la grande jeunesse

Written by Ari Chattoo
Art by Georges Seurat

---

youth used to taste like nectar.
like taffy between the molars,
caramel melted down the sulcus of the tongue.
a syrupy sweetness swallowed and sipped in luxury.
youth used to taste like time.
a wealth of moments.
so much time that mornings and midnights
could be indistinguishable.
life, a film of cerebral projection.
an ouroboros of end and beginning.
alas, youth has become bitter
a requiem for the dreams gone dry.
the brittle flavor of hope sits uncomfortably on the palette,
broken and crumbed,
and with each choking gulp that the body tolerates,
time withers.
much like youth,
both expired and spoiled.

legendary

Written by Christopher Tang
Art by Christopher Tang

---

they call it job hunting as if we are the ones
sharpening spears, sniffing muddied leaves

that lead to the chipped-tooth opening of a
blood-stained, media conglomerate cave

they call it a hit when you have its entrails
smoked out on a damp campfire still

twitching and dancing, telling folk tales of
another time when paint once scented these

walls. the wind whips into shape some
distant life, one that was LEGENDARY.

i painted here. i wrote. i was not crushed
or hunted by this well-suited man with

a spear and all his phone calls. i actually
loved here, in roots and twigs, cooking

with my lover and her parents. these
office walls are white, but let’s not trade

colour for safety. the wild is painted by
God himself. can you smell the air?

The Face of Something Small

Written by Christopher Tang
Art by Christopher Tang

---

To the rat that scuttles past
my shoes on their way to the shops
please don’t be afraid
Peeking from the
thorny twig-line
pebble in your mouth
Sweet teabag eyes
curious air
This is the fourth time
you have escaped me
fled your own crime scene
no longer so little
no longer so grim
please don’t be afraid
I don’t want to hurt you
too precious now
you won’t die today
I’m no longer
afraid

bones

Written by Finnialla
Art by ArtHouse Studio

---

when scientists find my bones in the ground
i hope they understand the experiences that made me myself
display me for other people to see
in a history museum, behind glass
with the other humans they found near me

a line goes out the door
everyone clamors to get a shot
peek at my crooked teeth, the left canine chipped slightly
healed nose from falling off my bike
and they say

this was someone who loved
and someone who lost
they were born and they died
but in between,
they truly lived

so that in this life, if i’m not remembered
i’ll be immortalized with the idea of being human
and remind someone that we’re all the same

the crime of being alive
is something we all go through together
just separated by time
Because the world decided
we’re all the same somehow
Just bones under muscle and skin
and the memories that
make us human

artemis

Written by Ari Chattoo
Art by wpaczocha

---

artemis meets orion
on the cycle’s clearest night.
starless, cloudless, moonbright.
she sees him coming,
stalks his footfalls and brawny shadowcast with a firm gaze.
but she isn’t thinking about it.
one never truly is.
she’s thinking about the deep frigid ocean,
the warmth of fresh blood between her toes,
her probability of being awake enough to watch the next sunrise.
she’s thinking about her next hunt and if her hounds are hungry,
if her brother has overslept again.
when it happens she forgets herself,
there is no royal limerence or divine intervention that can save her.
it happens.
she stills and waits and endures,
and finally when day breaks,
she notches an arrow,
none more extraordinary as any of the others,
and slays him,
the way one might put down a dog.
artemis leaves orion,
dead,
on the sunniest morning of the cycle.

Sewn

Written by Sarah Ogden
Art by Pixabay

---

When your face
turns forlorn,
your sorrow feeds
through my head,
tears perspiring
as sweat
on my flesh.

Your honest gaze
melts my pupils
and blends them
with your own,
a soft,
gentle tone
among
opaque marbles.

I pick
unflinchingly
at raw tissue
once too numb to feel,
now too engrained to peel
from yours
woven firmly
deep under my skin.

Stranger

Written by Gabriella Troy
Art by Wallace Chuck

---

I’m staring at you
across the lines at the cash register because I swear
I know you.

You aren’t particularly stunning–
your limbs drown in baggy cotton
and a smidge of mustard coats your chin,
but you’re at the grocery store anyway
picking up sliced bread and avocados
and I think that’s more beautiful
than the glamorous models side-eyeing me
from the shelf of magazines.

