venusofnatalie
venusofnatalie:

Here is the beautiful spread of The Atlas Review’s third issue! The cover photo is by the very talented Traci Matlock. I feel incredibly strong about this issue. The content is phenomenal, and at 170+ pages, is certainly our fattest volume yet.
You ought to consider buying a copy of Issue 3, which is available for preorder (free of shipping). You ought to consider subscribing for a year, or even two years!
Issue 3 features poetry by CAConrad, Nicole Steinberg, Morgan Parker, Wendy Lotterman, Joanna C. Valente, Dan Encarnacion, Anthony Bartels, Sarah V. Schweig, Craig Morgan Teicher, Joshua Ware, Joe DeLuca, M. Callen, Ted Dodson, Jennifer Nelson, Marcus Slease, Tim Earley, Laressa Dickey, Josh Kalscheur, Krystal Languell, Liz Dosta, Jonathan Aprea, and Curtis Rogers; fiction by Nelly Reifler, John Jodzio, Valerie Cumming, Jesse Kohn, and Marlo Starr; nonfiction by Soleil Ho, Dale Megan Healey, and Sean H. Doyle; visual arts by Traci Matlock, Aliene de Souza Howell, Sarbani Ghosh, and Dan Ivec; and interviews with Etgar Keret and Sheila Heti.
I mean, come on! That’s really, really good. 

here is a thing my talented and smart friends do, if you’re interested in that sort of thing

venusofnatalie:

Here is the beautiful spread of The Atlas Review’s third issue! The cover photo is by the very talented Traci Matlock. I feel incredibly strong about this issue. The content is phenomenal, and at 170+ pages, is certainly our fattest volume yet.

You ought to consider buying a copy of Issue 3, which is available for preorder (free of shipping). You ought to consider subscribing for a year, or even two years!

Issue 3 features poetry by CAConradNicole SteinbergMorgan Parker, Wendy Lotterman, Joanna C. Valente, Dan Encarnacion, Anthony Bartels, Sarah V. SchweigCraig Morgan TeicherJoshua Ware, Joe DeLuca, M. Callen, Ted Dodson, Jennifer Nelson, Marcus Slease, Tim Earley, Laressa Dickey, Josh Kalscheur, Krystal Languell, Liz Dosta, Jonathan Aprea, and Curtis Rogers; fiction by Nelly ReiflerJohn Jodzio, Valerie Cumming, Jesse Kohn, and Marlo Starr; nonfiction by Soleil Ho, Dale Megan Healey, and Sean H. Doyle; visual arts by Traci MatlockAliene de Souza Howell, Sarbani Ghosh, and Dan Ivec; and interviews with Etgar Keret and Sheila Heti.

I mean, come on! That’s really, really good. 

here is a thing my talented and smart friends do, if you’re interested in that sort of thing

dialoghost
Creation is an ugly word, with its white canvases & flabby slabs of bacon. It has the sound of a purgative disease, pinky-thick worms in the dissected pig’s intestines, a tattered stuffed badger with fluff spilling from its empty eyehole. The word creation wants to dissolve while you say it. It want you to dissolve while you say it.

Matthias Svalina, Destruction Myth (via bobschofield)

Destruction Myth is one of my favorite books of poetry and I highly recommend it

3liza
3liza:

Judith’s Return
Sleepers, the damp on my feet is still black, indistinct.  Dew they say. / Ah, that I am Judith, am coming from him, out of the tent out of the bed, out-trickling his head, three-times drunken blood.  Wind-drunk, drunk with incense-work, drunk with me—and now sober as dew. / Low-held head over the morning grass; but I up above on my way, exalted. / Suddenly empty brain, draining-away images into the soil; but gushing into my heart all the breadth of the after-deed. / Woman in love that I am. / In me terrors have chased together all raptures, on me all places find their spot. / Heart, my renowned heart, beat on the countering wind:     how I stride, how I stride / and swifter the voice in me, mine that will call, birdcall, before the locked-in city of fear.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Paris, July 1911

3liza:

Judith’s Return

Sleepers, the damp on my feet is still black, indistinct.  Dew they say. / Ah, that I am Judith, am coming from him, out of the tent out of the bed, out-trickling his head, three-times drunken blood.  Wind-drunk, drunk with incense-work, drunk with me—and now sober as dew. / Low-held head over the morning grass; but I up above on my way, exalted. / Suddenly empty brain, draining-away images into the soil; but gushing into my heart all the breadth of the after-deed. / Woman in love that I am. / In me terrors have chased together all raptures, on me all places find their spot. / Heart, my renowned heart, beat on the countering wind:
     how I stride, how I stride / and swifter the voice in me, mine that will call, birdcall, before the locked-in city of fear.

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Paris, July 1911