Adam Fieled

twisted limbs


apocalypse out there. here,

endless wheels, sparks; pockets

of restrained & segmented light.

lovely ways you defy me. best

moments, always, you on top,

when the world ends a little

bit. warmth between lovers

can never be unnatural. nor

can hostage-taking, or a healthy

regard for oblivion. it’s all

that’s left in common between

us & them: twisted limbs. our

mouths move like theirs’:

flips, bites. our movements

prefigure the same ends:

consummated peace, mediated

silence, “deliberate hebetude”.

we’re w/ them as a necessary

antithesis. they can’t see us.

they never could. it’s left to

us to make a balance, if we can.

we’ll need nothing less than luck.





we look so good on paper,

don’t we, two hot bandits

making love w/ words &

bodies, perfect, a scamp

poet & rogue “fictionista”,

each straightforwardly

attractive in an “indie

way, your luxuriant

breasts brushed by an

urban outfitter’s t-shirt,

my sprung parts scraping

tight jeans, perfect, you

could build a movie

around it, the burning,

bare-bummed affair,

only somehow the movie,

the papers don’t account

for the borders, boundaries,

all the ways our humanity

tips the scales into “edit”,

our deadness to “erase”

[step back to issue 3]