The Church Youngsters & Hallow then Hollow
By Mictian Carax
The Church Youngsters
(homographonic translation of Georg Trakl’s “Grodek”)
before Sam, the porter, died roasted from cancer, the ants lit a sinister procession to the last gift of the blue men: a glut of fiber, and geese who fall, wounded, on taut laps of eagles and trigger the fall of blood
the church youngsters learn from the elders that growing is sad, and that loss is a shimmering: a ghost who dies, rough and stern, in a tantrum of leeches—in style!
they bin their mittens to murder the white world and their alien orders. the church youngsters shout at the rough witches: you won’t get far!
turning and bluffing and drinking, imbibing their friends—the night, blue lies, your head, and your blood—they turn up corpses in far flung towers, disguised
Mick, roused, in a mien of trauma from a rough blouse, halts and leers over the loud hunters who celebrate their winnings over a long-lost sandwich, and the mound of lurching albumen from the runts of the white alien world
Hallow then Hollow
la eterna
Soledad
run
out of the clinic
blinding Arizona
sun reminds
you don’t belong
there either
shut up
lovesick cicadas
cry
fertile vibrations
Mictian Carax is a violent drunk who writes when mania strikes. She mortgaged her future away by studying creative writing at Brooklyn College and graduated just as the COVID-19 pandemic began. She believes that the one good thing about enduring nearly four decades of poverty, with no future prospects, is that there comes a point in which you don’t give a single, solitary shit about anything. And that’s fruitful ground for creativity.