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Call for Submissions- Muzzle Magazine [08 Nov 2010|10:06am]

MUZZLE is a quarterly online magazine that is run by a bunch of hooligans and publishes poetry, art, book reviews, performance reviews, and interviews. Additionally, we are interested in collaborative and multi-media pieces.

With each issue, we aim to bring together the voices of poets from a diverse array of backgrounds, paying special homage to those from communities that are historically underrepresented in literary magazines.

We are currently taking submissions for our third issue, scheduled to come out February 15, 2011. Submissions will close for this issue on January 15, 2011.

For the complete submission guidelines, please visit the website:

Also, please check out the latest issue to get a better idea of our aesthetic:
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She cries spiders *-critique please!-* [01 Jul 2008|06:13pm]

[ mood | accomplished ]

She cries spiders
Unlike the girls who traded love for silence
Her curses always worth their weight in gold
Tears bite poisoned
Her strength to never be in tower prisoned
A sorrow web spun silken
A mother's terror
Born both eyes arachnid weeping
A leggy crowd accompanying her wail
It tugs the heart strings
The world does strain to not displease her
Yet when she cries she always cries alone
And who would hold her?
Dress a capture net, terrible, untearable
Though she looks so lovely
When the morning dew catches
In her dress and on her cobwebbed cheeks
Dew and spider tears mingle in the dawn.

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[06 Jul 2007|10:40pm]

so...i wrote a poem about  a tattoo i got on wednesday, or maybe the tattoo was about the poem.

Oh and here's the tattoo it's about:
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[25 Jun 2007|11:53pm]

a play in two acts

act one

age fourteen. they sit in a room, expressionless.

one: we should skateboard in my stepdad's driveway

two: we should smoke marijuana.

one: oh


act two

age nineteen. one is sprawled in a casket. two stands over him wearing a black suit. it is a funeral, for whom it is uncertain.

one: hello

two: you are dead, do not talk.

one: yes. it's your fault, you know.

two: i know. i wrote you a letter.

two slips a note in one's breast pocket.

one: i hear you're a woman now.

the casket closes. an attendant passes gas while the mother cries. whose mother, it is uncertain.

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[21 Jun 2007|10:36pm]

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amelia [31 May 2007|01:00am]

like i'm back in
boston again
snorting coke off
a park bench at night
in the tangled arms
of a homeless man

i didn't mean to
fall in love with
a dying boy in a
dead man's jacket
i didn't mean to
fall in love on
that dirty wooden floor
drunk on whiskey
drunk on cheap wine
in the springtime

with a manic smile
on a small town's dusty road,
smoking hash in
some whore's musty bedroom,
he calls a friend in
minesota saying
"this girl i've been seeing,
she's somethin' else"

and i smile
and nod
take another drag of
someone else's cigarette
feel my lungs explode like
a cold war's raging
somewhere deep inside my

soon the mystery will
disappear and i'll stop
bending backwards
picking pebbles
from his shoes

i swear
i'm leaving first
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[15 Apr 2007|03:50am]


Lets call this what it is.

There’s no point fooling

ourselves with euphemisms

and bullshit.


Lets call this what it is—

sex that’s more than casual,

or maybe really less.


It’s waking up

every morning to the same

bad breath breathing down

my neck, the same old lines

and the same body

spooning mine after we


make brokenness. No, we

do not make love.  We try

and make ourselves exist—

clinging to each other, pushing

and pulling—and taking

everything because we


have voids to fill

and don’t care

what bullshit we fill

them with. We don’t

care where it comes from

or what it means.


We don’t care

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shaking hands, greedy smile [09 Mar 2007|07:13pm]



fashionCollapse )
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notetaking [04 Feb 2007|11:05pm]

tragically vague understatement -
radical realignments,
well-worn products of extended borrowing
from one demarcated zone to another,
shifting boundaries,
infinite borrowings.
when all i can remember is skin:
delicious sex theory &
scratches on marble;
memory is of the muscles.
that she is ruddy, fleet, and strong;
that sometimes there is nothing left but
these mossy incantations.
to hunt the waterfalls you must
imprison yourself -
the whole fantastic world!
household motions.
telling tales about the sun.
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[31 Jan 2007|01:30am]


the lonely cigarette


since 1913 a camel has been standing erect,

dwarfing the mountains behind him.

