When I received Aleksandra's work I was astonished by its eerie, captivating, dark beauty. There is mystery hiding behind every piece, something you can't quite grasp but that you feel. Deep, deep down, far, far in your inner self. You feel it in your guts. And there I was, carried away by her self portraits: through her struggles, her surreal, pure vulnerability. "There is some beauty in pain after all", I thought.
It gave me hope somehow.
- Célia Schouteden (founder)-
I'm a 20 years old self-portrait artist.
If you want to see more of her, go check her beautiful IG gallery...
PC: Lexi Jude
Hylomorphism is a Subdermal Infection
Hymns of water-wheels and smokestacks
in the chronology of revelation
a kind of malignant transcendence
what are you
Communion wine flows
as piss in a diaper
each drop caught in sacral cotton
what are you
you say that the line gives rise to eidos
there’s no apex in ascending
to the depths of the dead, but
you still harbor green-plank
schooners set for shore,
what do you hope to find
amidst these chimeral meat sacks?
What do you find to hope
Just a flash of brilliance
and buffet set for reaping:
It’ll eat you up,
it’ll eat you up,
it’ll eat you up,
it’ll eat you
About The Author - Jake Bailey
Jake Bailey is a schizotypal confessionalist in Antioch University Los Angeles’ MFA program and an associate editor of Lunch Ticket. He has forthcoming work in catheXis Northwest Press, The Hellebore, Rhythm of the Bones: Dark Marrow, Neon Mariposa Magazine, The Laurel Review, and FlyPaper Magazine and has been published in The Esthetic Apostle and Prairie Light Review. Jake lives in Chicago with his girlfriend and three dogs.
PC: Amy Krencius
i will never be a zookeeper
that’s what they told me when i asked
if they’d take me to arizona. the loose bone
in my foot, accident prone, memory of a goldfish
a liability— the xrays were inconclusive
but the rattled rib was proof enough.
why fight for something
what do you consider your strengths?
nothing you could pay me for, but i am well versed in falling.
i can paint myself a pretty picture putting my carcass
on a canvas, or frag myself onto ceramic plugs the way one
performs surgery on a coral; i can be left right center
and never be able to tell you the difference.
it took me five years to learn my name.
i consider that a talent.
i misplaced my head a few times and used my weak wrists instead.
they call that ingenuity, right?
we would never fight against you,
we just wouldn’t fight for you.
i watch as your plane takes off, phoenix-bound and steel.
isn’t that the same thing, though?
my parents want me to go to therapy.
they want me to ruin a day a week
by spending a few hours in a quiver,
talking to some lady about
chemicals, horses, fish, the string theory
of the fear that i will never be loved.
they said they would pay for it.
they said they would stop helping me with rent if i didn’t go.
“we’d prefer not to, but if that’s
what it takes…” if that’s what it takes
then what does it give?
the nauseating smell of a rotten wrist?
or is it just the endless searching for the end
of a circle.
About The Author - alyssa hanna
alyssa hanna graduated from Purchase College in May 2016 with a degree in Creative Writing and a minor in History. Her poems have appeared or are upcoming in Reed Magazine, The Naugatuck River Review, Crack the Spine, Rust + Moth, BARNHOUSE, Pidgeonholes, and others. She was also nominated for a 2017 Pushcart Prize and was a finalist in the 2017 James Wright Poetry Competition. alyssa is an aquarium technician in Westchester and lives with her fish and special needs lizards.