein. They coil around me, tighter, tighter, I cannot breathe.
I see the cage, clearer than ever, this prison of flesh.
I see this promise, I hear its oath.
Run, it whispers. If you run fast enough, you’ll break free.
And so, I do.

#

I run on fear, I run on fire.
I run for pain, the excruciating burn of desire. I burn for the exquisite absence of thought.
I run so fast, I leave behind my self, I will rust away until there is nothing left of me. Out of breath, out of life.
I want to lose myself, in the purest sense of the phrase, I want to forget, to be misplaced. I want to leave behind this life.
Bone to dust; blood can rust.

#

I see the cage, clearer than ever, this prison of red.
I hear these voices, I trust in their message.
Run , they whisperIf you run fast enough, you’ll break free.
I know I can.
I know I can.


Shreya Vikram is a writer who prides herself on her ability to blur the lines between poetry and prose, intensity and elegance. You can read more of her work at The Midnight Ember.

The Night Before – Salvador Macias

We finally slept a little after the sun rose
It’s reminder of our mortality
Rearing it’s face through the cracks of
Blue and red curtains
Five hours later
We awoke bracing our selves for the ugliness of the day to begin
As slugs and roaches danced below our bed
We lurched dry mouths
and hangover sickness
To a baptism of soap and heat
We stood together
Motionless
Her head against the white tile
Of the shower wall
She kept her eyes closed
As she combed through my wet hair
Scrubbed my back and chest
And I ran my hand across her breast
To keep balance
Washed away was the
Musk of sex
The stink of cigarettes,
Of whiskey specials
And the nonsense of the night before
As we dried ourselves
She asked if I had meant
What I said in the parking lot
After last call
Though I couldn’t recall
What we talked about
I sensed it had
awakened something
Long dormant
Within her
I smiled looking directly into
Her eyes
And replied
” every word baby ”