oraclelitmag

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— Seneca Basoalto, Plums & Arpeggio

[oraclelitmag]

Honey Nova

Striped lines attempt to define the swine 

From drinking water or wine, 

But the cup overflows 

And my hair grows 

And the nonsense slows 

Into a minimum and the grand sum knows 

What matters anyway. 

So don’t fool a dude 

With an attitude 

Because I’m stubborn since the day I when I was born 

And torn from womb 

Too soon for monsoon 

To drench this goon. 

Try somewhere else and 

Find yourself 

Involved in futile focus, 

Working on controlling others 

Instead of opening your own lotus. 

I promise you nothing is real 

Besides the lies I shed 

Over the ones that already reside 

Between the tides 

Of the emotional currents in your head. 

So do you believe 

And then behave 

And become a worker in a beehive 

For queens who consume your honey too? 

Clean your assets 

Until you crumble in caskets 

And maybe then realize 

It wasn’t about the honey, 

Free flowing abundantly, 

It was never the money, 

Falsified ideology of currency. 

We cannot have something that we are. 

We cannot be less than shooting stars 

Across the space of time around sublime rhymes. 

Constellations and congregations 

With formations that are the cultivation 

Of 

Our 

NOVA. 

— Mikal Shkreli

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photography by Tayla Robinson

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photography by Laura Gordon

Submitted by mlkbohtles

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photography by Tayla Robinson

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[oraclelitmag]

Title: MoMa in Pink

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[oraclelitmag]

Valleys

I’ve been searching for 

Valleys of space,

I’ve been finding flowers 

All over the place. 

— Mikal Shkreli

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[oraclelitmag]

“emails” by Bleu Ruby

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[oraclelitmag]

they sing the majesty of the circle, loving mother of life and its blood filmy symmetry, an aphrodisiac to the weeping widow, it sells her thin solace and ounces of sunshine balance, it boasts, when waves of moonlight lap against her door, and sends milky chatters over her teeth when she finds her lover’s eyes in the new growth under her rose bush.

this life of mine, however,has followed the jagged temper of the square, silent little renegade a path of straight vein and baobab trunk, this little life ran

and then, the sudden convulsion of turning the first corner

now, under our leathered skin, under the angel statuettes of our mothers across the sea, these little squares sleep

until on a June day, with air akin to clotted blood, we again turn the corner, shiver, wipe  the red trails of dust dripping from our eyes to the east, and continue to sip this red, white, and blue concoctionwe begged for eight years ago

this little child, if asked, will draw her vaudeville of a life as a profound, little square with eight corners, hung with suitcases and Spanish moss.

— Tayla Robinson

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Drift 

Wind blew through my hair like it did 

Inside of your unbuttoned shirt that 

Exposed your landscapes that I want to roam. 

Feeding upon ground, your body like the sun and I 

Spin around just for the anticipating 

Sound of your pleasure. 

Not even able to measure, a 

Sacred interaction that withheld a treasure. 

I’ll lick your lips in the streets any day. 

But I’ll make love to your mouth in the 

Dark and private spaces anyway. 

Bounce yourself upon my bed and leap onto my lap, 

You know where to direct yourself, 

No need for a map, and 

Once poised upon my thrusts and my hips you’re on, 

My envelopment is the tightening wrap. 

Let me ravish the forest and milk the nectar, 

I have found bliss in the honey bee collector. 

Our worship of Queen is what comes between our 

Our desire to cultivate this fire. 

Soar across my body like the swing of a tire. 

Hold my body up and 

Recite the holy sounds like a choir. 

Sing until your pitch has been reached, 

Bring yourself utmost pleasure that 

I don’t need to teach. 

Keep your legs within my reach.

I want to take my time spreading them, each. 

And savor their juices like a summer-ripe peach. 

You bounce in my mind like a rental tape, full rewind, 

Carefully observing the moment 

You explode into the peak of our episode. 

I’ll see you again on that road, 

Before our bodies catch the wind and erode. 

And in that time I’ll let my hair catch adrift, 

Onto your landscapes I’ll sift, until then, we drift…

— Mikal Shkreli

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photography by Laura Gordon

Submitted by mlkbohtles

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[oraclelitmag]

photography by Laura Gordon

Submitted by mlkbohtles

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Harvest Unseen

My vision is clear and my heart is blind. 

Clarity is near but hardest to find. 

I want to move forward but I fall into a rewind, 

It would be easier if you weren’t so kind, 

I would kick out your residence from my mind, 

Spark something nice so I can unwind, 

Follow the terms on the contract of this life that I’ve signed. 

A mortal disposition but eternal inquisition, 

Love is only temporary when we see from the position that the ocean as coveted and is our mission. 

We’re always in the ocean, how deep do you want to go?  

The trees never speak, 

But their buds always show, 

Coldest winters are only ripening a harvest to grow. 

— Mikal Shkreli

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photography by Tayla Robinson

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[oraclelitmag]

Rose Petals

Only tell me

The most beautiful of stories

Ones with love and hope

Let the pink petals

Fall from you lips

Let our shallow grave

Be a bed of roses

So at least we were beautiful

As we laid on thorns

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photography by Laura Gordon

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[oraclelitmag]

“Stars are not small or gentle. They are writhing and dying and burning. They are not here to be pretty. I am trying to learn from them.”

- Caitlyn Siehl