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Winter 2017 Subprimal Poetry Art is now available.

We're very pleased to have work from Cecil Bødker (translated by Michael Goldman), Natalia Bilotserkivets (translated by Andrew Sorokowski) Alexander Chubar, Julio Cesar Villegas, Quin Nelson, Adrian Potter, Constantia Geronta, Patrick Cahill, Brittany Ackerman, Nels Hanson, Eileen Cunniffe, Tony Gloeggler, and William Doreski.

Some of the pieces have the author's reading set to a custom musical composition. Take a look!

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Kain / Cain

by Cecil Bødker ● translated by Michael Goldman

Det er dig der har gjort det.
Skyggen af dine hænders værk
er over dit ansigt,
og netop fordi du spreder
din onde samvittigheds glohede sten
på grønjorden om dig
vil du brænde under fødderne
når du går.

Det vil ryge af græsset.
Du kan ikke gemme dig,
for sandhedens sorte askepletter
er sporet af dine hæle,
og dine formørkede øjne
vil åbne jorden omkring dig,
stivnede læber vil forme
dit navn.

Det er dig der har gjort det.
Ingen ved det endnu
men æselkæbens mærke
er på din pande
og dine hænders blodige viden
vil ikke begraves.
Stene i græsset.
Kun løgnen vil huse din frygt.

It was you who did it.
The shadow of your handiwork
is on your face,
and since you spread
the hot glowing stones of your evil conscience
on the green earth around you
your feet will burn
as you walk.

Smoke will rise from the grass.
You cannot hide,
for your heels are trailing
the black ash-stains of truth,
and your darkened eyes
will open the earth around you,
stiffened lips will form
your name.

It was you who did it.
No one knows it yet
but the mark of the ass’s jawbone
is upon your forehead
and your hands’ bloody witness
cannot be buried.
Stoning in the grass.
Only the lie will house your fear.

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by Julio Cesar Villegas

Close ​your ​eyes ​—​ ​that’s ​when ​you ​will ​see ​them.

That’s ​when ​you ​will ​see ​the ​sun ​become ​broken: ​the ​silent ​and ​surrendered ​mirror, suspended ​above ​bodies ​of ​bullet-laced ​wind. ​That ​is ​when ​you ​will ​hear ​the ​final sermon ​of ​the ​hanged ​priest.

The ​distant ​fields ​that ​once ​held ​maize ​and ​cassava ​now ​hold ​the ​corpses ​of ​tongues and ​villages. ​Keep ​your ​eyes ​closed, ​because ​that ​is ​when ​you ​are ​able…

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by Adrian S. Potter

Once it arrived, I could no longer decipher between right and wrong. It was a delightful amnesia, fragmented completeness accompanied by anxious music…

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by Patrick Cahill

She fled the crime scene, unclothed, a killer. We tracked her through woodland, we tracked her through thickets, but she absorbed the light as she fled. Mosquito grit rose in her wake. Perfume, sweat, cuts, insects her clothing now. Wind swept back from a river she sought a deletion in her flight. Our flashlights’ yellow probes passed over the undergrowth. We moved…

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