read - resist - revolt
riley manchester
The Last Man
I can still taste the last time I was with a man
The sweet, salty promise
With a bitter finish
It wasn’t our first time
But it was the last
The last of many times
When I swore it was over
One of the countless times
I had said goodbye silently
After he was done
And bored
Feeling him disappear
At just the moment I needed
To be seen naked
Watching him dress
Searching for his keys
Lost somewhere
Among my dignity and self-respect
Mumbling about early mornings and important meetings
Alone and empty
With only a cold wet spot
In the middle of my bed
To keep me company
this week in vinyl music review
I put the goddamn needle on the record, expecting more of that bloated cosmic nonsense the longhairs love so much—space whales moaning into the void, philosophy in bell-bottoms. But Meddle… Meddle crawls out of the speaker like a drunk on the floor of a flophouse. It doesn’t ask for your time; it steals it.
“One of These Days” hits like a bar fight in slow motion—no words, just bass and menace, like a guy grinding his teeth before he breaks your nose. Then they start whispering “I’m going to cut you into little pieces” and you believe them.
A woman falls in love with a merman—yes, really—and somehow that’s not the most desperate thing she does.
Melissa Broder writes like she’s clutching a cigarette in one hand and a breakdown in the other; it’s beautiful, haunting, and all too relatable.
It’s like she is writing about my romantic escapades, wet, wild, and absolutely tragic.
amy stone
Perfect in absence, unfinished and unresolved, like a languid coffee with an old friend, with room for discussion between the quiet meaning of brush strokes and color, Amy Stone’s art is an invitation to explore the space between things.
join your fellow misfits
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The Poet Land Foundation is a donor-support, arts non-profit that provides financial support for new and emerging artists through micro-grants.
new artist review
whim grace
Whim Grace pours into her music like a lover draped in smoke and ennui; an impossible, lusty sound that is haunting and sultry, that leaves the listener transfixed and mournful in a way that only love, loss, and hope can understand.
flickering edge film review
Paris, Texas is not a film. It’s a hallucination stitched together with tumbleweeds, telephone wires, and the last remaining scraps of the American Dream, floating somewhere in the scorched no-man’s-land between memory and madness.
I first saw this lizard-licking dystopia on a mushroom-fueled bender in Paris, France, a dissonance that only made the beauty of Wim Wenders, that brooding German bastard, more acute. The film parachutes right into the heart of Reagan-era rot and somehow finds poetry in the dried-up husk. He drags you by the eyeballs across a landscape that looks like it was designed by a drunk Cormac McCarthy and shot through with Ry Cooder’s steel guitar—the kind of sound that makes you feel like you’re slowly dying in a motel outside El Paso.
“It is a strange experience to be quoted more often than read.”
I write now, as if from beyond the veil of centuries, to address a peculiar fate that has befallen my name. It has become a banner—waved vigorously, and often carelessly—by certain champions of what is styled the “free market” in this twenty-first century. I am invoked with a confidence that would flatter any philosopher, yet I confess I seldom recognize my own reflection in the doctrines attributed to me.
Kailey Boronat
– azalea
TJ Sparkes
– bull in a china cabinet
Ashton M. Weis
– in like a
Penelope Schott
– nature-lover
Melissa Howells
– out on the street
