Samael – a poem by Scherezade Siobhan, as part of TMO’s original fiction and poetry collection. His: the tree that won’t shoulder the noose His: Celan cusped in
Where the ether, Where the grave – a new poem by Scherezade Siobhan, as part of TMO’s original fiction and poetry collection.
Samael – a poem by Scherezade Siobhan, as part of TMO’s original fiction and poetry collection. His: the tree that won’t shoulder the noose His: Celan cusped in
Akashic – new poetry from Scherezade Siobhan, as part of TMO’s original fiction and poetry series.
As young as you are, light matters still in evening rites mother sing lullabies that taste of herbs a shield glimmering in stars for them light matters still Light on rooftop make asphalt shiver like wizards with mice up their sleeves mother’s lilted trance illuminates pin-pricked stars, feline shaped impressions on a lunar phase, wide […]
And the fireflies wheel lassos around the castle the pine-trees make widescreen, the spaces of adjacent arch and the indeterminacy of summer air whispers Tuareg from its desert sojourn joined dots of insects, a blanket quilted on river’s edge the resulting kaleidoscope might be treacherous might wage battles, the wingspans cannot fight the intermittent moments […]
A poem by John Doyle, as part of TMO’s Original Fiction and Poetry section.
The County of Rain Lush and glistening, strands of rubies used to spill from the thrush’s throat; but now the dew will dry before the sun rises, and we endure a thirsty cinder, and then a choking, broken moon. And so I’ll drive through the night, past the pine barren’s wind-thrawn forms to your county […]
The Last Toy That small, wooden train engine remains on your dresser, crowded by crumpled bills, covered by a black dress sock; the rest lies packed, entangled in its tracks beneath the snapped, abiding lid of a plastic box, buried in the attic’s still vault. Why did you decide to set that toy aside, a […]
The Cellar’s Reckoning I. Where the broad, brick picket of chimney noses into the cellar dirt, a hemlock post spans from joist to shale slab and bears its share of the house’s weight, but also the firm, deliberate strokes and scrolls of a hundred-year old hand, tallying bushels of potatoes stored in that false, dank […]
You’ve got to be cool When you walk in And your head spins And your tongue wriggles Like a fish out of water And all the faces Are doors to strange Unknown lands You need a cigarette In your hands You’ve got to be cool When the big man Calls out your name You’ve got […]