Tag: art

“Madonna” – Tristen Sutherland

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My Madonna stands ten feet tall. She has a certain swing in her hips, wry smile on her lips.

I can tell she knows something. But I don’t let on. I prefer to watch her go about her day, arranging flowers on the table, setting the vase this or that way.

My Madonna is no prude, she makes risqué jokes and sunbathes in the nude.

I want to tell her something, but I can’t find the words to speak,

So, I let her go on talking, maybe I’ll let her know – maybe I’m too weak.

My Madonna loves dancing, she takes me to wild soirees, we dance with many people,

We always end up parting ways. People like to watch her dancing, there is power in her sway.

I bite my tongue and avert my eyes, I’ll see her the next day.

My Madonna sometimes cries, she conceals red eyes with misplaced humour and a weak smile, I comfort her holding her in my arms, she holds me close, disappearing into sobs.

She whispers secrets in my ears, about her lovers and her sadness, I suppose I’m her mere–

My Madonna looks at me with stern eyes when I tell her. She is upset, curses, this is always happening to her.

I try to take it back, but she says she always knew it, she calls me “twisted and sick.”

I don’t see her after that.

My Madonna is not my Madonna, she isn’t anyone’s to keep. She’s a person, not a deity. This, I am embarrassed to say, I didn’t see.

I regret my confession. All she wanted was a friend in me.

I sometimes think of not-Madonna when I sit by the water, where we used to bathe in the sun.

I think of what I words I would say to her now.

I look off into the cotton candy water and ponder.

Still, I think of none.

these words by Tristen Sutherland were inspired by the work of Lisa Vanin

“Fondness” – Samantha Lapierre

blue ghost

I am trying my best.
When I need to, I hide in the depths of blankets and in deep thoughts of living in a forest with you in a small wood house.
You are doing your best too, I see it.
Making coffee in the early hours, feeding the cat her food, huddling with me in the cold as we wait for a parade.
We’ve remained soft around our edges, we’ve let light and colour in our home. I feel found, I’ve found more comfort in that forest. We’ve grown older and fonder.
Remember when we said hello?

these words by Samantha Lapierre were inspired by the work of Sophia Moore

The views expressed in the texts do not necessarily represent the views of the artist.

“Red Night, Black Night” – Martha Batiz

the red coat_szente-szabo akos

The last thing I saw — Mother, torch in hand, racing back home at the skirts of the volcano.

The sky was dark and grey—an impenetrable shade of grey, darker than night yet cruel enough to let you see as if through a veil, fight for breath, scampering for your life.

I watched her leave me. Begged her to stop, to run away with me. The gods had made the earth tremble. Made the volcano spit out its burning-hot entrails. We’d been trained to read the signals in the sky and below our feet; we’d been taught to fear the gods’ wrath—to be ready.

Nothing prepared us for what happened.

It had all started many moons before, I was a child, yet I remember. When they arrived—foreigners with tall, four-legged beasts, wearing clothes stronger than obsidian knives and bones—we took them in. We admired their skin, rosy as a seashell, their hair like threads of gold, and the weapons they called “swords,” which we had never seen before.

You cannot carve anything that long out of stone.

We thought they’d been sent by the Feathered Snake, Quetzalcóatl, our long-lost god who promised to return bringing blessings.

We were wrong.

They brought sickness and pain; the urge to take away, to dispossess. Forced us to give up our land, our freedom, and our beliefs.

It was too late when we discovered they were not gods, because our gods had appreciated the gift of fresh beating hearts. Our gods had given us rain and sunshine; crops grew and we were satisfied. But, those creatures had skin that blistered up and turned red and vulnerable under our sun; they pushed us to the ground, took our bodies, and then despised us; they were thieves who dug holes in our land and took everything precious, offering nothing in return.

So, it was time for war. Our men fought while we danced. And we prayed for forgiveness, for we had been forced to betray everything we had been, everything we had believed in. Then, our rivers turned red, and so did the sky.

We were not absolved.

