The Bamboo Vamp

She lures her lover
in royal fibers,
hues of desire,
visible only by caress
of lips in anticipation.

Lips quivering
from foot to thigh
through chakra cascades
until tongue touches lip.
Tasting her aura,
electrifying bud,
salivating mind,
converging energies;
gently dissipating
her mask of animal.

Photo by Caroline Näslund. Words by Ciara Brewer.

Between

You will find me in the (inbetween)

there I sit, (undiscovered) awaiting the brushing touch of the back of your hand

your finger tips (lingering) on the back of my skin

I am not graceful in my time waiting for you.

I screw things up (a) (lot)

I singe my purity at the edges and tear through what I am supposed to be

I want to be the image you have of me

but (most certainly) I will fall short here in the (inbetween)

(Im hoping you) don't accept my apology for what I've become

(but instead) love me till the color restores in my cheeks and my breath turns sweetly warm

return me back to one side (of dark) or the other (of light), but don't leave me (be)here(tween)

I can't make the grey nights and dull sounds

I can't make the stale taste of air

I feel (yes) but (no)t one way (of light) or the other (of dark)

The inbetween is all that is between us

my time here shapes me to wait for you

in its hands I form into something for you

I hate the inbetween

(but) I need it for you

for one day, after all the light and dark

there will only be

youme

and nothing between.

Sketch by Caroline Näslund.  Words by Jordan Shappell.

BUTT i don't even know you (this title is a work in progress which will eventually be whatever it wants to be)

morning after head melting power walk up steps of stone and sandy peaks
i found stillness
in a bob or a house

    cat
        that is

as it looked towards me i wondered if it wanted to say something
maybe if it hadn't been for my crew of sweaty followers that little bugger would have played fetch with me
the plants were alive and so was that bob or house

    cat
        that is

although
much like me he had an agenda and a family and the afternoon to look forward to
so as i reached out a hand he clawed his way to distance

maybe i don't know him or his history but dammit i wanted to 
my head hurt and my body was wet with the sun but i wanted connection
as i often do

i am a climbing being
i am simple
i am merely a bob or house

    cat
        that is

Photo by Caroline Näslund.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

The Quilter

The Quilter

She is the fabric
of stitched sleeves,
triangles quilted
needle to thimble,
frayed knots
doubled over threads
stretching stitch
hole to hole
patch to  patch
methodically, slowly
uniting colors
shapes, sizes.
Body
momentarily separates:
by shoulders containers of stress
by breast donors of nourishment
by belly consumer of consumption.
When she reerects herself
from picking up
fumbled tools
they will be woven together
her masterpiece.

Sketch by Caroline Näslund. Words by Ciara Brewer.

 

P4210143

I’ve been scared of this

The terrible therapist

Her hands around my waist

I grab her fleshy hips

They say beware of it

It’s just she’s the baddest bitch

Falling in love again

God damn her painted lips

She drop low, drop low on the flo

Metronome ticks

Swag down hard

Gold earrings and a necklace

Face to make the angels in heaven get jealous

Purple Nike blazers

She come in all flavors

Multiple times

So I call her “Now and Laters”

Bad as she wanna be

Mad cuz I’m traveling   

So hooked now she taping me

But look ma,

Yo MTV

Swag, mine I’m handling

No manager, I’m managing

From writing in my journal

To rapping like it’s poetry

Championship rings pimpin’ call me Larry B

Come back like Jesus on that ass nigga 33

I should run for president

Hit the street canvassing

My public speaking skilss just got candle lit

Wick it

Young haters didn’t vote for me

Well fuck yall--picket

And when I get there I’ll thank you

For all that you’ve given

For all the girls and the fans

I do this so yall can witness

Play me as your wing man, like 33 Pippen

Imma be Jordan cuz

I’m never slippin

That by Caroline Näslund. Words by Rashaad Hall.

Locked In

 

I.

Psst. 

Over here.

II.

Little help, please.

III.

I'm locked in.

My stupid fat fucking tears have locked me in.

The molasses molecules of my heavy thoughts have slowed their stream

Highly viscous and agonizingly vicious,

They've petrified into amber bars.

I seem to have locked myself in.

IV.

Psst.

V.

There's a lock on this cage. 

Old-fashioned, for your picking pleasure.

