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Anorexia

by Mary Paynter Sherwin

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This is arbitrary and subjective, like so many phrases doled out in recovery, meant to comfort you in those days of relearning the topography of the inside of your stomach and listening to a less sparrow heartbeat, so let us instead note a term that enters the arena of the wasting and proud, the word is movement and we can define movement as a noun, a unit of motion expressing action, and that it requires direction from a fixed starting point, [example: pinking shears, two directions across a plane, reduced to single movement away from the pattern, towards a dress, towards the argyle in socks, towards ill-fitting clothes at the back of the closet, towards the musical phrase that ends on a fourth, towards two 1-inch cubes of cheese for lunch, towards falling, towards the shell that makes no sound, towards the tyranny of centimeters pulled left along a leather belt, towards the sun, towards seven stones measurable in fabric, towards kits and instructions, towards pinking shears] and in this example you must continually remind yourself of the term in the arena surrounded by an audience of eyes and how they can assess to the gram all successes and failures, losses and gains and losses and losses and gains.

*

Mary Paynter Sherwin’s work is heavily influenced by her knowledge and love of science, religion, and art. Her work has appeared most recently in Drash: Northwest Mosaic, Unswept, and Sparkle & Blink. She was also recently named one of the Northwest’s most innovative poets by Rattapallax. Mary holds an MFA in poetry and will be teaching a January Term class at Saint Mary’s College of California on the influence of copying. She lives in Oakland with her husband, David.

photo by schappisschnap

Time line of a paradoxical life

by Stanley Noah

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1912
The Titanic goes down.
The Carpathia rescues survivors.

1918
The Carpathia goes down.
57 survivors, one is Frank Buckles.

1942
Buckles became a Japanese POW, civilian internee.

2008
Frank Buckles meets President
George W. Bush.

2011
Frank Buckles dies as last American
WWI veteran, age, 110.

*

Stanley M Noah has a BGS degree from  The University of Texas at Dallas. And have been published in the following: Wisconsin Review,Nexus, Main Street Rag, South Carolina Review, Poetry Nottingham and other publications in the U.S.A., Britain,Canada and New Zealand. Winner  of The Mississippi Valley Poetry Contest, 2006. Poet of the month, Sept., 2009, fullofcrow.com.

photo by DazzieD

Indira Allegra – “Devil Don’t Live in Hell” Video Poem

Video courtesy of Queer Rebels

*

Indira Allegra is a poet and interdisciplinary artist whose work explores forms of queer intimacy, text, trauma and racial identity through performance, video works and handwoven textiles. A 2012 Lambda Literary Fellow and Voices at VONA Alum, she has contributed works to “25 for 25: An Anthology of Works by 25 Outstanding Contemporary LGTB Authors”, “Yellow Medicine Review: A Journal of Indigenous Literature, Art and Thought”, “Sovereign Erotics: A Collection of Two Spirit Literature”, “Konch Magazine” and “make/shift Magazine” among others. Indira reads and performs work in the Bay Area and New York City. Her experimental videopoems have screened at film festivals internationally. In the Bay Area, Indira’s textile works have shown at the Alter Space and College Avenue Galleries. She is currently completing her first collection of poems entitled Indigo Season.

You Think You’re So European

by Brittany Wason

03_European_brianac37-pola

like

you wear your “swim trunks” a little too short

and

when we see each other

for the first time in months

(since the last time you didn’t call me)

you kiss me on the cheek so French

like

you are just saying hi and you’re

not

trying to fuck me

 

You shoot fancy scotch (for taste)

to rub out the evil

stuck in your teeth

courage swells in your chest

hair

and

you grin like we’re on a tour of your Norwegian castle

not

the hotel you tucked girls in corners in

*

Originally from New Hampshire, Brittany Wason is currently a Poetry Candidate at Saint Mary’s College of California.

