MAY 2019

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MAY 2019 Issue
Poetry

five from Cosmic Bottom

a tear in our hands. a break in the sky. it’s not mars where i want to be buried. it’s here with all the jockstrap gods & daddies of the sun, cosmic bottoms who power erosion with light.


somehow i have to stay human as i bottom in the dark. in the dark room bottoming is not galactic but flight in & out of the void. a bear in his sixties exposes my skies for the community. he makes a third eye blink from my sphincter, the beam of an alien conjured birdlike.



to sit on the toilet & meditate from within & without becomes


an act of worldly love


the wriggle of a worm pushing out





all shit hinges on


how much i open up.




i only shed light for the most missionary of tops, he who unearths me


like rilke whispering


you must charge your hole.


you must give them life.







like a prayer my body broke down into the petals i believed in


& plastic i couldn’t transform


into a bird


whose tears were made of amethyst


who wanted the virus


to be violets, more violent


than roses


christened as thorns


& i reached into my hole for a pierced


horizon i could drink from


if wars were the end of poetry for a while


it took warts to end


gyrations in the sky


until i turned my subsurface inside out


with a finger & traced






a vein of coal seam on fire






an underground star.





then i could drink from my polluted hole


a whirl


a world


the whore of my heart






when we die we streak the horizon with a palette of shit.


when we die there is no one to enshrine the principle of bottoming even as demand for fertile cavities grows.


to become rosebushes, emitting shades of red.

to be the earthquake that sucks & swallows every vertical protrusion, symbolic or material but never a tree.

trees give us permission to create

a bottomless world;

they oxygenate

invisible rings of interior life.






i shit on pink dick
a cascade like a harp
in the sky
for every century
meeting in my veins






i eat my own shit off a pink dick &


swallow the fathers to catch the government
swallow the government to catch the cops
swallow the cops to catch the borders
swallow the borders to catch the corporations
swallow the corporations to catch settlers & slave-traders
swallow settlers & slave-traders to catch their cum


that wriggles & jiggles & tickles inside of me.


in the leather harness i am


a horse who swallows &


doesn’t want to breed.



i wanna ride & die


to be bred again


a half-breed in the hole


a hole in the stampede


Contributor

Lucas de Lima

Lucas de Lima is the author of Wet Land (Action Books) and the chapbook Terraputa (Birds of Lace). His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in PEN Poetry, Poetry Foundation, boundary2, Apogee, and anthologies pertaining to avant-garde and ecopoetics. He is a doctoral candidate at the University of Pennsylvania and the recipient of a fellowship from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada.

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MAY 2019

All Issues