TWO POEMS by M.V. RIASANOVSKY

stink bugs

it’s time for the funeral — the funeral for the stink bugs in my apartment

it’s time for the moon to cum <3

cum all over us in the dark

it’s not time for apologies

there was that apology party for years fucking ourselves silly with sorries

no honestly! i am no longer sorry when i wear the balaclava and burn

down a walmart or whatever

i’m serious y’all

my grievances are with my ““family of origin””

i don’t owe any man who has ever harmed me Appollogyyy

i’m super fucking serious

when my heart flows through the life of the earth and my blood is mingled

with the dirt and ether, when i lay in

the grass and breathe in something delightful and forgetting

i breathe in your shampoo and your scent and the queer

goopy lust;;; there’s a decadence in our dyke-y little resistance

but now is a funeral for the bugs that only died for trying to live

their dried up carcasses adorned in cobwebs

when i die pls cover me in cobwebs !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

when i die don’t let my dad come to the funeral xxxxxxxxxxx

when i die bury me where a tree can grow, where sunlight permeates land that is loved

where someone can sit in its leafy shade;;; years from now

holding hands with someone they owe no apologies for loving

warming the earth by digging their nails in the dirt while

getting the most orgasmic head they’ve ever received

please, fuck under the tree of my ashes

smell the salt in your tears as you weep

for each little creature entangled in harmful relations,,,,,,,

removing the snares and thorns, building something more beautiful

embalmed in tenderness, without apology


if you don't bury your guns you can't grow a gun tree [i say this and everyone laughs because they're drunk]

(best viewed on desktop)

the admission tickets are live

quick kill everything

kill everything quickly

killingly every the quick thing

soft grasses and the real

housewives of beverly hills

antique stores and the quaker oats guy

my ceiling fan is broken and i'm

not waiting for them to apologize

i've reclaimed my whole entire life

the meaty, nasty fuckery of my life

it's all mine baby and you can't

take that shit away from me

the lull of the tides on the shore

and the k hole we find ourselves in

watching king of the hill edits online

everyone tells stories about

where all the guns are buried

and the friend that died

and i think about my friend

that died too we were in

high school art class together

his hair was auburn and

he wrote poems drew

anarchy on the desks

before he was murdered

at sixteen in his house

i don't know if their friend

wrote poems but we're all

around a fire or something

or we're just laughing at

reruns of the real housewives

of beverly hills wondering

if their dysfunction supersedes our own

supernovas and the quarter you

have to use to get a shopping cart

at aldi everyone over

the age of forty calls it krogerSSSS

with an s at the end which i like better

don't get self conscious about it babe

we're all hot and shoplifting from

the grocery store anyways

crime doesn't need an age limit!!!!

when i am ninety years old

i hope i still steal everything

that isn't nailed down

and that i feel beautiful and

gorgeous and queer and trans they should

put me on the oatmeal box

and sing me songs about the

insanely cool way i am still alive

even though i don't often want to be

that takes a lot of courage tbh

that takes a lot of, like, idk, determination?

be alive i whisper to my belly and brain

and the housewives and my friend and

their friend who died

to all the guns that were buried

and all the bodies too


m.v. riasanovsky (they/them) is a nonbinary, queer, disabled, and autistic poet living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains in central Virginia. They have self-published several zines and have been part of DIY/alt-lit writing communities. They are a grant writer and are passionate about leftist movements.

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TWO POEMS by MICHAEL BROOKBANK

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THREE POEMS by CHRIS STUBENRAUCH