photo by brianac37

Cousin

by Fernando Meisenhalter

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My German relatives are visiting us in Mexico City. They are my uncle, aunt, and a cousin my age who I’ve never met before. I don’t speak German, so I’m ignored during the hugs at the airport. I am also excluded from subsequent conversations. German has now become the official language in the car ride back home. I have become a foreigner in my own family.
My parents are so cheerful they don’t seem like my parents at all; they appear to be normal, good, happy people. It’s a family that looks like mine, but is not really mine.
I wonder how long this charade will last.
“Fernando, get the Löwenbräu,” my dad says once we get home.
“What Löwenbräu?” I say.
My father looks at my uncle as if to say: This kid isn’t the fastest ship in the fleet.
“The beer, get the beer,” my dad says. “The beer I told you to put in the fridge.”
“Oh,” I say. “I forgot to put it there.”
My father’s face changes instantly from happiness to pure rage.
“I TOLD YOU TO PUT THEM IN THE FRIDGE!” he says, clenching his teeth. “I ask you ONE THING, one thing ONLY, AND YOU CAN’T EVEN DO THAT!” Then he slaps me across the face.
The slap hurts, but worse is that the loud sound startles everyone, like the smack of a whip.
“Don’t just stand there!” my dad says. “GO GET IT!”
My dad turns to his brother and smiles again, nervously, trying to cheer everyone up, but the mood in the room has shifted.
My cheek burning, I hurry to get the beer.
The next day I take my cousin with me to school. He’s never been to Mexico before, so everything is new to him. He doesn’t understand Spanish and he’s very quiet in class. I wonder what he thinks about us Third-Worlders. Do we seem weird? Does he pity us? Do we disgust him? What little we manage to communicate is always in English because we both studied it at school.
My cousin comes alive in math class, where he helps me with algebra. But I cannot grasp the exercises, and after a while, in frustration, he gives up, refusing to provide me with any further assistance. I can tell we won’t get along.
During recess we play soccer and from the start he distinguishes himself as a superior as well as popular player. Everyone seems to be calling out his name.
“Hey,” one of my classmates says as he runs past me, “we like your cousin. He’s not like you.”
After the game, my cousin starts chatting up some of the popular girls, communicating via gestures and broken English. I later find out he got invited to a party.
“Why can’t you be more like your cousin?” my dad says. “Look at him: he’s been in Mexico just two days, and he’s already making friends. You’ve been here your entire life and you don’t have a single friend. How can anybody be so inept?”
He slaps me, but I don’t feel ashamed anymore. By now everyone knows I’m a battered kid, despised by my own parents. I don’t need to hide it.
Matters get worse. Later that week, some of my classmates invite my cousin on a trip to Acapulco.
“Look at your cousin.” My father says. “He’s enjoying life while you just mope around the house with that pathetic look on your face, watching TV all day. I just don’t get it.”
My cousin comes back from Acapulco with a tan and a bright smile. He learned to water-ski and snorkel. I have never done either of those things. I have never been to Acapulco. Everyone smiles at him, asks him questions, talks to him, ruffles his fine blond hair. My cousin has also learned a few Spanish phrases, which he repeats in a thick German accent.
“Oye, compadre,” he says while everyone laughs. “Quiero cerveza.”
I have to admit, he does sound funny.
“Soy muy macho,” he says, while everyone looks at him admiringly.
“I’m macho, too,” I say, trying to join in the fun. But I sound too eager, letting out a forced chuckle to support my own joke. I also imitate my cousin’s thick German accent, thinking that might be funny. But no one laughs. In fact, my dad gives me the dirtiest look he’s ever managed to cast upon me in his long career of hostility and contempt.
“That’s not funny, Fernando,” my father says. “You’re mocking his accent. You can’t speak a word of German, but you think it is okay to make fun when others try to learn Spanish. That’s disgusting. Go stand in the corner, and think about what you just did,” he commands.
“I was just trying to be funny,” I say.
But it’s no use. The corner is my destiny.
The instant I leave the room, the laughter resumes. I hear my cousin carry on with his halting Spanish phrases, “Oye, loco,” and then adding, with erroneous grammar, “quiero mucho cerveza.”
All the grownups giggle.
“Oh,” I hear my mom sigh. “He’s so wonderful. I wish he were my son.”
*
My relatives are leaving today. My parents drive them to the airport. There are goodbye hugs and kisses at the international terminal, my uncle and aunt holding those blue and yellow Lufthansa tickets in their hands. My cousin avoids hugging me, but as a departing gift he gives me a bar of chocolate. It is good German milk chocolate, my favorite kind. I take it with a faint smile.
“Danke,” I say using the only German word I know. My cousin walks back to his parents. It’s obvious they told him to give me the chocolate, that it wasn’t his idea. I can tell because he never looks back at me. Not once.
It’s a very quiet ride back home in my parents’ car.
*
A month later a letter arrives from Germany. My cousin committed suicide. He hanged himself from a swing in a playground in Hanover. His test scores were too low, the letter explains, and he didn’t get into a high school with a college track. He couldn’t handle the feeling of failure.
“He was such a good kid,” the letter concludes, “so noble.”
I look at my father nervously. Will he ask, why him, why not you? Is he going to explode now, unleash his Old Testament fury upon me? This could be the worst beating of my life.
But my dad only shakes his head from side to side in what appears to be sadness, and says: “Well, he wasn’t going to make it into college, so he saved his parents the disappointment. He was a good kid. It’s too bad things didn’t work out for him,” he says, wrapping up matters in an all-knowing tone.
“Oh,” my mom says, “he was such a wonderful kid, but he was weak; too fragile.”
They continue drinking their coffee and reading the paper.
This time I want to be beaten. But my dad just keeps sipping and reads on.
All of a sudden I realize I am lucky to be the family’s designated loser because no one expects anything from me. There is no pressure in my life, no expectation. I was born a disappointment, I could fail a million times, fail always, and it wouldn’t make any difference. I’m free.
I go to my room and pull out the chocolate bar my cousin gave me. It’s intact. For some strange reason, I haven’t been able to eat it.
There’s an empty feeling in my chest. I think of my cousin, the cousin I didn’t know well, didn’t even like, but whom I now somehow miss.
I tear the wrapper and break off a square of chocolate and put it in my mouth. It tastes divinely. Then I break off another square, and another, and another; and one by one, I eat them all.

