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Deluge Magazine  

DELUGE ISSUE FOUR

SPRING 2015


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SPRING, TWENTY-FIFTEEN DELUGE is the literary magazine of Radioactive Moat Press. DELUGE seeks poetry and prose, translations, essays, review, criticism, poemfilms, photography, art, art, and any variations of [anti]

     


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MANAGING EDITOR PAUL CUNNINGHAM

COVER & INTERIOR ART PAUL CUNNINGHAM

www.radioactivemoat.com


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does it ever really martyr

(?)


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DELUGE FALL, TWENTY-FIFTEEN ISSUE FOUR

DYLAN KRIEGER……….…………..p. 11 TRAVIS SHARP………................….p. 13 AARON APPS……………………...p. 16 JULIA HARRIS…………………..…..p. 19 JESSICA BAER…….………………..p. 23 JACOB SCHEPERS………..…….....p. 30 VANESSA COUTO JOHNSON…...p. 32 ROBERT JOHN MEEHAN………….p. 35 JARED JOSEPH & SARA PECK……………….….……..p. 37 RACHEL FINKELSTEIN………….…..p. 40 ISABEL SOBRAL CAMPOS……......p. 42 VINCENT CELLUCI…………………p. 44 SEAN KILPATRICK………………….p. 45

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS……………….p. 49


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DYLAN KRIEGER [Agateophobia]

Dear tripper willow, wail or wallow? Your kaleidoscope growth is inoperable. Grossout transfigured by finishing the race wasted. Dancing in dunce caps so gauche it galoshes, uncrosses itself, and flicks lit cigarette butts at all your dead/nauseous. How one might imagine the chemotose roast. The wood grain glowing mad for broke. But every tumor feigns itself a pretty bit of moonbeam, a spreading electric peony plucked for the juicing, the Jerusalem of lambent damned, like

does it ever really martyr either way

(?)

the troops and the lice // will stay the same: untamed yet teemed in midnight masses. No room in the in the— No room in the in the—

Confestering booth. Smoked out by the censer. Say, who are you to exorcize my alchemical memory bees of disaster? Insane in sin, insane in sin. When they sting, all our mind-hives fly up in the wind-blow. Spontaneous plastered. Like the prophet E’s wheelbones, just silly-cybernetic hallelucinogenic enough to motor the last blowup home.


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[Original Schism]

the believer bride-body carves the word prosthesis into both its femurs. watch out—got that holy spear-it fever. when my demons get son-drunk they spit up particles of fear all over. a feast even the beast can’t keep down. the semen of the thirsty first-head. on the third day, he graced the newborn earth with a pretty little burnout curse: don’t cross this line, or else [regret]. look at me go—I’m getting wet just at the threat. I bet bride’s better half comes back with hep. too vivid a scar to forgive or forfeit. fortunate that she’s first-world informed enough to know where to cut. the ephemeral artery, famous jumper of guns, gets unplugged. not like god & the devil palate amputee fetish. they have much bigger fish with original fore-fins to fuck. but this faux-virgin, jilted urchin, hurts the worst way with her legs on—so now I’m sounding out a safe word to forget just long enough. to saw the loose limbs of history off.

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TRAVIS SHARP [Three Poems]

KIDNEY II. Coveted in glitter of course I’ll undress for the camera redress for the you know red dress for hello there I feel guilty for having sexual closet space and I’ve come a long way from posting nudes to 4chan in hopes of but still I dream of a sex tape with Andy Samberg with what camera do we film ourselves brushing teeth doing dishes poorly putting in laundry detergent in skimpy clothing download apps read about the dangers of high heels wear anyway open message from serial killer in hotel room offering oral sex decline by not sexual in the event of the advent of advantageous erroneous errrrrrrr or lavish domestic spaces in which we hang our art sleep on floor did I miss a spot welcome to the artist enjoy your stay


