Fellow enthusiasts! With thunderous splashes and an awesome foam, the migration toward the irresistible polarity of Volume IV commences. . . send poetry and visual art to firstname.lastname@example.org
and no, it does not NEED to be about killer whales. If you happen to be sitting on vast stores of orca inspired art, however, now would be the time to empty your vault.
It’s here, on the shore, surfacing.
How many Bart Simpson dolls
have I seen in the trash,
lying in piles of trash
on the street, the heads
of Bart Simpson dolls?
Only beautiful trash lies
in the street as I walk past
a split open condom, a few Bart Simpson
heads poke blankly out.
I love creating beauty in life.
What makes Bart
Simpson’s head appear so big?
One Bart Simpson head is at least
the size of two of mine.
Or one Bart Simpson head’s the size
of one of my heads plus three, no,
two of my penises.
a song once
when our bellies were full
& the moon was full
at the bone eye
plucked the grass
tail slapped the water
she sang about last thursday
hiding her mouth underwater
to keep herself quiet
when trappers trapped
sheared her momma’s fur off
& left her naked
floatin round somewhere
now this beaver’s
pluckin grass like a guitar
& i’m the only human
who hears her song
the others just don’t listen:
bievers r jus aenimels
tht wil nvr chanj
Fucktown (a band) digitally remasters Joseph Bradshaw’s poem, “Squirt”, as a song. For now this is all you get, but keep an eye out for Joseph Bradshaw in Killer Whale Journal Vol. 3.
Enjoy. And remember to send us your poems at email@example.com for Vol. 3.
KILLER WHALE JOURNAL VOL. 3 SUBMISSIONS OPEN
submit your poems (on any theme, in any form) / essays on poetics / illustrations inspired by orcas to:
(w/ a brief one / two sentence bio)
submissions are open until March 21st.
It is HERE.
Finally. The waiting is over. The orca is surfaced, again.
Blood thrummed in your head. You
were eighteen and elegiac, you knew the
hidden names of the ages and your
knowledge curled in on itself,
a nautilus. You busted open your lip
on fists full of silver dollars while you
waited for the train. Boston faded deep
in the distance & you prayed hard in
the dark, terrific filth. You unfolded.
Brine of your oyster-shucked heart.
Honey ran through your teeth.
I guess he has to be interpreted?
His falling is such wonder to all air
beneath him and around, a medium
catching him up, his back bent, contorted. Continue reading Rodin “Falling Man”