*

Fernando Meisenhalter is of German ancestry and was raised in Mexico City and therefore grew up under great stress, but he still loves both sauerkraut and guacamole.

photo by LWI

Subcutaneous Condition

by Indira Allegra

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He bends down to look
under my dress to see
what he thinks is young pussy
that brown fat
he does not know
there is a tumor growing here
a mutation between us
that leads to rapid
orderly proliferation of
injuries
what my name is
number
how much it cost
to suck this
soft tissue tumor
if I date brothas
white guys
Mexicanos
cutaneous conditions
if I can spread it
greater than a size of six centimeters
so he can taste it
do a threesome
if I got babies
if I want them
how I should be grateful
for his attention
most commonly found in
adult women
but also in children
the persistence
of his lobulated desire
below the surface of my skin
his craving fatted
pressing my left ovary face down
into the crotch of city blocks
that talk in tumors
safe routes I want worsened
into blood vessels that feed
the heavy danger in my hip
growing in crosswalks and curbs
the fight or flight response
to his slippery palms
around the lump
the fat
announcing
my womanhood
that fat
derided
split off
from itself
into
lipoma.

 

*

Indira Allegra is a poet and interdisciplinary artist whose work explores forms of queer intimacy, text, trauma and racial identity through performance, video works and handwoven textiles. A 2012 Lambda Literary Fellow and Voices at VONA Alum, she has contributed works to “25 for 25: An Anthology of Works by 25 Outstanding Contemporary LGTB Authors”, “Yellow Medicine Review: A Journal of Indigenous Literature, Art and Thought”, “Sovereign Erotics: A Collection of Two Spirit Literature”, “Konch Magazine” and “make/shift Magazine” among others. Indira reads and performs work in the Bay Area and New York City. Her experimental videopoems have screened at film festivals internationally. In the Bay Area, Indira’s textile works have shown at the Alter Space and College Avenue Galleries. She is currently completing her first collection of poems entitled Indigo Season.

photo by Vagawi

For My Valentine

by Sarah Bushman

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Razor blades
O-rings
Brass knuckles
Skull gloves
Chainsaw pins of
Dead love

Blade accidentally
runs over my wrist
I was cutting a pear
reminded me when
I used to do it
on purpose

Today is the day
For dead flowers
Even Grandma thinks so
Spread the love
Let it out
Shake a fist
at all the men/women
We’ve been vessels for

Went to a place
I saw
green
blue
green
blue
Touched the sky
bounded back
kissed a prince
that wasn’t you

You pumped your hips
against my thigh
stirred the taste
Vomit in my mouth
Acidic love hate
I could spit
safety pins
nails
tacks
screws

*

Sarah Bushman wrote a a goth girls poem you would take out of a high school journal–in order to celebrate the holiday Valentine’s Day. Or to not celebrate it, because that’s what its doing. It’s encouraging people to embrace their inner rebellion, hopefully.

photo by Phil.Manker

Remorse

by Mary Paynter Sherwin

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Unless he looked,
before meeting you,
he still thinks of me in Boston.

