Hey to all the Pulp Babes and poetry lovers! My name is Essine, and I’m the new Pulp Zine poetry editor. As my first job as new editor, I wanted to restart one of my fave things about the zine: Late Night Poetry Club. This collection of poem from staff and guests based on a monthly theme is going to be AMAZING, and I’m so excited for everyone to read the totally incredible submissions! This month’s theme is Leaving– I chose it for a bunch of reasons, BUT, one of the main ones is that September represents a lot of different kinds of “leaving” to me. Whether it’s the retreat of summer, leaving behind an old school or grade or age, September is filled with a lot of beginnings. Leaving isn’t always physical either, though– it can be mental, imaginary, small, gigantic. It can cause growth, and sometimes destroy it. Nearing the end of September, when my first dose of leaving has just begun, I think it fits perfectly. – xoxo, Essine


Image by Agus Cabeleiro

go to the garden

snowflakes attack your dark brown hair
and your lips look lilac
because of the reflection
of light and grey skies around us
you’re my favorite reason to lose sleep
i’ve been trying to memorize
the order you like your suitcases to be placed in
so i don’t have to ask
every time you visit me
the pine trees in the back
looks like the gate to the garden of eden
when covered in snow and hanging old and weary
y’know there’s no chapel
in the garden of eden
so you don’t have to worry about
standing up for a long time to sing
i know you don’t like that
i’ll send you the directions
when i can remember them
don’t leave
don’t go.


In The Absence of Swollen Nights

If sunsets were potions and we both drank one up at the same time,

does that mean that despite the come and go hourglass

that dictates these calendar days,

we’re still intrinsically linked to that one slice of moments?

Flipping magazines, white t-shirts never go out of style, and

our heads still in the bell jar thick with smoke of forever.

We sit on parked cars, in parked cars;

they’re expert catalysts to the screen lives we strive for.

Feelings are tacky, love is stupid, so our sentiments are graffiti.

Whoever told you that this is the beginning, that this is the end,

must have either been just born or dying, or else both are wrong.

It goes on, it always goes on

we learn that every time we are too busy to call.

In the absence of what we used to be,

we feed ourselves full of novelties

and precious pasts become funny anecdotes.

Missing is for milk cartons,

not for blue Saturdays.

The adolescence we remember is

a pendulum between ennui and elation

and bleak belief we swear upon like blood brothers

that we won’t fade out like ancient stars.

We believe it too.



Image by Justine

Big city byes

I remember when I wrote

about Brooklyn

in the most angelic way.

I’m incapable of that without you there,

especially when I’ll be gone

in less than a week.

Of all the things you left in me,

I mostly still ache to know the tone

you speak in to your mother,

or the laugh only heard

around your sisters.

I never asked you how

you like your eggs—and

I’m sorry for that if nothing else.



leaving, july

you threw all your shit into black garbage bags for 3 hours and came out with your smile all poised like some miss america and said you loved everyone, bye and we all laughed, your hair all poised like miss america and he said “see you tomorrow” and we were all playing cards and laughing, you tried to runaway twice before but you weren’t 18 then and now you hauled out all your black garbage bag shit but i can’t remember if dad helped and hucked it into the back of your car us all laughing playing cards remembering the two times you flipped the coffee table, knowing how you loved to bluff to get what you want, knowing that you left once you turned 13 and the house was one loud scream, i thought i’d see you 3 days later but i forgot you had been gone since you were 13



Image By Essine

things 2 do:

1. black white window grid

    sew verdant leaves on your lips

    now wash it all off


2. leave your eyes at home

    right by the bedside table

    then watch the world


3. when you’re out of milk

    wrap yourself up in arms

    and squeeze till you feel


4. try it once a day

    let the saliva trickle

    know your own substance


5. teeth stained red berry

    run the ferns between your toes

    peel back your own doubt


6. feel the rug beneath you

    pushing fibers through your veins

    let your breath fold in


7. make valleys with your heels

    not in brown, but in deep blue

    stars stuck in callouses


8. raise your little hairs

      know towards what they are looking

      turn your eyes ablaze


9. don’t use sandpaper

    pine needles from angry pores

    love every part


10. pull the sliver out

    gather all your fists as one

    and release the bright gust



In Which You Board A Plane And Can’t Stop Thinking Of It Crashing

and you can’t stop thinking of the would-be life you are leaving behind and you can’t stop noticing the relaxed “cool dad” type figure sitting next to you and why he’s leaving on the same flight as you and what he can’t stop thinking about and if he, too, is worried about what will happen to his sleep schedule or if the man he used to kiss in the opposite time zone will remember his lips or even his name in two week’s time and if the plane does come crashing down, will it happen in a blaze because you never liked for things to get too hot or will you end up in the ocean, because you never could swim and at some point you cry but during the entire five hours on board you never once go to the toilet or go to sleep and you can’t stop thinking of how you probably should so you close your eyes just in case and it feels like you’re falling but then you land in some city masquerading as home even though the first time you felt at home was pressed against someone’s chest but they’re perpetually moving three hours away from you and you spend two weeks in this city in a state of undress and denial because suburbia is the new scar on your forearm and you’ve been crying his name out on your pillow for hours and you don’t bother to change the sheets and you eat the same thing for dinner everyday but don’t go to sleep until seven A.M. until you board another plane and even then you can’t stop thinking of it crashing and of how you should’ve loved harder, first yourself and then all the others and the hug you give your family is lackluster and limp and nineteen years overdue and your passport photo is so ugly and will look worse five hours away from “home” and you find you’re not as anxious as you were two weeks ago because maybe now crashing is starting to sound like a good idea to you because maybe then you wouldn’t have time to think of everything you’ve left behind and the ‘almost’s’ that stay eight hours away will then become ‘never’s’ because you’ve crashed and you’ve burned and you’re dead and maybe that will be easier so at some point you turn off the Beyoncé album and stop writing in your journal about him and you close your eyes and it feels like you’re falling but not in the same way you got used to.

This way doesn’t feel nearly as good.



Image by Justine

Opposing Forces

[ opposing forces
which might
be the reason
why you
are leaving

i taste
as the
of your lips
collide with the
salty flavor
of your tears.

i see
walking out the door
about to
make more

i hear
being happy

i smell
through the
dew of dawn,

a scent
so fresh.

i feel
still holding
me in
your embrace,
still orbiting
me with
your grace.

opposing forces
which might
be the reason
why i
still love
you. ]




you are a growing cell and i

am the wings of an airplane

always moving always leaving

always seeing new places flying

over paved streets breathing air

no one else breathes but you oh god

you are fluctuating you are an

unpredictable force of nature you keep growing

while i keep sinking

i am falling i am falling i am falling,

when i crash i can only think of your lips

and i am so alone that i cannot think straight.



Image by Carla Souto

I hope you enjoyed our first new Late Night Poetry Club, and thanks for every 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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September 21, 2014


This is so beautiful and sad and wow okay I’m sorry it made me teary but in a good way aaaah you’re all such amazing artists <3 <3 <3

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