Put down your 

Blow torch, your

Dynamite, your

Drills, your

Other fancy equipment whose names I do not know

Just pick up that bobby pin on the dresser next to the fading receipt for soy milk and trash bags

VI.

Stick the bobby pin in the lock and twist till you feel it click

Be the hero and save me from this crystalized prison.

But before you swing the gate open, befriend the animal inside.

Reach your hand in and let me smell it. 

Let your fingers travel the length of my arm and make me purr.

Stick your head through and nuzzle into my collar bone.

Deeper.

Taste test the length of it.

Run your tongue up my neck like the first ice cream cone of summer and

Disarm the red dragons guarding this sleeping beauty.

As I quiver and wake,

As I stir

As the bars melt into waxen drips, and puddle on the lap of my dress,

Leave the door open a crack and 

Please, dear, disappear.

VII.

Because when I come back I will come back with a scream.

And I shall scream and scream and scream and scream and scream.

I've been locked in for entirely too long.

Photo by Caroline Näslund.  Words by Stephanie Chavara.

Morn

I wrote some shit for the

Birds today. They smiled

Flappy- and ran away

 

Haiku by Dustin Whitehead.  Ink response by Caroline Näslund.

Far from Torn

Far from Torn

                                                      my mess comforts me 

                                    i know i have filled the room with intent...attempt

                                                             at least I embrace my mistakes

                                                                                       course mostly trash waiting till I purge my space

                                                                                but every articulation runs its course, no waste

                       

                    eventually needing sensoring...and as i edit i warm

 saying no to something presently means

 i am living presently and working presentfully

this mess looks of one who has something to say

                                                                                             and even if i don't

                                                                                             i love the action more than the idea

                                                                          drowning the room against an ideal to be trashed 

to be insulation made of getting it wrong from getting it right

my mistakes validate me

Failer means i tried,

crumpling means i started, 

so,

                                                  i can allow the wrongs to be heaped...while...

                                                                     writing tools know their place and so too the fresh paper

                                                  if my world could edit, i'd get tired of it

wait what was I gonna Right??

Acrylics in frantic strokes layering questions round

Photo by Caroline  Näslund.  Words by Will Gilliespie.

Thumper

In my bedroom,

that day, decades ago,

I sacrificed a warm puddle

of tears to a

pet rabbit that

we gave away

to a neighbor

because I couldn't

take care of it.

I would've rather had it

die of starvation,

twitching in my arms.

Photo by Caroline Näslund. Words by Randy Conner.

what the World said:

the World a ton too many times told you:
“dont you dare think well of yourself”

so you split in half:
warring against the best you know you could be
and the worst you know you certainly are.

the World said:
“look down on yourself
and up at others.
look at all you ever won't be
and watch all the places you'll fall to”

so you donned sadness,
coated yourself in ugly
and denied all that could be radiant.
you turned yourself colorless,
shut off the hope
and said yes to the shackling.

the World said:
“good. you're doing the right thing.
pity and turn aside”

so you pulled at all your imperfections,
stretching them out.
you placed yourself in a ball and rolled over.

the World said:
“i'm sorry. i'm sorry for what i have done to you.
but despite the richness of your pain,
the delicacy of the dark that has circumstanced itself around you,
despite it all,
i now want you to keep going”

You said:
“keep going?
you're an asshole”

the World said:
“i know. i am. and i always will be, most likely.
but while you have split yourself,
i need you to sink deeper down, weep and hope for worth.
brokenness is not the end.
i promise.” 

Art by Caroline Näslund. Words by Jordan Shappell

Inside An Oven

You’ve been here before. It’s not

Like you’ve never seen the inside

Of an oven.

And suddenly, it looks like rain.

Don’t worry, the trees are waterproof.

Sometimes you tell people that the

Marks on your back, you know, 

the ones you got from passing out

on the rocks that day, are just

Trails, blazed by crazed es ee ex.

But then you feel weird,

Like the way you feel when

You almost run into a stranger,

And then you both try to go the same

Direction, making for two mistakes

In one second,

Like the time you drank so much

That you thought you were

Only dreaming, or maybe inside some

Kind of an aquarium filled with cotton

Or clouds or bugs or betrayal,

Either way, you’re pretty sure

That you aren’t the only one who

Has seen the inside of an oven.

I know you aren’t.

Photo Caroline Näslund.  Words by Randy Conner.