Maybe he tells you this.

Seeing you two in the park,
I decide not to say hello,
hold it’s been so long
like a solitaire in my pocket.

He’s gained the weight
of the child we never got
around to having.

I am an honest woman.

Half of what you know
was never true,
the other half
is too kind.

*
Mary Paynter Sherwin’s work is heavily influenced by her knowledge and love of science, religion, and art. Her work has appeared most recently in Drash: Northwest Mosaic, Unswept, and Sparkle & Blink. She was also recently named one of the Northwest’s most innovative poets by Rattapallax. Mary holds an MFA in poetry and will be teaching a January Term class at Saint Mary’s College of California on the influence of copying. She lives in Oakland with her husband, David.

photo by zoetnet

 

The Wild Roses of the Apartment

by Asma Abdi

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“Ali, garbage is future, Quit that goddamn oil refinery, Come to Tehran. Come to our garbage
business, The south isn’t your place.”
“I can’t decide now, Everything depends on the factory…”
“Listen, Oil will finish someday, but garbage is perpetual. Don’t be so foolish.”
“I…I really can’t decide, Mohammad, … You know …I like Tehran, but it`s the capital. The rents
are very…”
“Come on, Tehran’s streets are paved with gold. People jump into dustbins and just like stray
cats they earn everything they want… , They earn cartons and plastics… they earn money.”
“I… I really can’t decide dude, You know… If I want to go to Tehran, I need a place to live…
and with these rents… ”
“For god`s sake Ali, Forget about the rents for a sec. This morning, I sold my cartons for
80,000 Tomans… Do you understand… 80,000 Tomans…”
“It`s good… but…”
“No buts dear, Just… just take a look at your face, what are those wrinkles around your eyes?
You are just 30. What are you doing in that damn wilderness, having no good food, no good
water, no good women, for what?”
“I… I really can’t decide now, I need to think.”
“Think, but don`t say no.”
Garbage…Garbage… Always garbage, I was sick of everything about This garbage business,
and Mohammad; my dear husband, was the head of this business. It was one of his impressive
abilities to relate everything to garbage. I wished I’d never suggested him talking to Ali. I knew
Ali, he hated garbage too.
Ali was one of our very few best friends who lived in one of southern cities. He was one of
those guys who choose, willingly or unwillingly, to go forward step by step; cautious in my
word… Coward in Mohammad’s, but now for the first time in our common life, whatever he was;
cautious or coward, wasn’t the matter of importance really. We agreed to choose Ali as a key for
all of our problems.
“Oh…Gentlemen, forget about garbage for a sec,” I broke in to change the subject. “First tea,
then business.” I said to Mohammad smiling in a way he knew I was angry.
“Oh, darling. We don’t have to gulp boiling tea. We don’t need a full bladder to take a
pregnancy test. Do we?” Mohammad said, grinning first at Ali, then at me.
I blushed. Why was he talking about the test in front of Ali? A stranger man?
I went to bathroom. Mohammad was still speaking.
I sat down on the toilet, looking at my pregnancy test. There were a lot of words on the whole
package in English. I looked for its Persian direction. There wasn’t any, only a small paper stuck
on the foreign words: “urinate directly onto the test stick for about five seconds.”
I`d drunk my tea so fast to fill my bladder up quickly. I really wanted to put an end to it. I was
vomiting for two days.
I didn’t know If I liked it positive or negative. I began to count 1,2,3,4,… the first day we’d
come in this apartment I`d counted the steps just like that 1, 2,3,4,… I never understood if I
liked our new apartment or not. It was too decent for a woman whose husband’s favorite subject
was garbage.
Five seconds was over. I put the lid of the test back quickly as if a baby, right in that very
moment, wanted to jump out of that piss-stained stuff suddenly. Everything about that probable
baby was to come to light by pee, Just in ten minutes. I burst into laugh.
I shacked my ass in the mirror, as always. It was one of the good things about our new
apartment. A big mirror in bathroom is a real bright side of life. I could see all of my body in it.
Why were we in that apartment? In that expensive neighborhood? That was’t our place for sure.
Ali was shocked when he saw the luxury and it was right. Shocked people scares me to death,
especially when they are right. We shouldn’t have left our previous neighborhood, but
Mohammad believed that we could live in every neighborhood we wanted, because it was
Mohammad’s only motto that the life expenses of a neighborhood is equal with the price of
garbage of that neighborhood.
I turned the running faucet off. I heard Mohammad again, He was still speaking.
“Don’t worry about rents man, we are friends, you can live with us Ali, In this apartment, we
have one extra room; we can pay the rent fifty-fifty, ok? I assure you, garbage of this
neighborhood is gold.”
Such an idiot, He was begging nearly. He was ruining all the plan. I couldn’t take it anymore,
I ran in the room. Mohammad was still speaking.
“Let`s go to the balcony, I want to water my flowers.” I cut in to stop him lecturing, smiling at
Ali.
I had many roses on our balcony. I thought They might change Ali`s mind about living with
us. They were wild, beautiful and tempting. We should have shown him the apartment at first,
instead of talking.
“Look this one Ali, I planted it myself.” I smiled at Ali.
“Your flowers make me sad,” Ali said, looking at tall apartments all around us.
“Let’s stay awake tonight, The sunrise is wonderful in this balcony,” I said, smiling at Ali.