Smoke opened an endless night as the earth trembled. As I saw her leave me, torch in hand. Me and my red dress—made in advance to mark our victory—were left alone. Alone, and drowning in the dust of loss.

these words by Martha Batiz were inspired by the work of Akos Szente-Szabó

“The Best Lover” – Charlotte Joyce Kidd

Twin_Blouse

I think the best lover would be really scared of dying. They would come home early every night. They would never bike in a busy city, never drive at all. They would never jaywalk. They would never do drugs—maybe pot once in a while but only on a couch, between four walls, when they’d checked the forecast and there was no chance of natural disaster. They wouldn’t drink too much, make enemies, ever go off their anti-depressants. Even when they stopped being mine, I wouldn’t have to worry. There would be no chance of disappearing endings, of being left holding feelings severed at one end.

I think the best lover would want to spend all their time with me. They wouldn’t be able to imagine anything else they’d rather be doing. They’d hold my hand while they went to the toilet. We’d reuse the toothpaste foam. When we’d walk in public, they’d tangle their fingers in my hair, palms not enough, scalp warmer, closer to bone, closer to brain. They’d cancel their Saturday nights, make every hour 8 a.m. Sunday, when together is unthinking. They’d sit behind me in my classes. They’d finish my sentences in therapy. They would text me once an hour just to tell me a joke.

I think the best lover would have a million lives, so that each time they fell out of love with me they could be reborn. They would walk in the door of the night they first met me, look around. They would come up and say hi, knowing nothing yet.

 

these words by Charlotte Joyce Kidd were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin

“Les fauves” – Jenna Jarvis

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in 2014 sally hansen replaced its beloved pacific blue with a shimmery doppelgänger
of the original to the consternation of nail polish fans on instagram and makeupalley

that year a girl said jewel tones
couldn’t be smoky like
queer uniform wasn’t an oxymoron

a devoted winter i wore cobalt
wondered why women trusted
beauty guides insisting

via goethe that most people
of colour are winters but transitional
seasons get fucked anyway

now i’m supposed to choose a name
in chinese like it’s middle school
whether in language class

or on a forum roleplay
remember habbo hotel giggling
a room of 13-year-olds pretending

they’re just one & a little older
a dyadic encounter

when cyber meant tweens’
incumbent nomenclature

in 2004 burger king launched subservientchicken.com an early viral marketing campaign
featuring text commands hyperlinking to clips of a person in garters and a chicken suit

obviously we typed in sex
got a wagging finger not thrills
later summer basement laughter

stifled unlike the spread
thigh under that first skirt
black & baby-goth despite august

truth is the only
frying we did was vocal

 

these words by Jenna Jarvis were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin

“Checkmate” – Manahil Bandukwala

centaurette

You enter a room with a checkered floor, a chessboard sprawling outwards. Your side is just you; on the other is a jester, a devil and a centaurette with a gun. You have no weapons. You don’t know the rules. The game is stacked against you before it begins.

White starts. The jester advances forward five spaces.

Black’s turn. You feel behind you for the doorway you entered through, but it’s not there. The only way to move is forward. You brace yourself to run, and smack against air. Staggering back, you find yourself a space ahead of where you were. Only one square at a time for you. A bruise starts to form on your cheek.

White. The devil moves to stand on your left side, brushing your leg with its pointed tail.

Black. You take a step forward and the devil moves with you but doesn’t touch you. There is a window across the room, your only way out. You count the number of steps to the mountains outside. Three. If you survive even one more step forward, it’ll be a miracle.

White. The centaurette cocks her gun and shoots. The bullet flies between your legs and goes cleanly through the wall behind. She gallops forward and stops two squares in front of you, right in front of the window. Her smile teases you to come forward and take her crown; she knows all the rules to the game and you’ve only figured out one.

Black. You stick to your plan. One square forward—the devil moves too. The jester dances around outside confines of boxes.

White. Nothing. They’re waiting.

Black. The window is almost there, but the centaurette sits spread across the tiles.

White. A shadow belonging to no one flits across the wall. Everyone jumps in surprise, including the centaurette. The square in front of you is empty.

Black. You leap forward and jump out the window, falling past storeys until you hit the ground. Glass rains over you, cutting into your skin. You hear a faraway giggle echo through the trees. You are a lump of flesh lying in a bush on a riverbank. The river snakes through the landscape, washing your blood away.

