#queenmobs

[jaxntppoet]

Poems: Jax NTP - Queen Mob's Tea House

blue reptile and green mazing skeletons, keepers of time

#HappyNationalPoetryMonth Queen Mob's Tea House publishes three of my poems: “how to pivot when you’re paralyzed,” “hysterectomy wanted,” “money is motive is immobility in bones”

[shosugita]

Poetry Review: Spiral Staircase by Hirato Renkichi - Queen Mob's Tea House

A review of Spiral Staircase: Collected Poems by Hirato Renkichi (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2017). Review by Greg Bem.

[viperslang]

psychological horror is a redundancy. violence is intimacy inverted. the mind’s dark train whistles through the cratered fiction of this phantasmagoria. violence is its own completion; our viciousness will inaugurate another wolf for the moon. & then make the moon howl for a millennium. the first thing you learn here is that every room is a palindrome. all that you want to transcend never stops speaking back to you. every fear is ribboned in scrolls of synapse. it is not what you fear but how–you become the mimesis of hemorrhaged paint, the darkened orifices of doors aching with batik of blood; you become time ‘s spectral mobius strip.

scherezade siobhan, review : layers of fear ( images : greg bem)

[viperslang]

my name is a rhizome for zahir. my name is the kind of grace that takes light to folded corners of a cold mouth. my name is ciudad de las rosas olvidadas. my name is green with the psychology of petals

Scherezade Siobhan, In The Small Country Of Snow Owls (Published in Queenmobs)

[viperslang]

my name is how your whole body shudders like a loud book under the library’s colonial fan. i am wearing you through the night; a wedding dress with a missing zipper. ivory lace cutting its lip on red wine. wet, coming apart.

Scherezade Siobhan, In the small country of snow owls (Published in Queenmobs)

[viperslang]

One boy said it is logical how venom aborts venom. The Other boy said nothing; chewed on a petal of a palash flower; rolled around in the moist, gaunt grass like a Labrador unchained for the first time. The skin on his back wetter, pinker than a gingerly peeled lychee. When I grow up I want to become a clown, he said. You already are one, I said. He thumbed the long scar zipping up the flesh on his belly as if it were a circus tent. The terrace had grown a beard of bees. We were gently grazed by the lavender plume of dusk – three drowsy birds too tame for the wilderness of the sky.

1997, Scherezade Siobhan (Published in Queenmobs)

[viperslang]

One boy said – a blood garden of musk roses. The Other boy went to the world’s highest battlefield in Siachen and never came back. But before all of this happened there was one prickly, Indian summer when the three of us had short-circuited the main fuse in the dorms trying to make an electronic mosquito repellant from a soapboax for the science fair. Then we bribed the dorm prefect to help us escape onto the rooftop and were nearly choked by the velocity of our own breath galloping across the old brick stairs. We reached the ledge, sat in the dark, three sets of hands folded into each other like shoelaces. Falling asleep seemed like an exercise in teaching colours to a blind child

Scherezade Siobhan, from “1997″ (Published in Queenmobs)

[viperslang]

The intimacy of waste condones forgiveness

Greg Bem, The Collectors