You don’t speak to the cashier
but I imagine your voice is fluid and
deep, like a river coasting over rocks
and settling down at my feet,
where I dropped a bag of apples
meant for the conveyor belt.

The line behind me extends like a whip
and my cashier’s eyes are blue daggers
but I wouldn’t know because I’m busy
chasing the scatters of my brain
and watching you carry your groceries to the door
unbagged.

Who are you, to be so effortless?
I trip over the last apple
and I hear a hundred sighs
like the soul leaving my body–
Who am I?

I leave my head on the floor
as customers step around me to join other lines
and keep watching you through the window
as you walk slowly to your car.

The sun hits your face
and you’re not smiling
but you’re fine
with the way cars honk and swerve
around you,
like you own
the pavement.

I definitely don’t know you,
but if I wasn’t sprawled across the floor maybe
you could’ve known me.

t to s

Written by Aayushi Singh
Art by Anonymous

---

(In Mathematics, Laplace transform basically helps in converting a real variable (usually ‘t’ as in time domain) to a function of a complex variable (‘s’ which is frequency domain). Inspired by Harry Baker’s slam poetry, this poem is written to the letter ‘s’ of the transform from the letter ‘t’.)

I met a paper girl
with a little paper heart.

But before you know how I met her
you should know of her beautiful chuckle
with her smoothly trimmed cuticles,
and my paper heart is delusional
it crumpled into a musical.
She had the perfect figure.
Oh, her beauty was
indisputable.

So when I saw her from across the street, she smiled.
Suddenly I realised I was only disorganised piles –
a wobbly leg with twigs for arms being my profile,
I knew there was a subtle lack of style.
My head was an endless convolution.
Although she lived across the street, our worlds were different.
Divided by ordinary differentiations
waiting for some transformation
that could make the separates equal.

Sure after months of moping around,
she noticed me outside my house on a playground.
She said, “Hey, I’m s.”
I grinned. “I’m t.”
I had a really nice time
So I plucked up courage and asked her
“You wanna hang out downtown?”
And she said, “Sure.”

Now you know how I met this paper girl.
She might be complex but our love is real.
But even if the whole world fell apart,
we’d still make it through
with our infinite limits,
and our little paper hearts.

The Coyote

Written by Finnialla
Art by Pixabay

---

I awoke with a coyote curled near my feet
eyes of coffee, black, glitter in the moonlight
silver fur shimmer when he moves
his smile transfixing; long white fangs stained pink

“don’t worry.”
just barely above a whisper
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
soft baritone with a hint of his growl,
the melody of words hits my ears
suspending me in his grasp

I follow him into the desert
picnics of cacti fruit and guava juice
last supper among saguaro apostles
tumbleweed devotees lay at our feet

Thick pulp fills our mouths
drips down our chins, sticks to our fingers
indulge in this secret sin
before it turns to ash in our mouths

he walks us to the valley
where the jagged rocks surround us
show the stars of my past
wrap it like the present
point me to the road ahead

tumbleweeds gather at my feet
the coyote stands tall by my side
we run together, claws nip at my heels
small imprints into the cracked soil below

we’ll sing to our ancestors above, our voices carry
as we dance along the mountains
the coyote’s owner comes in the morning
dawn breaks over the peaks

the ferryman holds out his hand
thank momma for the money in my pocket
he’ll guide me through the river
a hooded gondolier
to the promised land on the other side

To Delete the Craze of Neurosis, Simply Baste Brains

Written by Keri Stewart
Art by Amel Uzunovic

---

My brain sits on a stove, cooking
in hemisphere thumps. Charred and grilled.
The brittle organ is fried and battered
with a side of unruly consciousness.

I simmer it up to linguistic capacity—burn
the monologue and the aching
thoughts. I baste my temples with a flick
of butter and some nice paprika.

My marbleized lobes sit fine on the pan!
Is it safe to let my thoughts slide out the neural tissue?
Better safe than sorry to fully cook the brain
till the charred pieces are devoid of thought.

Onto the plate it goes with a garnish
of rosemary and a drizzle of olive oil
to hide the journalistic prose of a non-stop,
linear language brain.

The buttery smell fills the kitchen
with pages of scent. With a fork, I fill
my appetite to destroy. Goodbye
to the lobes that just won’t quit

to an organ that just won’t quit and goes on
and on and on for pages till I feast
on the craze of neurosis and dread
the flatulence of excessive soliloquy consumption.