I lost myself in the music—I often did, just like when my guitar strap fell off while in the middle of a song we were playing once. I didn’t stop a beat as I got down on my knees to keep playing.
How fucked is that? She mused in her dreamscape.
Oktavia noticed the discomfort and cupped Mischa’s chin. “It is dead, darling. What is there to fear?”
She looked again at Oktavia. “So many things.”
pray to your artificial god,
my mania sulks
There, the shores of lonely remembrance see as to I have brought
On the stirring abandoned rivers that are breathless through the shriveled drops of blood,
And it is glinted from the wounding sun upon my pale skin that flutters upon the shallow surf,
And I, oh, I will be beside the sunsets and shadows that waned through the pretty moans,
Gemmed with tears that will roll as the grappling sea that lays with a reflection of rattled and splintering waves that will curl upon the quiet stones;
Shall forever be well,
Like Julian said
in her bedroom on the thorns/
My poem, “Memories, Never Mine” has been published in Edge of Humanity Magazine. My utmost thanks and gratitude to the editor Joelcy Kay for accepting my work.
“You’re the first of your kind—”
I’m very excited to announce that my poem, “My child”, has been published at MasticadoresUSA.
She could barely remember the former king, but she knew enough modern history that the colonies dispersed before killing each other in a series of small wars. It was knowledge that felt natural to her. She was in enough battles, recalling in distant psychological experience, to warrant the existential solipsistic dread that when she held the sword, she was the only one that mattered in anyone’s eyes.
Including her father’s.
I pull her free into the garden
my death resigned
in her bedroom; a pharaoh’s whip on my heart, laughing
I shun the cull of your words
I stand at refraction/rejection.
and I laugh at death
till I hear it laughing too
said Ghengis Khan to all his sons hold ye well
to this protestation – ‘surrender or you die’
Climbs high stairs.
I see the dead potatoes
of our graves. Gulping in your absence,
there is no agony or languor
beneath the worlds in darker glory to refract
from my mind, but of the word it is not mine
“Mischa, have I done something to upset you?”
Oktavia’s terrifying presence made her flit for the knife, before dropping it back down on the cutting board. “What?”
“There is some… type of vomit on the vegetable cutting board.”
“What are you—No, no, I just chopped up the carrots—over and over again.”
New and Selected Poems is a self-published poetry book by Dominic Alapat. Spread through three previous ebooks, this poetry collections contains 113 poems, both old and new, encompassing mental health, nature, and a mystical element that grabs at you in the simplicity and beauty of moving figurative language.