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juliancday

@juliancday@writing.exchange

Poet, roguelike developer, pixel artist (ish). Chapbooks: Late Summer Flowers (Anstruther Press), Orbits (Model Press). Editor/publisher, null pointer press. he/him

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juliancday , to random
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Very happy to have a small poem in the summer issue of Juniper - thankful as always to Lisa, Nina, and Mike.

https://juniperpoetry.com/atlantic-by-julian-day/

juliancday , to random
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Domenica Martinello, from Good Want

CIRCLING BACK I lock fingers with myself, preteen. I offer up the underwire. I bounce and supple, drag and drop the pretense, steal. My fanny pack is plump, I smell all pungent and powdery. I return to puppy shampoo, milk and strawberries. I roll in the knoll and sniff my grassy knees. I scorch and sample, run and snot, suck face at the bus stop with a Halls in my cheek. I bleed. I bray and heel, pee in strong spurts that never burn. I fur and yearn, stretch and rip. All shirts are belly shirts. Punctured and pierced, I stud, shred, and patch. I serrate and wheedle, huff puny highs and experiment with cuts. I ache. I crawl home with hair under my tongue. Sip cough syrup in the quiet of a bush. I have a mission. I produce coins to procure fries. Get the shakes. Steam and flush and pillow fight. I sugar and grease with prurient delight, stink and cream, frolic all sticky in the feathers. I tip the nozzle to my mouth, swirl, spritz, gorge, spit. I poke holes. I punch. Thumb my thumbs through the sleeves I've wrecked. Stomp my eyes with the heels of my palms. I do uncouth things with hot glue. Murals left undone, recklessly staple-gunned, coffee souring under the bed. The uneaten lunch stuffed in the doorless closet, mossy with fluff. Years without the privilege of privacy, unhinged, opened, punished. We're soft, we're angry, we're spoiled, we've written mean things in our diaries. I know it all and I know nothing. I reach through the beaded doorway. I tell myself a secret.
ALT
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    juliancday , to random
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    Matthew Walsh, from "Terrarium".

    DO NOT TOUCH THE NOTEBOOKS I don't let men get too close to me close up they will see my secret mysteries I am growing out my silky black hairs of my nose in hope men develop an aversion to me During the Olympics I wouldn't go down on a man who promised to burn me into the Great Canadian Literary Landscape the flowery language was enough and this was a favour to me I have not won any medals for sucking dick Men tell me such beautiful eyes so I won't leave one foot on his bedroom floor while the openly gay diver from Laval claimed silver in the 3-metre springboard I tell men to text me to let me know to text you and pray no one responds I need to figure my beard as mine is a face hider and I want to be luscious for me and I like to leave my shirt on during sex because I have a scar a man once licked that transported me back to the emergency room only in terms of scars and memory and the complex prison system of the brain He asked why all my notebooks were empty I said I wrote and please do not touch the notebooks I'm growing them out
    ALT
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