I want to kiss you sunset in Denver, I want to kiss you sunset in New York City

I want to kiss you sunset at dawn, I want to kiss you sunset in Mexico

The Sunset Issue of Fuck Art, Let’s Dance has gone live!  We hope you dig it.

photo by Susana H. Case

Cigaretta Gun by Till Gwinn

Wed.1.29.4:44

I drag cigarettes like machine guns smoke air with empty cartridges leading lead to fill sacks of water, blood, sugar, sunlight— a shape we see from beneath, gleaned from reflection off the water-gasoline sheen—succumbing to twisted oily nature now known as “human nature”.

Untitled by Bea Pancho

Wires are hanging above everyone Unlike the tires screeching one by one Trees across the streets rooted so deeply Cannot be moved unless anyone sees freely Slightly raise your head and you will find The pinnacle of that wondrous place from afar It is not the same, not even similar

___

She is an 18 year-old college student who dreams to become a poet

Ride freights, look crazy, smellin like smoke, boots rat-tat-ty, and Fuck Art, Let’s Dance issue #008 has been released live to the general public of literature consumption.  This issue contains poetry and writing from Jeremiah Walton, John Thomas Menesini, Ally Malinenko, Joseph James Cawein, among other rambunctious voices of this century.

This is poetry for Today.  These are the poets…

To Bournemouth by Troy Cabida

Been savouring the beer buzz, counting clouds, making eye lovers with strangers,

and now I’ve got coin-shaped bruises printed on my soles, sand stuck in my shoes, little foreign tics in between my comfort zone

that’ll slow me down, hopefully they slow me down, I’m not ready for citybuildingpollution just yet.

I’ve                                             been      …

Indefinite Leave by Troy Cabida

A huge, cement birdcage engraving perpetual depression on my flesh.

Misty summer London, an Eden, a haven, a multicultural prison of opportunity.

The roots are calling, rising up from the earthy muck, screaming out of aging, yellow diaries, and I start to feel out of place again.

I question, would I die any less morbid if I were free, or if I stayed inside this…

Photography by Nate Mosseau

“I grew up in a small town in New Hampshire. I started taking pictures in high school and traveling during university as a part of a program that brought students to Eastern Africa. I lived in Madrid last year, spent some time in the Caucasus and Iceland. I would like to walk across Uzbekistan some day.”

A school in Mbita, Kenya

     View On WordPress

Sidewalk Treasure by Sasha Kasoff

I don’t want you to walk down sober lane alone Over the yellow flower bridge With clouds reflecting in the sidewalk Seeping into me My feet are getting wet from the holes in my shoes I wish I could have that lady’s three pennies How nice to be able to walk away While poor students Find joy in rain-soaked coins Pocketed from the road

Childhood by Brian Huntress

The high beams showed down the street And blinded passing drivers The brains in the passenger seat spit pretentious words I could hear them But i did not listen A rolled cigarette And gas station coffee curled in my stomach My childhood died today I woke up at two And grew up by nightfall The car stopped and i scraped the brain out of my car with a goodbye And left it…

Untitled by Ian Marshall

A ripple in the mind of the jack-o-lantern airwaves crash as light shatters time tears in to strips as the head of the tribe is no longer fucked over by the hands of the oppressor pulled under by the grasp of humanity the light begins to recollect and then we can see why the air is cold and my head shrivels the land is dry but i feel weighed down by this quality of equality…

Poetry kicked me in the balls by Jeremiah Walton

Poetry has set me down beside you Poetry has kicked me in the balls Poetry showed me I just can’t give up on you Poetry pulled me out of depression Poetry made me ejaculate prematurely Poetry allows me to email dead people

HELL I GET IDEAS FROM GOD DAMN DISNEY MOVIES but conversation,

Conversation IS poetry Humans are the greatest writing prompt!

The…

Waiting for April Showers by Harry Baxter

Display me on the blank white brickwork of old buildings project my essence – a thin, translucent film - across the night sky from my passions make fireworks exploding on the 4th their light permeating the sleep of weary, blinking stars these sentiments which can wick away the sweat of 1,000 hard-working brows toiling away in the field where wisdom and…

Walking is still honest.  Walking assists the brain flow for creative processing.

Honesty is our oldest martyr. 

Walking Is Still Honest Press (W.I.S.H.), one of my children, has re-opened to submissions, and is excited to see the flock of poems, new faces and old, already scrambling his inbox.

W.I.S.H. accepts submissions on a rolling basis.  Previously published work is acceptable.  Poetry and…

14 Ways To Box In Literature & Refuse Conversation by Dreamer

I’m going to outline different ways I found you to discourage you by telling the real goal of any talk or speech and gain power over this very special technique that has never been seen and gain power by learning to become peaceful and listen and not just hear but listen enthralled and become excited with you

I’ve decided to stop spendin…

Displacement by Harry Baxter

These bricks don’t fit right outgrown by the very Earth in which they were planted seeds of maladjusted discontent grasping at straws all drowning in the rush of neurotransmitters and hormones flooding the junky head of creation She’s looking at him all Sudoku He’s looking at her all bottomless pit Eyes all filled with histories too heavy to lift out of the unspeakable

by Scott-Patrick Mitchell, published in F.A.L.D. #005

Our new editor, Scott-Patrick Mitchell, caught a ride and interview with Writ. Poetry Review, a journal of contemporary Australian poetry.

WRIT’s inaugural feature poet is Scott-Patrick Mitchell, a performance poet and writer from Perth, Western Australia. Mitchell assisted in the production of WA’s first performance poetry anthology,…

Honesty is our oldest martyr. W.I.S.H. died for honesty. Now, we have been resurrected and are once again accepting submissions.  We hope to see old readers and writers return, and to have the usual onslaught of terrific poems and art pieces hit our inbox.

How we go about publishing has changed dramatically.  We now provide web-based issues and the usual blog post publishing, but the logistics…