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14 SPLEEN. Splendor spleen are you yellow ornate in construction and always there for me for example in the restaurant for example in the park for example on a date for example under the bridge for example and I want to write stories about you in domestic circumstances but you’re not domesticated spleen not house-trained not prepared to wear an apron to use the toilet take out the trash listen to how was my day lie on surfaces lie about how you like it separate compost from garbage from recycling from what to put in mouth and what about what comes out of mouth I think we have a lot in common but really I don’t know you that well where are you from spleen did you go to college do you have a favorite postmodernist what of your politics you did what to whom under influence of what substances did you inhale do you like rain do you like thunder do you like men do you like me check yes or no what is your favorite color are you well are you happy in your position in life in capital in boss’s productivity chart did you decorate your cubicle for Christmas Halloween Easter Thanksgiving did you meet your customer service quota today are you in debt should I be concerned what have you given up to make your student loan payments do you sleep naked are you serious are you silly spleen are you sufficiently Americanized when was the last time you went to Burger King are you vegetarian do you like muscles what is your kind of music do you keep track of your finances are you a top or a bottom are you versatile are you flexible in your schedule at work have you ever missed a payment did you hit pets as a child are you angry what is your opinion on violence the death penalty prisons war drones shooting missiles an overdose of I love you do you think of me often describe yourself in five words or less do you want me do you want forever are you a cat spleen or a dog spleen


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PANCREAS. Both and neither and pancreas you remind me of myself and body and you are but are not and oh I can’t quite make distinctions anymore and I’m not trying when younger I would chart days and motions and keep track of bodies I liked and disliked and bodies I wanted to know and bodies who hurt body and pancreas you’re a sweet heart listening to me you’re busy keep ing charts of your own secretions and excretions and what’s the difference but I do care where your fluids go but direct or indirect or can it be both has to be I long to be drawn out on a couch next to you pancreas show you my secrets these are my sexts that I show not to priests but to myself over and again until I stop seeing patterns and erase tracts of body I mean queered land purchased at a steal


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AARON APPS [Green Porno]

On YouTube there is a genre of nature porn that transcends the green pornos of Isabella Rossellini within the logic of children, this genre called “monkey frog.” There on the screen like all children are on screens, monkeys shove amphibians like sex toys, like sex tools, on the material of their genitals and make sex sounds like sex sounds are the same sounds made while receiving the banana: not that I’m talking about animals any more, not that I was ever talking about animals, though I was also always talking about animals. There is animals. There is violence. There is the logic of children. There is the logic of tools. But who on the nature channel films seals having non-consensual sex with penguins and doesn't stop it, stop it because of objectivity? And what is objectionable? And who watches these videos besides me on the internet where animals are somehow cute or funny in their violence? And who isn't disturbed by themselves like I am disturbed by myself? Child, sometimes I go on Google image search and type “animal porn” with no “safe search,” and in the Googles of my eyes appears animals with animals, humans with animals, humans with humans with the aesthetics of animals, raw sex meat, cartoons of animals and humans, humans and animals dressed up like different kinds of stuffed animals, and so on. This doesn’t particularly disturb me, or disturb myself in terms of me, it is the execution of violence literally, or the ignoring of violence as it slips out of this soft and maybe gross to some children, but harmless to everyone, logic of human and animal erotics, and slips into the quick and slow murder of children with animal bodies, into the quick and slow murder of kittens, or children with kittens, or kittens with kittens, or kittens dressed up as children, or whatever logic, whatever logic that slips into murder, because murder is always there in the logic of assault, in the logic of sexual assault, that disturbs me, like murder disturbs me, child.

