Punk Monk Press/Magazine

I look for the apocalypse in your eyes find comfort in its presence. You are always prepared for the end, always have an exit plan the perfect argument for ending it all. I am an eager apostolate at your knee learning the paths one must take to break free from damnation, from love. My own eyes are a roadmap of buried condemnations, so I always keep them closed when we kiss. --Holly Day

--Mirac Tosun

At first, it was a halo but then it really got to you. --John Grey

They don't all bite. Some squeeze or swallow whole. Some spit. And it's a labyrinth, not a maze: go straight long enough and you're out. Not that I can leave. Women can look at me, but most are too petrified. So they stone me instead. When I'm lonely, I talk to the statues. We dress up and hold court. And masques. And trials. Sometimes, I pluck one out and sing while it dies, fixated, helpless, sanguine, cradled, alone. And to think, I was a good girl from a nice family before he raped me. Now I'm a war criminal. Or maybe heat-seeking missiles, holstered, armed, and ready to strike like ice picks to the eye, severing vital connections, fragmenting consciousness, and devolving the higher mind to its reptile origins are the real weapons of mass destruction. --David Schwab 

--Renee Jadischke

I AM MORE THAN A WHORE  GIVE ME BACK MY MONEY  FUCK YOU  I NEED HELP DON’T TOUCH ME  I SAID NO  I’M SORRY OKAY  I’M ALLOWED TO MAKE MISTAKES STOP BEING SO MEAN  I AM A HUMAN BEING HOW COULD YOU FORGET ME WHY DO YOU HATE ME WHY DO I CARE  …WHY DON’T YOU CARE MORE. -- C E Hoffman

Caitlin Coo has a remarkable fashion line which you can find here  <3                        If the magic of fairy tales is a life force, it’s the dying embers of a candle in the wind.  It’s hard to wish on stars when the midnight skies are bleached by a million electric lights and your eyes are downcast and blinded by the latest iPhone glow. Pixies fade into oblivion, skewered on jaded white picket fences and cynicism bred of a disbelieving society resulting in a genocide of fey-folk. There are no happily ever afters. Midnights come and go along with someone’s fairytale ball. The enchantment ends as the cold, cruel hands of time move methodically forward to chime in a new day.  Like many girls before, there will be no shining carriage or luxury car just a smashed up pumpkin already beginning to ferment and mould. What was once a ball gown hangs in tatters, no better than the rags that girl started off in.  Those sleek stilettos that replaced the glass

                                                                           A man walks in—                                      I bring him his tea,                                      Our eyes meet;                                      I’ve seen these eyes before—                                      Yours meeting mine,                                      Laughing while I cry.                                      The world starts spinning—                                      I smell you,                                       Don’t cry.                                       The whale tattoo on your thigh flashes through my mind—                                       Breathe.                                       I hear your voice, “stupid bitch”                                      And mentally lambast myself for not putting up more of a fight,                                      Why did I only leave weak little scratches,