#lucy wainger

[northwindow]

Lucy Wainger, from “Endling” / @ohgd

[llovelymoonn]

favourite poems of september

robin blaser the holy forest: collected poems of robin blaser: "[dear dusty moth]"

robin ekiss the mansion of happiness: "the bones of august"

e.e. cummings complete poems 1904-1962: "[anyone lived in a pretty how town]"

daisy fried econo motel, ocean city

david campos guilt shower and bad catholic

deborah a. miranda the zen of la llorona: "advice from la llorona"

v. penelope pelizzon blood memory

aimee nezhukumatathil invitation

jeffrey jullich portrait of colon dash paranthesis: "some materials may be inappropriate for children"

karina borowicz september tomatoes

patricia kirkpatrick survivor's guilt

kamau brathwaite born to slow horses: "i was wash-way in blood"

leslie adrienne miller the resurrection trade: "weaning"

allen edwin butt if briefly

gerrit lansing a february sheaf: selected writings, verse and prose: "how we sizzled in the pasture"

jayne cortez on the imperial highway: "in the morning"

stephen yenser preserves

ethan gilsdorf the imprint of september second

kathryn maris abc

paul zarzyski the antler tree

judith goldman vocoder: "rotten oasis"

tato laviera benedición: the complete poetry of tato laviera: "latero story"

tim seibles mosaic

ethan gilsdorf the imprint of september second

lucy wainger jiro dreams of sushi

robert duncan ground work: before the war: "a little language"

r.s. thomas the poems of r.s. thomas: "forest dwellers"

anthony wrynn saint john in the wilderness

reginald gibbons bear

walt whitman "are you the new person drawn toward me?"

kofi

[invenuos]

Scheherazade.

By Lucy Wainger

After Richard Siken

comes wave after wave after wave the derivative & harvest, the myrtle tops of sandstorms & milk glasses, apple, horse & song, list, listen, light leaks from the spaces between the bubbles — call it foam — tender pocket of yes yes yes call it flesh — eat tonight & you’ll still have to eat tomorrow, eat tonight & it still won’t be over — eat tonight: peaches bloom even in the dark, as wet as a girl — hands & feet, horse & song, the same hole bandaged over & over, not a wound but its absence — a sum of histories — the nights colliding like marbles, & if there is an end then it’s too dark to see, if there is an end then it’s too bright to see, hands folding, unfolding, & you, Scheherazade!, milky goddess of recursion, best DJ in the city, you spin records, spin heads, cross legs & cross deserts, & always pause just moments before he

[softbrutalist]

if there is an end then it’s too dark to see, if there is an end then it’s too bright to see, hands folding, unfolding

Scheherezade, Lucy Wainger (x), courtesy of my poetic darling @hyperides

[lifeinpoetry]

I cannot show you what remains of the body,                I cannot remove surgically the thing in me that smells like drowning.

— Lucy Wainger, from “Postcard,” published in Muzzle

[stefanitran]

[snicketsquadron]

♠ ☏ ⁇ ♣ ✘ ✺ texts!

send a symbol - get the following from my muse ;

♠ for a drunk text

[DD]: You have a besytifil face i’m glad there are three of it. even if one of them is awwful

Send ☏ for a vague text

[DD]: I will be gone longer than expected.

Send ⁇ for a worried text

[DD]: Where are you? Are you alive? Dewey, answer me! 

Send ♣ for a text not meant for you

[DD]: Don’t try my patience, Ernest. If it were not for Dewey you’d already be dead. 

Send ✘ for a text that should never have been sent

[DD]: I’m so very glad you’ll outlive me. 

Send ✺for a saucy text

[DD]: tender pocket of yes yes yes call it flesh —Scheherazade. Lucy Wainger

[peachsynthesizer]

ok but pls read this woman’s poetry!!

[inthevoidsound]

IN THE VOID MIX 77 - Hals

In The Void Mix serisinin 77.'sini Hals hazırladı.

2008'den beri spoken word ile ilgilenen Eylül F. Akıncı aka Hals ile son olarak RSPC'nin "Le Cafard" albümünde yer alan "Dünya Makinası" şarkısında Ağaçkakan ile birlikte yaptığı düet sayesinde karşılaştık. Daha öncesinde ise Wodashin'in "Sink", Armonycoma or slt'nin "Selam Vermeden" parçalarına da sesiyle eşlik etmiştir. Hals'ın diğer çalışmalarına buradan ulaşabilirsin.