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[Cat Vomit in the System of Kitten Feet]

Throw off your UGG boots and walk barefoot into the wilderness of loose hairs with tiptoes and talk through each offensive sound made into ugly but meek truth precariously unbound into the generative death of each shrill sentence, and either way your feet will be disgustingly, disgustingly in the squishy system of bodies, excoriated in tooth time, fishily out rot gills into the penance behind the window of cat filled complexes, into the complexity of raw junk, raw like gill meat, plexus in the apparent space, in the apartment space, some child failed at cleaning into a thing free from failing things, from cat extrusions livable in a dull way, from the world that is nothing but extrusions, like a space full of rotten objects pinned with sharp things to the surface of itself, with itself to itself, like it was rawly nothing, nothing more than the external reflection, nothing but the burping vomit of coifed cats, nothing but the girl silent in the cat in the hat, nothing but the dull offense of patriarchal chat, nothing but some existentially fabricated fabric, nothing but dull rhymes wild in these facts that hiccup at the point of the child into a fold

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that itself folds into nothing but childish things in these spaces where we all wear gross boots, grossly like commodities, like the image of pus, of puss, of pus in boots, purring violence puissant in each footed articulation of each wild pussy that extends its cat paws, into pus, into pusses, into the erotics of animal filth filling the world with footed fabric, with tools out of the control of hands, really, out there in the paws of pus, of pusses booted, booted out into the reflection of nothing, nothing but cats all the way down, cattily expressing the opinions of pus filled children where all that can be said is ugh in these UGGs, where all there is is ugly children and violet tools bleeding the fabric of boots full of foolish sacrifices, bleeding the wounds of paws on pusses booted.

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JULIA HARRIS

[Silence is the New Treason]

Silence is the new treason. It requires you do something prophetic with your hands. I said draw me a blueprint for this blankness and he skids a line in my opaque pantyhose. Traces the faint dominant axis. A sudden origin point, stretched infinite. Now you are assuming the position of hollow. Like the original confession spoken with a cut in its throat. Like fucking in broad daylight. Your words have a certain twitch, tamp the page. Jab the mouth open, carving out the insides. Only the cruel wind knocks you out of me, with a wooden spoon licks the body off. Like salt on the rim, a stubborn topcoat, or fresh white scab.

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[Silence is the New Treason II]

fucking i carving out the insides. O with a wooden spoon licks the body off. Like salt on the rim, a stubborn topcoat, or fresh white

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[War Survival Guide I]

(Hidden in the following is a request of what I’d like you to do when you locate my body.) Statistics show one of every ten men is necessary for my mass destruction. After all, you get nine lives but only one death counts.

And if you have everything to do with biological warfare, then my skin is topography premapped for a war-zone. A skin clamped tight over its bones with pins, wanting off. If they are in grave danger of becoming an expiration, then when it’s all over don’t rot without me. Begin disconnecting the dots. Solve for X. You are now free to make hay with my body, like ribbons from the hair, undoing themselves. Tilt my head back, insert the syringe. The first to find the needle gets the hot pink slab.

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[War Survival Guide II]  

locate my

bones they are disconnecting

themselves


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JESSICA BAER [Kintsugi Variations]

Rilke’s mother’s fingers, deep in pianosnow

Suicide Attempt I Grass-trussed sex scent of green

Suicide Attempt II: Dressage in Cabot Cove Angela Lansbury: bowed white horse my grandmother and I were awed by her amble in grace

she is taking the Cavaletti too fast waltz in the shadow of a grisly murder with her pencil skirt rubbing her thick haunches She has come here to resolve the pastoral question: woman.

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Suicide Attempt III Saint Judas

Suicide Attempt IV I fucked him in the car lick innerknee thundercloud settling rubbing to slickness out of the dark It didn’t hurt.

Suicide Attempt V Self-immolation: wildflower beam from the nightpalm

Suicide Attempt VI Dear Katie, Everything is beautiful here and so full of blossom if I could I would I am cattensile in the dream of a new life when will you visit? My scars are coming gold

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[After Mareshiver]

I. Follow parabola horse incidence arching Heaven for man promises draw back glittering pain-curve repeat cessation in satiate human is his tree vault sky wind eat over & over sleeping out the leaves distend grass mind memorialize soil interior / anterior man finite planetarium of possibles wound ground works plinth sit in deaf dust part dust sea to cheek terraflinch bound up our earth Â

