Hi Pulpy poets! This month’s Late Night Poetry Club is “Shrinking”. There have been so many points lately where I myself have felt a kind of “shrinking”– a moment or day or week where I was feeling small, sad, nervous, or ready to disappear. March has been a busy month for me, and a month for revelations, some of which were too much for me to handle or immediately understand. Poetry and writing has always been extremely therapeutic to me– and each of these poems represents that, in some way, to me. Enjoy these amazing poems by some super awesome guest contributors (and me!)- xoxo, Essine

Image by Brittany Brightly

the burning and the agony

oh god,
the burning is so slow.
the burning leaves us as shards of ash. not even
the embers.

the breaking is almost
dust. the kind that falls under your nails,

into blood. you could call it
fractured scars
and the thoughts you only
lay to rest

when you’re between naps
and your last mouthful of wakeful.

who designates us pain?
suffering as a nickname.
we all know,

but we splint up our fingers
after their inevitable
go everywhere,

and point
the other way.




nine girls as

nine mice,

eyes narrowed in need

I stayed quiet and

I let them take the

apples off my tree

– postalweight


Image by Justine
Diagrams and cross-sections
Of illustrated animals
Watch as I excuse affections.
Your beard entwined with green vines,
Violets shrinking in my eyes,
As I shy from rehearsed lines
To study ceiling constellations.
Swelling with our inhale, orchids twisted
Over ankles and our wrists.
With Cretaceous courage, branches swooped
Past my shrunken violet eyes.
Your beard and my hair, laced with lily vines,
We were confined to the basement.
Here lies two dormant specimen 
Of sleepy Homo Sapien, 
Notice how the hands are held
Notice how the noses touch
Notice how his dreams disturb him
Notice how she manifests in–
Warm arms wrapped around an arctic chill,
Reaching in and out of will.
Reading palms like they’ve got tomorrow’s news
Written in your lines,
In the space between the vines.
Please Hold

It pains me


to have you to myself —

alone, mine, now —

and yet

be unable to make the most

of the point in the night

when our silhouette mouths

join to say see you

when the sun comes up.

Julia McAlpine 

Digging In

hair and dust and string like dead

things in and on, under my bed. A

pile of old pencil lead a list of things I

never said or did or bought. I’ve

often thought to clean it up but piles

are like mountains when your head is

like a peach and the vile patch inside

your ear leaks sweet, sweet nectar. A

hoarder, a collector. Of all things

sticky, dirty, grassy, opalescent in

the din. The fear of digging in.



Image by Justine

We hope you enjoyed our newest Late Night Poetry Club, and thanks for every submission! Our next Late Night Poetry Club theme will be announced soon, so keep a look out! 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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March 24, 2015