Okay, it looks like the issue of the mighty StarFish Journal I helped put together is pretty much live and ready to go!

It features the work of some established voices like Andrew Lundwall and Carol Novack, some exciting work by up and comers like John Moore Williams and Luka HeronBone, and perhaps more importantly, there are a number of complete unknowns that we are excited to be bringing to you for the first time.

Please, check it out.


And, if you are interested, we are looking to link exchange with as many sites as possible, so if you are down with that, please drop me a line at:

cosmiccommunist@hotmail.com

a half-hearted shove into the very same beauty as yesterday: glimmer against wrists sweating their lust: that young jackal trying to imagine what a tattoo would say if it could speak: handcuffs to glossy-red lips, cheeks coagulating on the rim: a murderous afterburn gently peeling back layers of DNA doing 300 push-ups a minute

brown doors and pastry skin capable of metamorphosis at any second: the very heart of dissociative freedom like strangers kissing in a tree: certain hues repeat themselves when drinking bruised, skinny pints of fifteen: kitchen cesspool contortion and buttocks straining, the sheer grime sucking at hosiery for a free flash of pussy

monosyllables cooling on a girl's thigh, the primordial supine: that inscrutable siamese-dream carries its own decapitation across the street: the space between another black dress clinging too-tightly to young flesh and this nubile sorrow: slender membranes emblazoned on a sea of nomads traversing the flutter of cellphones, verbatim

Hell prefers sleeping in those sunglasses. At least it no longer rains
there. Delirium as a matron, rolling on the floor of the mixolydian like a drunken animal. All is forgiven in the wandering through architectures that grow flesh.

A meeting in the emerald of negro spirituals. Mysteries circling below
icy water snatching a flaming trident from the hands of our mutual need. We watched elephants sleep on purple briars, failing to mend. Chaos wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes while waiting for the thrust into its petals.

Electricity wants to be a millionaire, too, with a grace that could
transport besotten drunkards to heavenly heights. Magenta and cold disdain converse with boiling metal. We are all forced to drink it at some point. Alchemy will continue to drag sentience to the brink of an aerial calm.

Now come here and let me daub your shrine with the colours of a swollen night.

/Pour un œuf incubé par le chaos
Si raye l’erreur en Chronocrator.
Si en rève mon chien mange ma lune.
Si myrrhée que possible en pleine pureté.
Si lol en la : ne brûle pas l’essence.
Si les magiciens médiatiques n’ont plus de triques.
Si dire : qu’il est temps de prier : casse place.
Si une révolution de glaçons sur chattes.
Si 3 fois six fois violé et violé.
Si l’ennemi vécu sait aller au combat.
/Alors une balle dans ta tête

poised upon tired old metaphors
alluding to the cruelty inherent in
your every kiss dilated, reaching for
those blue-eyed cells. sweat lamps
ask for time out of breath
silver with fear, conflating tassels
with talking drum patterns scorched into
the very heat of night. two names
working feverishly to repair the
pet labia absorbed in the irate
moods of a quiet sea this evening.
with sudden bursts of ennui to sop at
news of a torrid affair unafraid
to become diffuse and splash
tears of joy powered by numinous
wings of silk, frayed but alive
with the black gaze of a scorpion
not even fit to travel alone
in public without love bloodying
willing mouths to moth sadness at
evolution stripping the sun of
charred, broken designs that echo
with the supreme elegance of your own
dark magic.