Hi Pulp Babes and poets! It’s Essine back with Late Night Poetry Club, a monthly compilation of poetry submitted by readers and staff. This month’s theme is…*drumroll*… Baby Teeth! Those magical ‘lil things you lost when you were just a wee child. What does it mean? Baby teeth to me means youth, leaving things behind, growing up or out of something, self love, feeling older, newness and oldness. It can be interpreted in any way you see it or relate to it, which is what I asked readers to do. They sent me these incredibly stunning poems, which range from topics of aging, children, and disowning. Enjoy! – xoxo, Essine

This and all art by Essine

Clenched jaw, sore feelings
Your name rotting in my mouth
Pull out the pliers




The fear of pregnancy and childbirth.


Google won’t give me a word for this.

The fact that my body is a novice

at carrying significance does not

scare me. Small, textured hands

do not scare me. I am not afraid

of the general idea of you.

But I’ve got my own life to use as paint

in your nursery. I’ve got the family

medical records between my mattress

and box spring. That’s all enough

to give me nightmares that start

before I even fall asleep. Child,

you need to know that I am not afraid

of you. I’m not afraid of the shape

you’ll give my ever-loud belly, or

having to coax you out of me

and into the hospital room.

I am afraid of what comes back with us

when I take you home. Toddlerhood

does not scare me as much as age ten.

Is it shallow of me to assume that that age

will be as traumatizing for you as it was

for me? Am I wrong to make a scrapbook

out of each time depression or anxiety

are mentioned in my lineage, tape your

ultrasound to the very last page and ask

whoever is listening to let all of this pain

skip your generation?

Child, I don’t want you to be in pain.

Once, I was told that unborn babies

are first stars in the sky that pick

their parents. I know that I have

redeeming qualities. I know I will be

a good parent. I am not afraid

of the idea of you. But you are more

than an idea. You will be someone,

you will be your own world, a world

as big as your name. I am not afraid

of you. I am afraid of how you may hurt.

Baby, I don’t want you to hurt.




Well-Rested By The Time I Turn 21 

Mozart composed his first symphony
at eight years old.
Shakespeare was married at eighteen
and completed his first play at twenty six.
My grandmother carried life in her hips at fifteen
and had three declarations of young love
by the time she was nineteen.
My grandfather had barely gotten over puberty
when he took his first trip-
a tromp over unknown countryside with
a gun on his back and a
stained uniform as his only clothes.
I am twenty and all I feel like doing
is falling asleep until the
Earth’s completed
another revolution of the sun.



Bathtub Confessional

I finally felt it

My heart pounding against time

Becoming the symphony in the air.

How the warm water caressed every inch of my body

I finally felt it

My heart pounding against time

With burning eyes,

I force myself to feel

Regenerating it

Just to imprison the rest.

Water turned dark with dirt



Grief, and misery

Goes down the drain.

Yet I still feel them blossoming inside again.

White cells weaving me together,

Trembling breath

Warm body

Out of this mess.




Outbound (43)

I braid my hair

to take up less space

when I ride the bus. I

look like my mother:

freckles, curls, a very small

nose: the women in check-out

lines of supermarkets always

whisper this and

it is an affirmation. I am

embarrassed that you still

walk me to the corner grasping

your orange coffee cup in hand but

together we watch the police

wake the homeless and

I suddenly find that

I cannot bear to

step onto the bus without

giving you a swift

kiss on

the cheek before

I go.



It is 5:34 AM.
The orchestra of the earth croons
As the constellations dissolve,
Applauding their plunge
From our skies.
But celestial bodies do not
Careen across the cosmos
For a chorus of crickets.
Jupiter and Venus do not
Halt their heavenly sway
Throughout the galaxy
At the siren of a songbird.
I will ellipse your existence as
A starlit globe for eons
After the fauna and faces of this
World have reached their end.
You and I are
Planetary phenomena,
Divine and vibrant in the void.
Together we will dance defiantly
Across the heavens
Long after the morning song
Of this earth ends.





i disowned you before you had the chance

 they would have been less ashamed
if i had run away with a man
they would have thought i could be saved
if i had run away with a woman
they would have welcomed me home and wept
if i had run away with the circus
but i ran
away from them
i ran away
with myself



Final Evening in The Red House I

Theres was an afternoon
And I say afternoon because no other time of day
Could capture such a feeling,
Though the instance carried on beyond my slowed breathing.
When I sat upon my floorbound matress
Wool cocoon
Intwined with pastels
Pinks and blues
Evoking such clarity
In such an unclear evening.
And I opened that book of spells
The sort of magic I didnt believe in
Though then I didnt ascribe to any-
And read through the mystified intentions.
Save me from this October sunlight, weaning
Give these rotted bones some meaning.
I heard no calling
But the autumn winds, heavy, labored breathing.

A year, a dime
Change in grand time
And still not yet changed.
Rip VanWinkle passed his fate
Minutes, the world began to accumulate,
As my body did the same
Lacking moments,
I yearned for their inception.

I came in illness
Seeking health
There is no medicine
Left to treat me now,
Only stale disease
Through cracks in the uneven tile-

And so,
As I awake
As I scar before I age
As loneliness becomes technicality
Rather than definition-
From dye stained tiles
To coffee splattered rugs
uneven spackling
(Fallen hair, dried blood)
Proof of every person I once was-
After these three years,
The longest I have learned to love,


I am leaving.




I hope you enjoyed this month’s Late Night Poetry Club, and thanks for every fantastic submission! For any poetry or poetry pitches, please e-mail thepulpzine@gmail.com or psychedelicdaisyblog@gmail.com! We love reading your stuff!

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October 25, 2014


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