Ali was saying nothing. He was saying nothing more and more. If Ali didn`t accept to live
with us, we had to give the apartment back. I wanted those wild roses destroyed, especially those
I had planted myself.
I was about to vomit again. I ran to the bathroom. Ali and Mohammad ran after me. In my
stomach, there was nothing but tea.
“Why is the package of your pregnancy test on the floor?” Mohammad shouted. “Its carton,
you know how much does it worth?” He put his precious carton into the trash can.
My eye’s caught the test. I’d forgotten about checking my results.
Positive or negative? I chose in the last moment. No differences… naturally.

There was no sign on it. Neither Positive nor negative. I pulled the package from the trash
can and checked the Persian direction again: Test should be read in ten minutes, because all of the signs will be cleared after that.

*

Asma Abdi is a writer and a journalist from Iran. Her work has appeared in 2 languages; Persian and English, in some Iranian and Non-Iranian magazines. She started writing in English two years ago and one of her works named “All about my mother’s razor” appeared in March, 2013 issue of “Barebacklit.” She has 2 BA in Persian literature and Law and an MA in human rights, All from the University of Tehran. These days she is working on a novel,  “Forever Madam Bovary.”

photo by MarkWallace

Q&A with Alexandra Naughton

Alexandra Naughton is a San Francisco Bay Area author, originally from Philadelphia. Her debut book of poetry, I Will Always Be Your Whore: Love Songs for Billy Corgan was recently published by Punk Hostage Press. She runs the popular website Tarista Explains It All, as well as the Be About It zine, reading series, and now an e-book publisher. We sent her some questions following her recent Bay Area launch events in San Francisco and Oakland.

BUY MY BOOK (only) $9.95

Q: Congratulations on your book launch. What inspired you to write I Will Always be Your Whore?

AN: Winter, insecurity, living with someone and longing for something else, and solitude.

 

Q: Are you happy with the way the book came together? Is there anything you would do differently now?

AN:I still can’t believe I made this. Some of the poems are embarrassing for me to read now, but I think that sometimes happens to me when I’m working on new material, the older stuff is just like, “wow I used to really worry about this.”

 

Q: How do you know when you’re done writing a poem?

AN: When the urge to vomit passes.

 

Q: Does Billy Corgan know about your book? If not, why not?

AN: I contacted the venue he owns in Chicago, Madame Zuzu’s Tea House, about possibly doing a reading there. They were not into it, but they wished me the best of luck in my future endeavors.

 

Q: Can you explain about syncing the poems with songs from Smashing Pumpkins? Were these the songs that inspired the poems, the songs you listened to while writing them, or are we intended to yell or whisper your lines over the music? If the latter, should readers expect a Wizard of Oz/Dark Side of the Moon convergence?