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planet fantastique meadowmet flower too much petalpressures rain slacks off still holding raw down cloud blown : pulped humus touch rust nails memory so far & further, remembering me, remembering you were acred by those hands holding each another I. You were as deep as water is in the seed when I took you, horseback, thunder clattered horses & moon-stepped set silvering hooves drenched us waists turn though

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27 III. Now

cattlepain

walks the land dumb time's wheel herded frost in the hart I was a spot on its back shimmering deerlove moves close by itself

IV. swallowearth

V. static planetary stations sets edges teeth

VI. now gnash in

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28 DEERONDEERONDEERONDEER DEERONDEERONDEERONDEER DEERINDEERWEINDEEEROONI DEERFORDEERINDEERONDEER DEERONDEERhurtDEERONDEER DEEROFDEEROFDEERONEDEER DEERUNDERDEERUNDERONEI DEERONDEERONDEERONDEER

VII. The pasture can only mean death for animal souls buck trample them hoof for hoof gladiolus archangel plunge through a mare he had to be mare / L I G H T VIII.

hoofrot : bridlerevolt that they were climbing down


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29 IX. I was the sand I was the shoal clashed shoal I was the cracked flower I was the pebble I was the razor hidden there I was the moistened I was the perishlogos I was the horsewoman I was the bringing chaos I was the drowned sailors rattling the chained oceans I was the rats clawing the ropes above the rising swell I was the salt scattering the lands I was the measure by which all things were that I was & then X. Soften When I wasn't a deer, I missed the ruttling your green word.

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JACOB SCHEPERS

[Two excerpts from The Sheer Space]

WHERE // once // Though jazz dwells on hard drives, clouds, materializing from torrent seeders // damned leechers // it first found harbor amid the gales Dizzy Gillespie’s cheeks propelled // those pockets a womb for our twentieth-century character //

“You’re just being cheeky now, aren’t you?” “You’re just being cheeky now, aren’t you?” “You’re just being cheeky now, aren’t you?” “You’re just being cheeky now, aren’t you?” You smug son-of-a-bitch // You derelict mansplainer //

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The sharpness of mint // as evolutionary injunction // crass deterrent to taking it offhand // face value move along it says // it says move along comely bite & sting & marching toward preservation // toward masochism // no maraschino cherries here // all cause for slimming winnowing & riveted // driven down into plushness

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VANESSA COUTO JOHNSON [cor(dial)]

This restaurant once had communal knives chained to the tables. Would you like your brisket lean. I have to do something about this avocado. Halve. Press my deltoid to administer me an ice cream cone. Grip my purse as I stand with fire. Three sets of parents. One speaks of a hamster graveyard. Another of a teddy bear attacking during a ballet. The third of a doorstep dead rabbit on egghunt day. People eating pie from wrappers. My tongue seems indecent with this scoop. Someone can’t let another win a race. She honks behind until he fingers the air. Backroad. Winds. A marquee’s stomach mentions Dickens, the whole town potboiling. We walk a black dog among deer that go to parking lots at midnight. That unknown and unknowing wild. Wraparound porch an ambition. We have home surrounded. Wave. I go to you. Green dress with a knot. Cross my sleeves and dot my eyes.


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[ap(pet)ence]

While it is unlikely that bipeds would make it into the third-floor door you risk open, I would fear an animal infiltration. Six-legged especially. Youthful flies lift. When I was nine, there was a praying mantis in the basement. The most fearsome among green exoskeletal carnivores. But he was calm as a monk. Chirp and chirography. Letters or virtual games can spark the equation, but nothing like being close enough to brain waves. The various ships between humans float, compile, cycle. This is a wet season. Monsoon or later. The matrix of rain makes a calendar. The first quadrant of anyone’s life had variables alternate. Non-ordinate. In abscissa. Humor disorders the ordinary. A trashcan’s stepper won’t open the lid. Instead of crumbling small beasts into it, we usher their legs out. From under them. The properties of bellies are what lead us.


