Emma Geller is a poet, singer, and actress from Boston, MA. Her passions include cinema, listening to Elliot Smith, and drinking too much coffee. You can find out more about Emma on Instagram at em_me_line.
There is no grief in language when you’re stricken, cast down, changes silhouette past silence pausing sullenly through the echoing corridors of my mind. Torn posters without poetry, without song, without love, face hopes and fears in the mirrors of pain; and his sex hangs unhidden, and his metal heart sweeps through abandoned philosophy as the curtain closes on the sensual train.
I want repetition of song, recollection in truth; to create from the oblique, denying the erotic, an obeisance to the power it steals from those of us who can’t find anything to live for, but everything to die for. Cast not your demons of treachery, tears, anger, and betrayal on me; the elevator is rising. There’s fumbled endorphins offered up as a cocktail with some really good whiskey and meth cocaine. Smell the lily and the rose,
let the bricks soften to deep greens, let God speak austere though vacant fields while you grow stillborn through drugs so sweet. Let the suicide take on its own craft and magic, as daylight comes and a stranger’s face brings forgiveness; blooming, blooming, in the scent of your sweet blood. Your rib is gone, son of Adam and He shall have her heart; lowered lids expand as they rise in total annihilation. Tick tock. White roses growing in the corner,
Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies, and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school, a psychic medium/reader, and advisor.
Carrie Magness Radna is an audiovisual cataloger at the New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves to travel. Her poems have previously appeared in The Oracular Tree, Mediterranean Poetry, Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetry Super Highway, Shot Glass Journal, Vita Brevis, Home Planet News, Cajun Mutt Press, Walt’s Corner, Polarity eMagazine, The Poetic Bond (VIII-X), Alien Buddha Press, Jerry Jazz Musician, Rye Whiskey Review and First Literary Review-East. Her poetry collections: Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press) was published in December 2019, and In the blue hour (Nirala Publications), was recently published in February 2021. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, she now lives with her husband in Manhattan, New York. https://carriemagnessradna.com
What the drugs do is render you hopeless then helpless till you spell nihilism and ennui backwards in your sleep. When your real thoughts come primal as beatings in high school or at home, where the drugs render you numb enough to stumble through the lost and preconceived until bloodied fists in a botched drug mugging go worse than sideways. Sirens swallowing your Fate while guilty and unclean you watch the ambulance cart your victim to hospital. The cop says get in the car, headed to lockup straight wishing you were high or could afford a good lawyer, but you’d buy your high first and save your life second. It’s what the drugs do.
From Lower Depths
Too many ways to drown with someone you can’t save.
Wearing as much sadness as any beautifully masked face.
While getting high in alleys with others who’ll fall as hard from the lower depths.
Yet with each unwrapping she still remained outside the box.
Her bordello smile welcoming me to lies I preferred to truth.
Until she stole from me precipitous amounts too often not to be for narcotics.
I left her to memory unable to forget all she wanted me to. I stay now in shadows dreams telling me I’m closer to finding a new lost cause.
Her loud carpenter, with hammer driving nails tells me the sex will be hot.
She takes her shirt off slower than most strippers do With the same junkie marks.
Pierced in more places than the slain matador’s bull before the dying red sun..
Her conversation excoriates ex-husband who stole her car.
For a meth fueled joyride ending in a crash without insurance or a driver’s license.
Her lips do their worst and me no good, as much as I like it.
No preliminaries like we’re used to avoiding.
She wipes black lipsticked lips with back of her hand.
After swallowing there’s enough truth between us for a false confession.
Count my twenties, like a pit boss, says “later baby.”
When she leaves I can only think later will be soon.
but there’s a lot of detail I don’t have though I guess I could ask them but they don’t know that I know what I know that they think I don’t yet know but that’s why they’re parents and not children but on the other hand they have parents, too, though all four are dead but that’s not my fault, I’m just ten years old –but I forgot my paternal grandma, she just acts like she’s dead, ha ha, and on our last visit to see her she told us that the doctors told her she was was dying of cancer and on the trip back home Father pulled over, he was weeping so much he couldn’t see. So mother drove.