Prose & Poetry

Two old men sit atop chairs at a table practically as old as time. The first

One thinks of Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon with their paint brushes. They have more in

My dour husband, last appropriator of my heart and senses, last in a long line of

It had become glaringly obvious: boredom had set in.The natives no longer climbed the Sacred Rock.There

Fast forward through moments like a VHS tape it’s a skim through of cool hues blood

I write this almost five years after the world ended. It’s weird to look back on

He’s a palavering windat my feetmoving with atomic ferocityHis leash, a straight lineHis mouth, a wet

Down darkened school hallways and damp city streets past whispering girls and dreams undone along strange

Why do women hate sex? he asked the table, face lit blue by his screen, thumb