 

these words by Manahil Bandukwala were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin

“I’ve got to make it show” – Jeff Blackman

Holy_Hell_WebV

The place we were reared in was a safe place
but we spoke hard words. We ached for war.
As for me: I was baser than that—I claimed a cause.
A teen brushing their mouth
of consensus, awe and doubt.

We place demands in our prayers
as if we place ourselves in G-d’s path.

Off rhyme of my joy and FML.
An off rhyme—that’s all.

Our rubbish mounts within a big frame
we colour key to pride and shame.
We fasten to the architecture
like a file that’s been saved.
We’re sure that we’re saved.

Our heaven may be a small heaven
but come now—the gate’s ajar.

In time you forget you’re faking it.
Resign. Be calm.

 

Miza Coplin‘s Holy Hell inspired Jeff Blackman‘s rough parody of Randy Newman’s adaptation of Peter Gabriel’s “Big Time”

“Spread” – Sarah Christina Brown

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This is a found prose poem – all lines are dialogue spoken by women in porn films.

I would never describe myself as a bad girl. I’m eager to please. I’m too tight. I’m too tired. I’m eighteen. I’ve never even had a massage before. It’s my first time. It’s the last time. It’s the only time I can do something like this. This is my first real job. This is what I’m here for. What are you doing with that camera again? Do you want to fuck me? Do you want to stretch me open? Does your wife suck your cock like this? Did you drink all the fucking orange juice? If you hire me, I’ll make sure my pussy’s spread open right here every lunch break. But I’m your stepmom. But you’re my boss. But you’re my best friend. But I’m the goddess of big dick, I don’t want any more grapes. I want a full-time position. I want you answering my calls from now on. A girl like me plans to get behind the camera someday. A girl like you could learn a few things from my tongue. We girls have to stick together, you know. I tell men they’re going to think about me the rest of their lives. I told you, it’s Titty Tuesday. Don’t you want to touch me? Can you finish me off? Shut up, Gerard, you know I deserve this. Don’t be shy. I’m coming. She’s coming. Give me my happy ending. Give it to me. Give it to me.

 

these words by Sarah Christina Brown were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin

 

 

“Screams in an empty place” – Jerry Corvil

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Alone in my room, my thoughts are dark
I live in a place where they hate me because my skin is dark.
Whoever says “smile and your misery will be history”
Is lying; the harder I smile the stronger it’s hurting me.

Knees to my chest, my soul crushing into pieces,
Sinking into darkness, happiness is all my heart misses.
Should I even write this; am I ever going to feel better?
I have long been digging from within, looking for a treasure.

Maybe I am not worth anything; should I even keep fighting?
All those thoughts and demons inside of my head.
I call for help, and no one hears me except those monsters under my bed.
I’m asking, to whoever can answer me, how can I survive when my mind is fading?

Those paintings inspire me, tell me there’s still beauty all around me.
I might be sick, who knows? I can only write when life’s hurting me.
Is it ironic to say that the only one who’s always been there for me is loneliness?
I have lived most of my life, lost, scared and confused; I feel better when I’m depressed.

This is what my mind is constantly repeating to itself.
It’s like one side is trying to find solutions, while the other’s killing itself.
I am not asking for much, only need somebody’s presence.
I’m tired of screaming, sitting in this blue room hearing only the echoes of silence.

 

these words by Jerry Corvil were inspired by the work of Nicolas V. Sanchez

 

 

“Pawns” – Stephan Enasni Sunz

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It all began as a game of chess;
history always repeats itself.
We were all hoping for the same mess to be gone.
It’s no mystery that we are being tamed and depressed,
obsessed with the disbeliefs of becoming kings and queens.

Yet reality is so keen on having other plans for us to string together.
As seen before, we are another set of oppressed pawns
stuck with the beliefs of hearing a lord’s call.
Words are left unspoken as we have lost our will to sing;
vocal cords are suppressed as the hours continue to crawl.
This world is the rich man’s board,
with the poor men drawn and stressed against their choices.

Even after falling down the herd’s still willing to take back their voices,
to fill up the void caused by the reign’s vices,
as they believe it’ll only bring hope to the birds with broken wings.

 

these words by Stephan Enasni Sunz were inspired by the work of Nicolas V. Sanchez