SICK LIT MAGAZINE

Blown Pixie Dust

Silver and Gold

They say are precious metals

but I am titanium

horizontally intact

and this velvet pavement:

guacamole on a blue-marbled plate.

You know how Plato points up

and Aristotle forward?

Like Gods we reach out.

Like Gods do we vocate.

As do the dust of cosmic ancients:

Breath in.

Pixie dust out.

We’re magic, you know?

But our vices make us mundane.

My undercarriage

is riddled with rust

as my mind inhales

my lot of pixie dust

I should feel privileged I’m not dead.

There’s Something Amiss

There’s something amiss.

Skin no longer taut,

but stretched, clawed

from cheek to narrow jaw.

There’s something amiss.

The seduced left eye

cakes the shadowy hue

of a new moon’s glow.

There’s something amiss.

heightened brow

titillated, aspirating lips,

a breath onto glorious breast.

There’s something amiss.

The fiend has lost its grip

pulling her soul to and fro

the hell-pit no longer ablaze.

There’s something amiss.

Josh Dale holds a BA in English from Temple University and has been previously published in Black Elephant, Dead Snakes, Peeking Cat Poetry, and Temple’s undergraduate literary magazine, Hyphen. A short story writer by heart. A craft beer enthusiast by soul. You may find him acquiring paper cuts at his small press, Thirty West Publishing House, founded in November 2015. www.thirtywestph.com