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A Poem Rife With Fire By Nick Pino

Once, I felt your heat, melting my frigid shell, now I feel your blaze, lighting my prison, hell, what started as a match, has become a wildfire, the woman I once loved, now the one I least desire, what once gave me strength, now burns at my core, leaving flesh torn asunder, and my heart on the floor, but soon you’ll see, I’ll rise from the ash, better than I was before, a phoenix from a match.

Match By: Leslie Crawford I Light a match. To do what you ask? Light a candle in church? Light a fire to warm the house? Burn away the stench of A used toilet? Light a fire, Eat s’mores? Light a fire, BBQ meat? Set ablaze A stranger’s Home when I’m mad at Society for Bein nothin But the same Old crap from The same Old mouths? Should I Set myself Ablaze now? No. I won’t. My death Won’t do Anything. I should Let my Inner Fire burn And never Go out?

One of the worst thoughts one can put in a man’s head is a Freudian view of a match. by Matthew Lenox

Image Poem by Max Levitt

Historically Accurate Photos by Jake Kassnoff (insert captions—leave on table)

Left: Makaroba Sow, Right: Ben Park

Staring at the Match (Late Night Thoughts) By John Hugar

It’s 3AM I have to get up in three goddamn hours To do a job I can’t fucking stand I’m tired I’ve been tired for a few years by now I smoke my last cigarette of the day And as I light it, I stare at the match I could end it all right now Burn this fucking place to the ground Leave nothing behind Start everything over again The cops might look for me But I’d be halfway to Canada By the time those lazy bastards tried to find me Yeah. Let’s do it. Right now. I start to light the match. I hear a sound coming from the bedroom Somebody’s crying I gently tiptoe into the room Hold my daughter in my arms Sing her a lullaby Until she falls back asleep I stare at the match again Maybe I’m getting sentimental But I guess I can handle this for now

“Ignition Failure” By Jake Kassnoff

By Meg Leach

—Metonymically Meta-anonymous in Chicago

By W.

What if none of us can get to heaven? What if we're stuck in this endless cycle of hammer flipping? Succumbing to intense psychological dangerous madness, the strange scholars overcoming their reluctance to feed the awful orifice that maws like some great black throat. Wildfire. We all blow out like little candles in mist, one last smoke filled kiss.

By W.

This issue is brought to you by the letters‌    --      ROCKET LAWN CHAIRS‌ a veritable                                                

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Rocket Lawn Chairs 3  


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