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[queue]

Every once in a while, the crickets grow restless leg syndrome. I dream I hold a gecko to insects. Until gecko to gecko. Tell me how populated I am. Most of my organs hypodermic. Test me, my cortisol not making the grade. A train’s metal recycling on a path. A regimen of vitamins, each rotation completes a new pie chart. Why are there no three-dimensional degrees. Oxymoron cart. It takes two to tangle, locate. An infinite line can cover a sphere. Every group should have a token mathematician. You can hear the proof for why half of infinity cannot be differentiated from infinity. Can help with your latitude problem. Geographer with two degrees. The ocean presents its species in a new league. Double major in. See land whole. Sea lions are sea wolves in Portuguese. Hunted to inclusion. Hinted to clue. Seal an envelope, that will make it across stationery sets of. Still, me.


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ROBERT JOHN MEEHAN

[Habit Is The Ballast That Binds Dog To Its Vomit]

The youngest thing on dead beach, I sat, alone as the sole passenger of a crashed private plane watching the wreck sink with the body of the pilot and some form or other of damning blackmail the passenger had been particularly worried about for weeks, things work out themselvesupwind from red tide. \\ is that the smell? or are the bandaged fingers of fools driving back towards the burning sand of a tire fire? the dioxin from the paper millNope, not this time, just bloom blight, just the sound of water choking itself all choked up, getting teary eyed. The fish burst, man o war, eased grease saltness and must of work and what not. That little algae works so hardit must make its own whole, its own hole in its home, no one gives it any credit, rust damn hole, anonymous immortal and like the loneliest god, and now,

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36 I wear a coat of this algae, think like fur: fur slicked thick to skin molting as moving forth in froth brought in fluid of thaw from an iceberg so far out.

Too far out, sailors heavied in rubber suits dredge the medical waste from where a sandbar drops off. They have closed the beaches over this.

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JARED JOSEPH & SARA PECK [Three Poems]

jars named for father or mother the old boy & girl all lying in LIFE tangles if together the enemy & the other enemy feel assimilable

they are through the off hollow compost I am all buffalo coming up the chimney

light hunted the clean spoons in sight hurted the little spoons of dead leaves sloping through straight to Japan these tense something & by the hot soup glass pretend

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a weathervane

how long I’ve been the difference between being outside

& the

deities

I am sorry I can never burn down each stupid universe in

the dead

stars

like apples for rain I can never. anyway like Mark Zuckerberg I hate rain and


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snow lions. Somewhere There should be

in the snowfall Where will the radiator go here. We heads

in the sky feel finally a little more illegal that is the most intoxicated seeds read WILD &

we Often apologize apologize we lose consciousness we Often bend until ginkgos

Hey & listen I take after the snowfall Â

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RACHEL FINKELSTEIN [Two Poems]

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Helen is told that she has one of those faces. Strangers at the supermarket often mistake Helen for an acquaintance, colleague, nanny, and occasionally, lover. In the moments following these incidents, Helen can’t help but feel a sense of private pleasure. She begin to suspects that many of her life’s successes are accredited to her familiar face. For instance, Helen’s first auditions for commercial T.V. were offered after producers falsely recognized her as a host on The Shopping Channel. One morning an astronaut driving to work spotted Helen in his rearview mirror. The astronaut took her down the aisle later that year. Helen likes when he tells this story, and although she knows its cliché, she especially smiles when he says, “And I said to myself, ‘that woman is my future wife.” Their three children, two girls and a boy, have also inherited Helen’s Grecian genes. She is told that all three have faces that were made for television. She is glad to have given her children this gift. Helen fears that she has grown addicted to hearing her name with another’s face. She makes a note in her planner to talk through this fear with her counselor in an appointment next week.

