0 About Authors Books Picks Excerpts and Interviews Gifts Search 0 Cart Log In About Authors Books Picks Excerpts and Interviews Gifts Log In
After Claude Iris Owens Animals Emma Jane Unsworth Black Cloud Juliet Escoria Broken Glass Park Alina Bronsky Cassandra at the Wedding Dorothy Baker Dead Horse Niina Pollari Empathy Sarah Schulman Eve’s Hollywood Eve Babitz Gift Certificate Glory Goes and Gets Some Emily Carter Her 37th Year: An Index Suzanne Scanlon How To Get Into the Twin Palms Karolina Waclawiak Language, as she deployed it, was neither a line cast nor a bullet fired. It was a catholic mechanism: the sharp twist of a pilot biscuit into the waifish body of a christ. A word, placed on her tongue, became flesh. One night it was almost morning, I could almost see her, every sentence a necklace she was pulling out of her mouth, tangled in smoke. From Things to Make and Break, by May-Lan Tan I Love Dick Chris Kraus I’ll Tell You In Person Chloe Caldwell I’m Trying To Reach You Barbara Browning Inferno (a poet’s novel) Eileen Myles Inside Madeleine Paula Bomer King Kong Theory Virginie Despentes Lee and Elaine Ann Rower Lightning Rods Helen DeWitt Loitering With Intent Muriel Spark Lolly Willowes Sylvia Townsend Warner Maidenhead Tamara Faith Berger Making Scenes Adrienne Eisen "Poetry was an attempt to dig into the buried stuff inside a person’s psyche. It used dream logic instead of the logic of our waking lives. Poems were sputtered by demons not sprung out of morality. In other words, poems were deep shit." – Jenny Zhang, “How It Feels” Margaret the First Danielle Dutton Mean Myriam Gurba Meaty Samantha Irby Mercury Ariana Reines My Body Is a Book of Rules Elissa Washuta My Brilliant Friend Elena Ferrante Nevada Imogen Binnie Nine Months Paula Bomer No More Nice Girls Ellen Willis No Regrets Dayna Tortoricci Notice Heather Lewis One More for the People Martha Grover I opened my eye. It was not confronted by pussy. That onslaught only happened in Tío Miguel’s room. If Abuelito was hogging the bathroom, the only other toilet you could use was Miguel’s, and to earn relief you had to journey through the labyrinth of pornography that filled his bedroom. Even on his toilet, Miguel treated you to muff. On the door across from his commode hung a life-size poster of a lady in a see-through blouse splaying herself, Georgia O'Keefing you as things shot out of your own flower. I minded all the pussy but, at the same time, part of me welcomed it. Myriam Gurba, “Georges Bataille, Look Into My Eye” Our Spoons Came From Woolworths Barbara Comyns Painting Their Portraits In Winter Myriam Gurba Pity the Animal Chelsea Hodson Playing the Whore: The Work of Sex Work Melissa Gira Grant Pretend I’m Dead Jen Beagin Problems Jade Sharma Promising Young Women Suzanne Scanlon Prostitute Laundry Charlotte Shane Scarecrone Melissa Broder Sempre Susan Sigrid Nunez Socialist Realism Trisha Low Speedboat Renata Adler “She cleared her throat once or twice, and said something about poor people should eat a lot of herrings, as they were most nutritious, also she had heard poor people eat heaps of sheeps' heads and she went on to ask if I ever cooked them. I said I would rather be dead than cook or eat a sheep's head; I'd seen them in butchers' shops with awful eyes and bits of wool sticking to their skulls. After that helpful hints for the poor were forgotten.” Barbara Comyns, Our Spoons Came from Woolworths Surveys Natasha Stagg Temporary Hilary Leichter The Autobiography of Daniel J. Isengart Filip Noterdaeme the buddhist Dodie Bellamy The Compleat Purge Trisha Low The Correspondence Artist Barbara Browning The Days of Abandonment Elena Ferrante The Gift Barbara Browning The Selected Jenny Zhang Jenny Zhang The Terrible Girls Rebecca Brown The Wallcreeper Nell Zink Thérèse and Isabelle Violette Leduc “Isabelle pulled me backwards, she laid me down across the eiderdown, lifted me, held me in her arms: she was releasing me from a world I had never lived in to launch me into one I could not yet inhabit. With her lips she parted mine, moistened my clenched teeth. The fleshiness of her tongue frightened me: the foreign sex did not enter. I waited, withdrawn, contemplative. The lips wandered over my lips: a dusting of petals. My heart was beating too loudly and I wanted to listen to this seal of sweetness, this soft new tracing. Isabelle is kissing me, I tell myself.” Violette Leduc, Thérèse and Isabelle Things to Make and Break May-Lan Tan Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead Barbara Comyns Yokohama Threeway Beth Lisick
Language, as she deployed it, was neither a line cast nor a bullet fired. It was a catholic mechanism: the sharp twist of a pilot biscuit into the waifish body of a christ. A word, placed on her tongue, became flesh. One night it was almost morning, I could almost see her, every sentence a necklace she was pulling out of her mouth, tangled in smoke. From Things to Make and Break, by May-Lan Tan
"Poetry was an attempt to dig into the buried stuff inside a person’s psyche. It used dream logic instead of the logic of our waking lives. Poems were sputtered by demons not sprung out of morality. In other words, poems were deep shit." – Jenny Zhang, “How It Feels”
I opened my eye. It was not confronted by pussy. That onslaught only happened in Tío Miguel’s room. If Abuelito was hogging the bathroom, the only other toilet you could use was Miguel’s, and to earn relief you had to journey through the labyrinth of pornography that filled his bedroom. Even on his toilet, Miguel treated you to muff. On the door across from his commode hung a life-size poster of a lady in a see-through blouse splaying herself, Georgia O'Keefing you as things shot out of your own flower. I minded all the pussy but, at the same time, part of me welcomed it. Myriam Gurba, “Georges Bataille, Look Into My Eye”
“She cleared her throat once or twice, and said something about poor people should eat a lot of herrings, as they were most nutritious, also she had heard poor people eat heaps of sheeps' heads and she went on to ask if I ever cooked them. I said I would rather be dead than cook or eat a sheep's head; I'd seen them in butchers' shops with awful eyes and bits of wool sticking to their skulls. After that helpful hints for the poor were forgotten.” Barbara Comyns, Our Spoons Came from Woolworths
“Isabelle pulled me backwards, she laid me down across the eiderdown, lifted me, held me in her arms: she was releasing me from a world I had never lived in to launch me into one I could not yet inhabit. With her lips she parted mine, moistened my clenched teeth. The fleshiness of her tongue frightened me: the foreign sex did not enter. I waited, withdrawn, contemplative. The lips wandered over my lips: a dusting of petals. My heart was beating too loudly and I wanted to listen to this seal of sweetness, this soft new tracing. Isabelle is kissing me, I tell myself.” Violette Leduc, Thérèse and Isabelle