Nocturnal Release
I pray each night that sleep collapse me 'til I crumble;
That day’s harsh light won’t find my eyes; that slow I might smuggle
Away in flights of silk and graves of down. No humble
Dream aroused to spark bright a flame within, no hope to fuel diurnal struggle.
Delay me these trite, woken blessings of constant dawning trouble!
I lay, to spite them, in cursed sheets, so that as I tumble,
I may just once see, unspoken: my god cometh of black and blue rubble
In the jaws of my twilight; embedded and broken, praised in all my sleep talk mumbles.
Amen.
Now take a seat:
It’s time to eat.
Keyring
I am on the keeper’s keyring
I jingle with all his others
There are so many here and all of them rust
Save for me: I am not iron,
I am not gold, I am not brass
Not silver or aluminum
But some other thing that does not—
Will not—deign to die in puddles.
Stubborn as a diamond
I refuse to join in games
I will not permit the keeper
To use me for another’s ransom.
He thrusts me in the locks of keyholes and
I do not turn. I never will.
At Night, We Share a Trigger
To know you
Is a call
In response
The rainbow refracts
You grace me while
I grace your gaze in…
The dream place there’s a fuzzy version of me and a faceless version of you and every time they share a bed they combine into this monstrous thing that screams to break free of the rainbow rhythm and to be real and alone and it’s utterly insane because it’s already alone since it’s swallowed up that fuzzy version of me and this faceless version of you and now there’s no one left to occupy the dream place and it just screams for us to wake up until we do and
The mirror-selves dance To know you
In the mind-shelves foyer
The silent gala carnival in both ways
The choir’s chant Is a call
No homesick refrains
And no lullaby for two in your gaze
Our sleep is made In response
Much quieter in
Blankets smothering two Knowing you
In truth I only know you when our dream-selves touch for that brief second just before our monster is revealed and in that moment I hear you and in that moment you are speaking and I can hear you like a bell that is suddenly silenced but the reverberance still ebbs in tidal waves and as I watch the grotesque thing we birthed pull itself onto the shore I become cold hearted hearing your response echoing waiting for me to call again and to be awake of you and to reconcile you but
The mirror-selves dance To know you
The choirs chant
Our sleep is made In both ways
In the mind-shelves foyer We are asleep
No homesick refrains
Much quieter in In our gazes
The silent gala carnival Refracting
And no lullaby for two
Blankets smothering two Knowing you
There were always two And two
Hark the call
And response We are
Love Spittoon
I don’t like the way
“I need you” tastes on my tongue,
So I spit it out.
Hope Spittoon
I don’t like the way
“Icarus” sounds on my tongue;
Still, I let him slip.
Lukas Quinn (he/him) is a gay writer and English student from Portland, Oregon. Quinn authors short speculative fictions, psychological thrills, and poetry demystifying mental health. If you can’t find Quinn hiding in the sci-fi section at the library, he’s probably at the gym or fighting off a Beholder (in D&D, hopefully). Quinn has been featured in publications such as A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Bindweed Magazine, Door is a Jar Literary Journal, Pathos Literary Magazine, Perceptions Literary Magazine, The Sucarnochee Review. Find Quinn (@ichaotiqa) on Instagram.
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