his skin is made of flames and tar;

green and blue blankets adorn his humps,

and  two dark loops hang from his neck.

perhaps they’re reins? or make-shift stirrups?

his big black eyes peep through

the heavy lashes, looking up, searching for—

something.  perhaps for Rob Corradetti

(the Man who decorated him to carry Man,

but left him lonely in a world much too small).

behind him, behind the toy mountains

lingers a lonely, crumpled paper tube filled with

disease and the strong aroma of menthol.

but, it’s a menthol light, so it’s only full

of light disease. still, we condemn it for

schadenfreude—this lonely cigarette

sits abandoned, begging me to light it.

it desires to be burned—

to transport through my lungs,

through my blood and my body.

to expand through me, where there

is life, and room to grow.

to become unforgettable,

as I feel it with every breath).

the cigarette is waiting, for  a vehicle

(a flame) to purge it  from its four-walled

prison, behind the tiny mountains

and camel who  refuses to look at it.





*Robert Corradetti is a multimedia artist who drew the camel on a special edition pack of Camel Menthol Lights.

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[05 Dec 2006|05:01am]

I’ve been working on being naked lately. He’s been helping. Not just getting naked: that invigorating act of caressing, folding each other together, not being able to keep your hands off each other, and peeling off layer by layer until there is nothing left to hide under. Not just making love—no, it is not that tumbleweed action of falling over and under him, moving up and down the tousled hair, the curled toes, and the unintelligible utterances (these have all been long mastered). I’ve been working on being naked. At first I could never sleep, as his arms were me, and his fingertips gently traced the outline of an hourglass on my side. Lately, I don’t seem to mind when the sun rises, shedding light over my bed, and I look over at him looking at me, naked with all my imperfections— glistening.
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lisa robertson, respun. [04 Dec 2006|01:04am]

Nancy pins them to the glass:

ROARING BOY #1 is skinny and pure as the bitter white heel of a petal. Spent lupins could describe his sense of his mind as a great dusky silky mass. Yet a feeling of being followed had taken his will away. In an age of repudiation he wouls exude sullen indolence and reveal his lace. He could be said to profoundly resent his inability to conrol his desire for an impenitent extrovert. When he closes his eyes he asks: Shall I be sold up? Am I to become a beggar? Shall I take to flight? He is skinny and pure as a calling.

he is skinny and pure as a calling. (his dusky eyes keep pulling me back to his bed in a cycle of multiplicities; he radiates reluctant anger and juts his lips on command, well-versed in taut reenactments. destruction in reverse through the curving lens of a pixelated plastic permutation; all the ways we intertwine to contradict our solitudes; how to compress the air that holds us so firmly apart and upright and over and over it's the same story - is this all we are? warmth in the dark. let me show you my heartbeat / yr breath on my hair / a hint of guilt in the way we slam doors and stumble down rusty stairs of retribution in the morning.)

ROARING BOY #2, boy with the volute heart of a girl, names the faithless toss of an abandoned guess exactitude. He gives his thought with the sinuous rigour of a cut silk garment, lives looking at the sky, waiting for the specificity of a pleasure whose deferral is underwritten by a constriction of memory, the violent stammering of a repressed structure. The planes of his face point to the exquisitely even surface of a late antique life. He has begun by setting aside holy dread. Deferral is his darling.

deferral is his darling. the scent of coffee curling in the air like a song, and he's scribbling / he's waiting / he's recomposing his projections with fingers wrapped tight around my wrist to feign some closure. & he says he only believes in spontaneity & he only believes in chance revelations, but i'm pretty sure he cribbed it all from some hollywood script, darkened theater, dilated pupils, heart racing, scribbling / waiting / recomposing in sharpie on his forearm.

