Lit Mags




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soft purple yams and common talk past
expiration, sticky citron tea in thin glass
stewed daikon, wet miyeok in two black plaits
inverted nipples, pitted olives in a pinch pot
pinched beyond intent
armpits like split figs pink in the center, a dead wasp
in the center, cut into rounds the way she did it
no use for solitude today, come over pls
rice cakes suspended in cum soup, laced with raggy egg
soondae dotted with barley, the blood of whom
pinching at the edges is how much
these things cost and for what sustenance
to look at the surface
where pleasantries live and histories abbreviate
custom compels me to offer you
this poem by way of invitation


Yesterday was nothing on the street
the people sounds, you murmured. You.
The open window to hear the people sounds
drinking in the kitchen together, so important
you said. Me. Insistence fluctuating
between heart murmurs, co-pilot
toying with eject, with switch, end stop.
Earthy strawberries, small and fragrant,
part armpit held in aspic, a saucer of them
mulching down toward mold. You are so poor,
you said. Poor baby. Me. The pages of summer
ablaze against the white sheet of our window
but night. Glistening heat jellied to an
unctuous vein pulsing slower. Mulching. Swoon.
An organ surpassing the rack of confines.
You. This is why I steal the roses, you said.
Night murmurs an octave lower, moans
gleaming over tight complexes. Our city

Outside the furthest reflexes of moon
a varnish of light sweeps the balcony
you are shaped from within, honey,
your pants laved with thrumming impulse
drawing back to bare teeth
slivering scallions lengthwise to make them curl
I think of this: springing, recalcitrant pussies
confessing their emptiness in the coolness of night
earthling approximation of divine rapture
tonight a bowl of rice heaped with tendrils
vibrissae of scallion and purslane, lovage and perilla
threading together an exquisite corpse
I ask you are you eating well have you called
your father and what of this debt

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