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ISABEL SOBRAL CAMPOS

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[Two excerpts from Visions of the Not Known To Be Dead ]

I was dead for seven days. They put hot coals on my feet to test my deadness I don’t remember the coals only sister Ann scraggly girl walking with splayed mangled feet “I will have to see you later” There is no nakedness among the dead and when I returned to the living I had a hard time putting clothes on


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Her sister died the day after she died as she knew her sister would for she sees it as she dies Her sister died the day after she died with the same disease right in the same spot as she knew her sister would for she sees it as she dies Her sister died the day after she died with the same unchanging memory as she knew her sister would for she sees it as she dies Her sister died the day after she died if she could have known how to tell her she would but she sees it as she dies

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VINCENT CELLUCCI [applause of the dead]

pompeii blackbirds villa dei misteri vacant grave nightwalker ascends for naples fishnets at the scavi stop masculine mascara beset violence inside blush bracelets wrists rewards meridian how much you vowed to disappoint your sun oh sweet rage fig of frustration peeled off pretending & poor prodigal you will fuck anything to never forget the farletta father named you osiris’ mummy cock bandaged between your legs lorn theatre net sun around your thigh throat everyone’s diety swallowed sons take the train this city & the next absence replenish your death

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SEAN KILPATRICK

[An Autobiography or Something Worse]

I was born to salute the amphibious toxicity of clouds, gears palpitating toward no Mecca. I cornered my own god through the mirroring refuse of dung heap days. Trained in caves, spread like dervish, plucked like rebabs, sweaty pastures. Swathed girls climbed roofs to pose. She fellated me against our will. I made her frown better than most. I whipped her molecular on the skin of every sunset, the space my bomb created fat pussy in heaven.

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[Dubya]

I demand my King Henry quote. He was like: Darlyng, I’m a skimpy laser or some shit who wins by thinking. Off with the translated crabs previously dotting my throne. I accept your blue waffle can’t unfix. Heh, I wanna say “antibiotics” as if that meant a thang. They comb your balls with medicine, dude. It ain’t the year of our god nineteen-fucking-Beatles-song. Can’t fire your gynecologist for correcting his toupee, people. Not as a consequence of this sinister and vain reflexology before peeping, but ‘cause you can’t sell the too-tight out a anus and expect to tell anyone I need. I’m that payless motherfucker at the turnstile. Talkin bout son of a third base rooster, the caw you oil. Ugh, such worlds at work like bow wow, you chubby. The mis-mated therapy we holiday won’t rep us that magazine. Jesus fur, though. His holy’s succinct retorts about my loan. I’m the kind of puta you can’t indenture, son. All my friends with the PR of Fisher Price and the balloons to back that up pinball the press like they installed the first pentagram on the fact that I’m a bitch. You’ll find where there was supposed to be a dictionary I’ve already provided you with a rim job and my headshot. Look me up, I digest slippers until my skid mark is geographical. How many worms you yield to the carpet per capita? Still, I consider you my confidant and a neighboring bubba. Even though I possess the thumbs to downright antique you. We’re rusting deep within the sinus they’ll use to identify us. You and I, rubadub, boss. We’re so mortal they prioritize our tarnish.  

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My point is, how much teat may you spare or vice versa? I’m going to quit dominating my oatmeal because it resembles me. Show a document has my name, I open fire. Do her my clammiest signature. She’s fresh out of volume. Otherwise, a sorta tremendous property would be the total silence of my parents.

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CONTRIBUTORS

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[DELUGE ISSUE FOUR]

