Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
You’ve spent a lifetime training for this.
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
Listen to me: I know the winter gloom in mid-summer…
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house
I am still waiting for the lion
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
I buy too much, for someone of my stature. could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin. its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
The collective failure of ethical standards
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
I have an axe with hearts gashed
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.