Punk Monk Press/Magazine

I bought a death note journal. Poetry is the only name I wrote down. It seems to have not worked, Because time is already doing the job. I’m just here to bury the casket. Pretend to be Poe and Kaur If their high art, Walmart wouldn’t even sell your knockoffs. There's no message understandable For the common man and woman, Exclusive for the unemployed degrees. Another poet hates modern poetry. What a surprise. Give us an award. I said “us” 'cause it’s not just me; I’m speaking for the outcasts. We say let it burn, Because editors casted us out For telling “our truth.” There is no “our truth.” Reality is controlled by culture, And they’re speaking for the record That this is a rotting corpse. --Ethan McKnight

Poser I take the order of a punk with a jacket littered with patches and pins  that are not timid in the way I so often am.  The only good fascist is a dead fascist  adorns his breast and when I compliment it his face lights up, the word  brother  rolling off his tongue as he reaches out a fist to consummate  the connection.  When the next person in line takes too much time to fish their platinum card out of their Dolce and Gabbana wallet, I grit my teeth into a smile and dream of anarchy. --Conor Whalen

First Date   We were walking in the woods at night in December. I knew when I first spoke to him that he’d let me be weird, which I appreciated, so there we were. The tree branches looked like emaciated limbs. It would have been terrifying if I’d been alone. He was wearing a varsity jacket, but he was rich and only played tennis which he forced me to do when he eventually decided he was going to hate me. I don’t think we held hands, but he offered me his leather gloves. It made sense that he used to ride a motorcycle. He was so hot I figured he probably wanted to kill himself sometimes. That’s usually how it goes.  While I looked between tree trunks for ghosts, I told him about a dream I had where I stuck my head in an oven. And another where doctors were cutting my feet open to cure the Alzheimer’s I had. It’s because I’m on antidepressants. Oh my God, that’s insane, he said. I smiled at him and imagined what it’d be like to have him on top of me. He said, I used to have a therapist,

 Rebel Reviews is a new section of Punk Monk written by C.E. Hoffman. Click here to learn more/submit a review request.  What is behind the ghost metropolis?  I wonder this as I flip (okay, scroll) through Dabrowska’s earnest, bloody poems.  This is the kind of material Punk Monk loves to publish, and I love to read. Annette describes her debut collection as reflecting “the darker side of the mind - loneliness, mental health, trauma, but also hope, travel, and strength.”  Couldn’t have said it better myself. This collection is sincere. Searing. Surreal. So. Fucking. Relatable. I feel like my shadow can chill a minute, ‘cause Annette’s busy tearing up the room.  Don’t expect fancy shit. Expect instead the kind of gothy goodness we scribbled under the stairs, under our beds, in the corners of our parents’ basements. It brings me back to Buffy (which I’m binging for spooky season btw), Hedwig and the Angry Inch, me at thirteen obsessing over Emily Dickinson. It’s nostalgia. It’s pain.

Nocturia In my bedroom are people I do not know. If I knew them I would still wonder why they were here and how they got in. Am I dreaming this? I’ll know soon enough. I eat a banana for breakfast. It is very yellow but tastes  like raw potato. Ride a streetcar to the weed store, load up for the weekend. The vendor has no teeth. Ride the streetcar back. I am alone. When I look up I see the streetcar is driverless. Am I dreaming this? Sooner or later I’ll know. --Sal Difalco

  --Lorin Cary