AARON APPS is currently a PhD student in English Literature at Brown University. His manuscript Dear Herculine won the 2014 Sawtooth Poetry Prize and is forthcoming from Ahsahta Press. His other collections include Compos(t) Mentis (BlazeVox, 2012) and Intersex: A Memoir (Tarpaulin Sky, 2015). His writing has appeared in numerous journals, including Pleiades, LIT, Washington Square Review, Puerto del Sol, Los Angeles Review, and Carolina Quarterly. JESSICA BAER received her BA in Creative Writing from Georgia State University in 2011. She currently lives and works in Chicago. She translates poetry from Portuguese and loves horses. Her work has previously been included in Fruita Pulp and Horse Less Review. ISABEL SOBRAL CAMPOS is originally from Portugal. She now lives in New York City, where she teaches literature at Hunter College. Her poems have appeared, or are forthcoming in Bone Bouquet, Gauss PDF, Gobbet, and Smoking Glue Gun, among others. Currently, she is working on her first poetry manuscript Sentience/Artifact. VINCENT CELLUCCI wrote An Easy Place / To Die (CityLit Press, 2011) and edited the exceptional poetry anthology Fuck Poems (Lavender Ink, 2012). Come back river, his first chapbook, a bilingual Bengali-English translation collaboration with the poet and artist Debangana Banerjee is recently available from Finishing Line Press. A Ship on the Line, a battleship-collaboration with poet Christopher Shipman is forthcoming from Unlikely Books. RACHEL FINKELSTEIN has formerly published work in Lemon Hound, Prick of The Spindle, Shampoo, and Columbia Poetry Review. She holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Montana. JULIA HARRIS is from Colorado Springs, CO. She is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Notre Dame. VANESSA COUTO JOHNSON’s chapbook Life of Francis was the winner of Gambling the Aisle's 2014 Chapbook Contest. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blackbird, Qwerty, The Destroyer, Posit, Two Serious Ladies, and elsewhere. She currently teaches at Texas State University, where she earned her MFA.


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JARED JOSEPH wrote fifty percent of Here You Are, too. He is roughly 70 percent water, 30 percent boring. SEAN KILPATRICK lives in Detroit and is published or forthcoming in Boston Review, The Quietus, New York Tyrant, BOMB, Columbia Poetry Review, Fence, evergreen review, Sleepingfish, Hobart, and is a Best American Essays 2014 notable. Anatomy Courses (2012) was co-written with Blake Butler. DYLAN KRIEGER is a writing instructor at Louisiana State University, where she has also composed her first book of poems (Giving Godhead) and co-directed the annual Delta Mouth Literary Festival two years in a row. Her cats and warm jackets, however, still reside in the Catholic stronghold of South Bend, Indiana, where she was born, baptized thrice, and graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame. Her writing can be found online in Jacket 2, Smoking Glue Gun, Foothill, Crab Fat, and So and So. ROBERT MEEHAN lives and works in Tallahassee, Fl. He edits TAGVVERK.info, with Barrett White. Currently, he is working on the manuscript for his first book, Foreclosure Season. SARA PECK is the maker of a chapbook and fifty percent of a book, Here You Are (Horse Less Press). She runs a used book store and teaches in Charleston, South Carolina. JACOB SCHEPERS is the author of A Bundle of Careful Compromises (2014), co-winner of the 2013 Outriders Poetry Project Competition. His poems have appeared in PANK, Verse, The Common, The Fiddleback, and Spittoon, among others. TRAVIS A. SHARP is a poet, cross-genre writer, and book artist. He is co-founder/editor of Small Po[r]tions Journal and Letter [r] Press. Previous work has appeared with or is forthcoming from Pacifica Literary Review, Tinderbox Poetry, Circle Poetry Journal, Madhat, and ink&coda, among others. He has exhibited work in shows at The Alabama Center for the Arts and Gallery 1412. He lives near Seattle.


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Lorem Ipsum  

Lorem Ipsum  Dolor   [Street  Address]   [City],  [State][Postal  Code]   [Web  Address]  

Profile for Paul Cunningham

Deluge (Issue Four, Spring '15)  

Featured: Aaron Apps, Jessica Baer, Isabel Sobral Campos, Vincent Cellucci, Rachel Finkelstein, Julia Harris, Vanessa Couto Johnson, Jared J...

Deluge (Issue Four, Spring '15)  

Featured: Aaron Apps, Jessica Baer, Isabel Sobral Campos, Vincent Cellucci, Rachel Finkelstein, Julia Harris, Vanessa Couto Johnson, Jared J...

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