AN: I was listening to a lot of Smashing Pumpkins while writing the book. I listened to live performance and studio albums almost constantly, whenever I was in front of my computer, writing and editing, and whenever I had the chance to listen to my ipod, on the train with a pen in hand and a notebook in my lap. The songs inspired the poems and served as company for me while I was writing them. I was alone a lot, and writing the poems made me feel lonelier, so playing the Dublin live performance of “Blank Page” on repeat was really comforting to me. Those swooning guitars.

I haven’t tried the Pink Floyd/Oz experiment yet, but I’ve been meaning to. I really would like to do a live performance with the songs playing in the background. Maybe one of my more musically talented friends will accompany me.

 

Q: How does one remain vulnerable and take risks in such a cynical world? Or should one even bother?

AN: The world fucking sucks and we probably shouldn’t bother to do anything because it feels like there literally is no point, but that would be an extremely futile experience and I’d rather expose my wounds to something acidic and feel something even if that something is awful rather than laying around in my bedroom and wondering what could be. I’m a masochist. I embarrass myself constantly and show people stuff that I should probably just keep to myself but I can’t stop. I think it’s innate.

 

Q: What is Punk Hostage Press?

AN: Punk Hostage Press is a nonprofit independent publisher where “all rights belong to the artist” and “the publisher/editor is a vessel for the work to be disseminated.” There is an emphasis on publishing the work of writers involved in social and environmental justice, and Punk Hostage donates books to women’s shelters, jails, prisons, homeless shelters, and treatment programs, in an effort to give back to those survivors. All rights of the work belong to the artist, as they should. I appreciate Punk Hostage’s attitude and aesthetic, coming from the do-it-yourself zine tradition myself. When PHP first approached me, it was to congratulate me on my zine. Iris and Razor, editors and rulers of PHP, were thrilled that young people was still making paper zines.

 

Q: What is Be About It?

AN:Be About It is my little literary zine that I put out twice a year. I solicit work from writers and artists whom I admire, and receive open submissions from folks who have heard of the zine over the web and around the Bay. I stared Be About It zine in 2010 when I was unemployed and had nothing else to do, and starting my own magazine was something I had always wanted to do, so I took the opportunity and just started, not really having any idea of how to operate a publication. It’s been trial and error all the way along, but it’s been fun. The next issue is themed “rich” and will be coming out soon.

 

Q: Can you talk about your own press?

Be About It Press (http://beaboutitpress.tumblr.com/) is something I just started. Having a zine wasn’t enough, apparently, and I have all these friends who have ideas for e-books or e-books in the works that they don’t know how to distribute, so I decided I’d start my own press and try to put out a number of e-books and physical chapbooks every year. We’ve put out a few e-books so far this year, Bernard Parson’s ‘to be shown the truth,’ a coloring poetry book I put together called ‘Everything I Love is Dead,’ and Megan Lent and Joe Carrow have e-books due out in a few weeks.

 

Q: What does Alt Lit mean to you?

AN: Alt lit, as far as I care, is writing published on the internet. There is a small community online that designates itself as “alt lit,” but there are communities of writers all over the internet. I don’t think about it too much, but I try to use the resources available in the communities to introduce people to my work and to become familiar with other writers.

 

Q: Do you have any advice for other writers?

AN: Write. Don’t put everything you do online, just the stuff that really makes you say ‘wow.’ Edit. Proofread. Edit again. Delete a bunch of shit. Does it sound good when you say it out loud? Don’t be afraid, but don’t be pompous either. Be nice. Don’t be too much of an opportunist or social climber. People can smell opportunists from several yards away and won’t want to fuck with you, unless you already have hella hot connections. I guess if you already have hella hot connections, don’t worry about your writing too much, but try not to piss people off. This is your life now.

 

Q: What are you working on now?

AN: I’m working on a compilation of poems and short stories called ‘Sad Storys.” That’s the working title. I might change it.

You can purchase Alexandra’s book, I Will Always Be Your Whore: Love Songs for Billy Corgan here.

Alexandra Naughton performing from her debut collection of Poetry. (Photo courtesy of Joe Carrow)

Alexandra Naughton performing from her debut collection of Poetry. (Photo courtesy of Joe Carrow)


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