a song once
when our bellies were full
& the moon was full
coyotes howling
at the bone eye
her fingers
plucked the grass
tail slapped the water
she sang about last thursday
hiding her mouth underwater
to keep herself quiet
when trappers trapped
her momma
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
they say
tht wil nvr chanj
–Christine Lyons
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 killerwhalejournal@gmail.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:
killerwhalejournal[at]gmail[dot]com
(w/ a brief one / two sentence bio)
submissions are open until March 21st.
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.
Like her brother Icarus,
the moth desires blinding light,
and flies a bit too close.
The reader knows
what happens next: Continue reading Resurrection Myth→
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”→