ROARING BOY #3, rather than submitting to the trial of action, wants deeply to possess an opinion, then having possessed, to distribute it with maximum efficiency. Since the spectacle of luxury pleases him in others, he embarks on a gradual (to the point of imperceptibility) inflation of his own verbal style, and a concurrent, almost compensatory, deflation of his person. He is both febrile and decorous: a foolish hooligan of sardonic emphasis.

he is both febrile and decorous: a foolish hooligan of sardonic emphasis. he chews glass just so he can bleed on my tablecloth & flash a toothy red grin. he is in search of nothing and everything, and his every glance feels like a neat construction of redistributed keyboard solos. our masochistic malleabilities; our careful collisions of circumvential derision, again and again. this pretense of indifference and these dangerous games of turquoise revenge. dead batteries are a tragedy of historic proportions.
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[03 Dec 2006|02:47am]

if it is genetic consequential, i am failed.
it is compilation of aesthics and morals didactical
columns of logic, not alive.
if it is who we are, what we are,
if it is are is be was now is now,

if it were my eyelids deceased
i am eunich and i am alive.
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the big queasy [25 Nov 2006|11:33am]

stuck out my tongue and i
tasted the sun.
detroit's always sounded like armageddon
to me, so in comparison this place is
a gumdrop - here, at least,
time's moving slowly; here, at least,
the broken houses and cracked grins
can wrap me up in a banana peel embrace
while that fiddler just keeps on playing
magic spell tunes.
tell me that you love me, she says
i need to tell you something; tell me
that you love me.
and everyone's shifting in their seats and everyone
is waiting for calamity. catastrophic
plastic chairs, & frogs
raining from the sky.
absinthe green and fire engine red and
it's all made in kentucky these days.
his disappointed eyebrows.
you know how it goes.
round and round and backwards baseball caps.
do not accept packages from strangers.
venus contracting, let me
take care of yr project. you wonder
why i called, and i wonder
how many lovers' voices i have to hear in one day
before i start to get queasy (all these hearts
i've swallowed are threatening to stick in my throat)
did i ever tell you about that dream?
i hope not, cuz i don't think you'd understand.
i'd just like to be invisible, basking
in the glow of yr warm hands and long limbs,
yr fairy eyes and tangled hair,
slow smiles to make me shiver.
all of you, and all of me, and what's wrong
in the end, with multiplicity?
both coasts are so far away. i see
yr feet jumping up and down behind that airplane
but it's no call for alarm, just a reminder
of all the reasons we close our eyes
when we kiss.
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[19 Nov 2006|12:48pm]

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the tyranny of skin [11 Nov 2006|04:19am]

i feel
my birthday suit's
a size too small
i shake
with the sheer
amount of stuff
held tight with
bands of flesh
keeping me
a single being
slowing my diffusion
slow and inexorable
into my surroundings
this house
so long hated
a part of me
losing consistency
even as i lose
my social inhibitions
my geographical limitations
from place to place
and person to person
at every time
breaking up
breaking free
if only my skin
would stop
holding me
so tight
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new prose poem [18 Oct 2006|02:50pm]

the last cigarette
in my desk, under a pile of papers about David Chalmers, Ginsberg, and bits and pieces of life, hides a heavily worn package of Camel Menthol Lights.. Hard case of course, it holds up better over time. inside, there is one cigarette, sitting there, begging me to light it. it desires to be burned, to transport through my lungs, my blood, my body. i cannot blame it. i desire to be burned, and transport out of my self and into something, something with more life and room to grow through. to take up my space in something’s lungs, so it would feel me with every breath. it would think of me. the package sits there, but i keep saving it. postponing its purge from its crumpled up box. waiting for that moment, for there is always a moment, where i can’t quite sit still anymore, and i can’t get through the last chapter of Howard’s End, or when i can’t quite believe the nerve of my mother, and then i will let it burn. and, in that flame the cigarette and i will become one. i will release it into me, and release myself from that moment.
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[10 Oct 2006|06:03pm]

i'm tired of the drama
i'm tired of the pain
i'm tired of this stupid shit
and everything we feign
i just want some clarity
and someone to hold dear
but whenever i get close enough
things start to disappear
there's jackals growling at my back
lies staring at my face
i just can't seem to find the time
the courage or the place
i only want to matter
to somebody, somewhere
and for who i really am
not eyes or tits or hair
my head is pounding worse and worse
and tears are setting in
just give me something real to hold
and i'll make do with sin
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[30 Sep 2006|03:46pm]

I woke up in the morning
felt arms around me, pressing me
into a bundle of warmth
breathing down my neck
soft kisses nestling into my hair-
I rolled over and looked deeply
into the eyes of somebody,
somebody who wasn't you-
a beautiful moment,
and you broke it too.
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State of Fear [30 Sep 2006|10:34am]

[ mood | sick ]

Written in response to a series of poems by my friend.

PoemCollapse )

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