"I'm your muse," his slow smile met my hesitation, exhaling a billow of blue smoke into the space between us. "Yes," I allowed, raking my calloused fingers through his soft, fine hair. "I like it," he kissed me gently as only a shy lover could. Do you? I wondered if he understood what it meant to be such a thing. If he grasped how much of my emotional landscape is painted in a pallet of him, The brown of his hair, the blue of his eyes, passionate reds, bruise purples, and the black of abandonment. It's all fun and games until someone loses their heart.
Just wanted to stop by and give you all some updates on what’s happening on my end. I know I’m still not posting a whole lot, but there are reasons for it.
My shoulder/bicep is still hurting – though, it is getting slowly better each time I get a massage. I haven’t been able to book one since the last post, so I’m still kind of at a standstill with it. I’m hoping to book soon and finally eliminate this pain. I still have no understanding of what’s causing the issue; neither my massage therapist nor I can figure it out. But… we’re working on it.
This has, of course, affected my ability to write. It’s impossible for me to write poetry (or anything else) solely on a computer screen. It feels wildly inorganic to me, and it’s just not something I can do. Holding a pen, and sitting scrunched up to write has been… significantly painful. With the semester having started a month ago, I’ve had to limit my writing as much as possible – and save my efforts for school work.
That being said, I AM still writing.
I’ve got a chapbook being released later this year by Newington Blue Press . The selection / editing process should begin here shortly, but the more I think about it the more I’d like to include more exclusive pieces (as of right now there are about ten). But, we’ll see what happens.
I’m also really happy to say that I’ve been asked to do another chapbook with Budget Press. Just today I got the go-ahead for an idea that I’ve been playing with for a little bit. The book will be called The Song of the Sister and will contain all new pieces that are exclusive to it.
The title, and the project, is a riff on the biblical book of the Song of Solomon. Now, I know you want to stop reading right there…. but know that the Song of Solomon is an ancient, erotic love poem. Yep…. biblical porno. Did you think I was going to go all soft and theological on you? Nah.
So, instead of hearing Solomon’s song, we’ll be hearing the Sister’s song. The sister being the female that the poem is written to. I don’t think it’s really his sister, I think it’s just creative language. That being said, while my response to Solomon’s song will biblical format (meaning, 8 “chapters”) it will contain modern language, modern situations, and … well… FILTH.
I’ll let you guys know more about this as we get closer to publication. I still have to write the fucking thing, afterall.
Anyway, hope all is well with you all. I’ve been surfing through my reading page and really enjoying what so many of you are writing. Keep writing, keep submitting and keep being real.
You came to me, pockets overflowing with tamarind pods, ripe figs, celery root and prickly pears, bravely holding me for thirty seconds "because that's how long it takes for the endorphins to be released." No one's held me that long before, and I could've fell to pieces in your arms because you felt so safe.
It turns the bathwater chemical blue reminding me of the Mediterranean and better days. Of absorbing Vitamin D through my skin as a beautiful man begged to worship at the temple of my body. Where I felt alive being carried on the waves which rolled like a skilled lover's hips. This fiberglass tub is a cheap, lifeless imitation of that Middling Sea; The blue stain ringing the basin a reminder of that.
You were my Humbert, and I was your Lo. Together we created an unholy concoction of synthetic love and questionable consent.
I want to apologize for the lack of updates. I’ve been experiencing some significant shoulder pain in my dominant arm that’s making it difficult to turn my head or sleep, and it’s caused a bit of trembling in my hand.
I did see a massage therapist about two weeks ago, and she helped get the range of motion back in my neck. Now the pain is concentrated right under my shoulder blade, and is migrating up to my shoulder itself. Overall, it feels like terrible burning. I have an appointment with her, again, tomorrow. So, hopefully, I’ll be in better shape.
I also want to talk about something I’ve been ramping up on lately: submissions. I recently began submitting my work all over the place – and I want to encourage you all to do the same. I know it seems daunting, and the prospects of rejections is a little terrifying at times …. but you should do it. Submit. Go for it. We need diversity of voices in this genre – and you can bring that diversity – in your experience, in your style, in your own way. Do it. Submit.
The worst thing that can happen is the editor says no. But guess what? Your skin is still on, and you’re still breathing. Look, I submitted to several places this month and here’s the results so far:
- Feral: Rejection (no reason)
- Versification: Rejection (no reason)
- Trouvaille: Rejection (didn’t feel my work was right for them)
- Floodlight: Rejected (no reason)
- Sublunary: Rejected (isn’t right for their aesthetic)
- Ample Remains (not a match)
- Once Upon a Crocodile: Accepted
- Claredon House: Accepted
- Anti-Heroin Chic : Accepted
- Vailent: Still waiting
- 1870 : Still waiting
I honestly expect the remaining two mags to reject me – and that’s ok. Despite our best efforts – reading the submission guidelines, spending time reading through the issues to feel out whether or not your stuff matches with theirs and typing shit up – shit just happens.
I want to say this; even if you feel that your work would fit with a lit magazine after reading through the issues and they reject you … don’t take it personally. Aesthetic, theme, etc. is subjective, and editors are going to pick what speaks to them (and what they like). And, again, THAT’S ok, too. You don’t like every writer’s shit, right?
I want to make a distinction here, though.
There is a large difference between style and technicality. My style, for example, is minimalistic realism. I’m writing about shit that happens to me, without sugar coating it and without any flourish or embellishment. It’s one thing for an editor to not like your STYLE – it’s another thing if you can’t write for shit.
So do it. Submit! Let’s celebrate the acceptances and rejections together. And let me know in the comments what your experiences have been with rejections.
The last straw was when I slapped his ass while he fucked me slow. "You sick fuck," he rumbled in my ear. We laughed in the thick darkness with nothing but each other to cling to.
I want to write a poem on your body, scrawl all the words of my love and passion upon your flesh; my mouth the pen. I promise to write slowly, ensure proper punctuation and grammar, and to end with a stroke that brings you bliss.
I keep getting these emails about making my cock bigger. Which is strange because I don't have a cock. Well, I do. I bought it. It's mine.
I don't want love, not really. Not the contented domesticity of a white wedding, a swollen pregnant belly, a house in the suburbs or a white picket fence. None of the considerations and compromises that leave you resentful, thinking about how you're losing out on your best fucking years as you brush your teeth while your partner takes a piss. No - what I want is, in comparison, hedonism. The blaze of passion, white hot and unquenchable. To worship your body with my mouth, my hands. I want to shiver under your touch, feel the desire of your gaze and die the little death beneath you. I want the romance of dancing in the kitchen, of falling asleep in your arms, to hold your deepest secrets in confidence, to know you better than anyone else. Then I want the drama. I want you to break my heart, to shatter it so that I can write shitty poems for a lifetime.