Tracklist: 1. Ursula Rucker - L.O.V.E. 2. Meshell Ndegéocello - Stay 3. Kathy Acker - The Temple of Eros 4. Ralph Tresvant - Sensitivity 5. Jill Johnston reads “Do Approach” at Town Bloody Hall 1979 (excerpt) 6. Mykki Blanco recites Zoe Leonard’s “I Want a Dyke for President” 7. Zebra Katz - Hello Hi 8. Sevdaliza - Backseat Love 9. FKA twigs - Papi Pacify 10. Akua Naru - Sugar (live) 11. Tracie Morris - Prelude To a Kiss 12. Tracie Morris - slave sho’ to a.k.a. Black But Beautiful 13. CoH + Cosey Fanni Tutti - Lying 14. Hals reads Lucy Wainger’s “Scheherazade”

[thegoodraine]

Scheherazade

I read a poem today. Prose. Don’t typically care for proses, they are either too tedious or too passionate. I like small poems, sonnets, short and pretty and easy reading, with rhythms and rhymes like a song. But this is an interesting poem.  love these two phrases：”peaches bloom even in the dark, as wet as a girl”“If there’s an end then it’s too dark to see, if there’s an end then it’s too bright to see” female poets have a different type o sensitivity and sensuality, that’s for sure. 

Scheherazade 

 BY

LUCY WAINGER

After Richard Siken

comes wave after wave after wave the derivative & harvest, the myrtle tops of sandstorms & milk glasses, apple, horse & song, list, listen, light leaks from the spaces between the bubbles — call it foam — tender pocket of yes yes yes call it flesh — eat tonight & you’ll still have to eat tomorrow, eat tonight & it still won’t be over — eat tonight: peaches bloom even in the dark, as wet as a girl — hands & feet, horse & song, the same hole bandaged over & over, not a wound but its absence — a sum of histories — the nights colliding like marbles, & if there is an end then it’s too dark to see, if there is an end then it’s too bright to see, hands folding, unfolding, & you, Scheherazade!, milky goddess of recursion, best DJ in the city, you spin records, spin heads, cross legs & cross deserts, & always pause just moments before he

[whisperthatruns]

comes wave after wave after wave the derivative & harvest, the myrtle tops of sandstorms & milk glasses, apple, horse & song, list, listen, light leaks from the spaces between the bubbles — call it foam — tender pocket of yes yes yes call it flesh — eat tonight & you’ll still have to eat tomorrow, eat tonight & it still won’t be over — eat tonight: peaches bloom even in the dark, as wet as a girl — hands & feet, horse & song, the same hole bandaged over & over, not a wound but its absence — a sum of histories — the nights colliding like marbles, & if there is an end then it’s too dark to see, if there is an end then it’s too bright to see, hands folding, unfolding, & you, Scheherazade!, milky goddess of recursion, best DJ in the city, you spin records, spin heads, cross legs & cross deserts, & always pause just moments before he    

Lucy Wainger, “Scheherazade.” (After Richard Siken)

[mortalpractice]

Imagine a tale of boy-flesh and betrayal, transmitted through a fist, a bodily instant. Imagine treating bruised cheekbones like historical documents.

Lucy Wainger, from “The story is kicking up dust,” published in The James Franco Review

[ohconstellate]

Imagine a tale of boy-flesh and betrayal, transmitted through a fist, a bodily instant. Imagine treating bruised cheekbones like historical documents.

Lucy Wainger, “The story is kicking up dust,” published in The James Franco Review

[danielriddlerodriguez]

SEXUAL HISTORY --Lucy Wainger There was a boy, a bathroom. I don’t want to talk about that.

I want to talk about the girls I kissed in Texas. The cuter one was fat, Christian, an astrophysicist,

the other one had a cross burned into her hand. I want to talk about the boy

(fat, too, but not as cute) who said that if I was going to run my fingers under the water fountain

until I was ready to stick them in an electrical socket, I should at least kiss him first.

I don’t want to think about three Marches ago, dumb and drunk on gasoline beer, the four mouths

that congealed like lard to mine, the way I picture myself gasping, a fish in crude oil, the way I didn’t pull away.

What I want now is a boyfriend with a mouth like a black hole.

[casualwordpunch]

My name is Lucy, which means light. I don't write. Light is sometimes like heat. When I used to go to school, I never showed up on time. I had to run to my first class every morning, and the heat was everywhere, slicking the back of my neck, blinding me in front of the Spanish teacher, whose voice is like the sound that scissor blades make swishing together; blinding me in front of the boy who sits in the front row, second seat from the right: boy with the paint-covered jeans, mermaidic girlfriend, mercurial fingers, long-lost descendant of some English king, and all drug dealers are named James, and I don't write. Sometimes James draws pictures of our Spanish teacher leaning on her desk and sometimes I write circles around her hips which are more succinct than these sentences, and sometimes light is like heat, but there is a reason we all squint in the white white wintertime. Snow like ash falling onto that "unpopulated" island where there are no pens and there are no poets. You can push a boat made of dead trees off the shore. Off the white white sand. The water which is the color of an English king's eyes while he watches his mistress's execution. You can eat things with scales and no one will elect anything of you except to die in the light of the explosion or the heat of the radiation poisoning. You don't want to die. I'm sorry. I don't want to write, either.

Lucy Wainger