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red., 2018 this zine was edited/curated by sarah dauer
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contents G Perry, “To Will To Want to Be” (top)………….…..………4 Cora Melcher (bottom)…………...……………….…………..4 Katillac Tweed……………………………………………...….5 G Perry, “RED GUY”……………………………………….…6 Sarah Cavar, “+ 1 ( yr )”……………………………………...7 Minah Kwon, “Creature”……………………………………...8 Salem De Geofroy….………………………………………...9 Cora Melcher…………………………………………………10 Cora Melcher…………………………………………………11 Salem De Geofroy, “warming”……………………………...12 Salem De Geofroy………………………………………...…13 Cora Melcher…………………………………………………14 Donnie Martino, “A Love Letter I Never Wrote”…………..15 Salem De Geofroy…………………………………………...16 Anonymous, “The Kink List Accident”……………………..17 Sarah Dauer, “undressing”..………………………………..18 Renzo T., “My heart is not red”…………………………….19
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Creature Minah Kwon And I don’t want to feel defeat, I want to be featured. But, I have fears, That your feet are on hers I don’t want to be a creature that lingers, just when you need her.
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warming Salem De Geofroy after Danez Smith much as i try there’ll never be a fully clean day in summer. mud dries on my knees, crack in ways that itch and burn and probably exfoliate. cuts litter tanned fingers, fingers poking holes in dirt and digging 6-inch holes to ensure a secure dahlia bulb. trying to avoid wild mustard only seems to make it impossible out of spite, and my arms sting every time i shower. my manager laughs like Venus, takes a break every day to soak her scalp and dirty gold hair with hose-water, makes me a smoothie on my first day back, reminds me that i’ll always be in love with her. she hugs me with the tightness that cuts off your breath and you close your eyes and breathe in and thank god because you don’t know when the next one will come. we curse the lilies that take up so much time and crates and break when the wind’s too strong. pollen stains my fingers and forearms in so-sharp pigment immune to soap. the same green bogs i’ve had the past 3 summers keep my feet soft, and everytime i get home and take them off, the soles spit out dirt and leaves and sweat. luke sings folk songs on his guitar to the weed plant i had the honor of naming Gloria. glory and emptiness go hand in hand when your days are occupied making bank and cashing out. like so many pairs of yellow-handled scissors and paper coffee cups and cheap sunglasses, i could have sunk into the mud of reeves field and stayed there until september if i’d wanted.
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A Love Letter I Never Wrote Donnie Martino I say I don’t have a type, but I know deep down it’s redheads. I don’t discriminate between those who have naturally red hair and those who buy their way into it. I love strawberry blondes, orangey reds, even the purplish red that Jersey housewives like to dye it. Yours is my favorite by default. It’s a natural red that catches that sunlight. The only time I saw a color close to it being the fur of a cat we met at a cafe in Asbury Park. She hogged the tiny white chair you both were sitting on while I teased you about it between sips of tea. I hope you know that in spite of my teasing, I love your hair, even if your relationship with it was tumultuous at times. I loved it when it grew in three strange tiers on your head. I loved it when you cut it yourself, not quite meaning to turn it into a crooked mohawk. I love it now, long waves of beautiful red hair that fall well past your shoulders at this point. I will always have my annoyances, which I’m sure you’ve heard far more than my adorations. You’ve heard my complaints about how I find long, red hairs attached to my clothes, clogging the drains, even getting caught under my pen as I write. Just know that I always remind myself that even when I am frustrated, they are all my favorite shades of red, artifacts of my favorite redhead I’ve ever met.
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undressing Sarah Dauer after Marney Rathbun my nipples squish and pat and sit on top of my breasts like pink supple hills my nipples are a tad bumpy and grow long black hairs to remind me where i came from, my nipples have bled for a whole day after i shot silver bars though them, soaked an entire menstrual pad i stuck in my bra, they said sorry mom they said sorry body, you are bleeding out of the wrong holes this time my nipples have seen soft lips pressed to them, they have seen my roommate’s wide eyes and shied from the pediatrician i said don’t look at my pepperoni nipples they are tender, face away from my mother in the dressing room of kohl’s i have seen my mother’s nipples but i cannot remember how they look like i think it’s a gracious way of forgetting although i always envied the valley between her breasts that i called cleveland before i knew otherwise my nipples jiggle under a heavy shirt and grow firm when i lay in the snow and sometimes they don’t feel like mine sometimes they feel too woman for me when i imagine an infant’s suckle or grope i cannot imagine my pomegranate nipples stretching and squirting and corresponding through way of human body email so sacred, so unlike what i know
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