1. my eyes are crooked and my nose has a shadow
    i dont know you but you know how i operate
    my body is sore all over
    you bend my limbs and move them all over the carpet
    i am ok with it
    i gave you permission
    i am ok with it
    i was in too much shock to remember most of it
    and that’s reality now im in so much shock that
    life actually happens
    and there is more to life than football games
    and “you’re not an artist; that’s a hobby”
    “you’re not an artist; that’s a hobby”
    “you’re not an artist; that’s a hobby”
    everyone wants to drink with me but i dont even want to drink with me
    drinking with me is memory loss and wasted glee
    i’d rather we skip that and you just sleep with me

    by Megan Schüirmann
    from Electric Cereal

    (Source: electric-cereal)


  2. bagelcat:

    I’m currently working on my novel. I’m also currently working on dying my hair the perfect shade of cornflower blue. I’m also currently working on trying to find just exactly where the hole is in my air mattress as it slowly deflates beneath me.Lately I have found the process of “working” far more interesting than the work itself. According to the ear-worm currently inhabiting my brain–better known as Iggy Azalea– the word I’m looking for is perhaps better known as “the struggle” or “the hustle,” as she so eloquently states in her radio hit “Work.” Put in pretentious art world terms, perhaps I’m also referring to “the process.” But really, I’m talking about the cracks in the sidewalk on the path to the end result. Procrastination. Distraction.

    read more

  3. altlitgossip:

    So I’ve been so busy putting out ebooks I forgot to make a formal announcement that I am currently accepting submissions for BE ABOUT IT ZINE #9!!!!

    send poetry, short prose, weird shit, gotta be honey related

    think of the bees


    deadline: sept. 30th


  4. Whatever

    I do not always know what I am
    feeling lately
    unless really fucking high.

    Suck bile teeth,
    this is melanotic love.

    Morning secretes coffee and the milk is bad (again)
    always sour when you come

    by Lauren Vevers
    from Electric Cereal


  5. #swagger

    to become so beautiful that pictures of myself
    fill me with a moment of involuntary hatred
    to sculpt my body with the chisel of sweat and self-­abasement
    to make of my perfect quiff a piggy bank
    for to keep the patina’d copper pennies of time
    I could have spent on making poems
    could have spent on making love but spent instead on making myself
    a different self a useless self that sits on a shelf looking beautiful

    to swagger so hard that the world swaggers with me
    to drag the depths of swagger and find some forgotten bauble to call my own.
    to suck swagger through a straw from all the way down the block
    a swagger so thick it gaunts my cheeks to suck it

    to be the billion-­dollar remake of my father.
    to remember his beard and his hard face his thrift store clothes
    and think yeah that was good but what if
    it had more CGI explosions           what if it had more tits

    to dole out drips of clickable wisdom
    one hashtag at a time: tips for living your crispiest life
    to discover something bloodier than diamonds
    and discover something more than an arm and leg to charge for it.
    to bathe in champagne or the blood of the innocent there is no difference
    when you know you’re on your grind—when you’re really killing it

    by Timothy Volpert
    from Electric Cereal


  6. ptsd by Claire Phelan

    i am a swell and heave. oceans. fuck. water is never the right word. i am a fierce and angry. i am an oh. i will bring you to the brink with moan. hear me through the walls and floor and press yourself against the unseen. hail that hurts. a battered back and the undersides of

    i am unto, into


    remembering, filling with blood. growing. moving up into a tree. a sky. a fuck-all cut open. screaming from

    we will all become agonies, leaving our floors behind. our legs and feet will go numb.

    i will cry with both eyes and a mouth open. in this

    we will all become unreal.

    i know you can see me and hear me through the window. when it was over, yesterday and in the just-morning (mourning), you raised yourself against the glass and pressed up a hand. i almost saw your mouth move through the two panes and the air in-between.

    i forget each time i am not alone. i forget each time i am alone. i have found the meaning and roll into and around it. i am a tongue around lips, i am

    a special kind of curl, a hardly forced


    there is nothing ever as low as the fall then, after.

    there is nothing ever like a woman in the sea.

    this is dark water that turns almost to dust.

    this is a coming into

    Claire Phelan lives in New York. Her work has been published in The Newer York, Keep This Bag Away From Children, Left Bank Magazine, What Weekly, and Danke. She can also be found on Twitter and Tumblr.

    The first issue of her zine, “MEAT STORIES” is currently in print and available at Etsy.

    She has three prose poems in Electric Cereal.



  7. haunted summer by Cassandra de Alba

    the ghost cats ate the second-floor ecstasy
    and that’s why they jump on your bed
    when you’re just sitting there with your laptop
    trying to ruin fewer lives.
    the girls we’re subletting from told us that
    and one of them, the one charley slept with,
    said she woke up one night
    to a man with a workcoat and beard
    holding a shovel, who walked out
    through her closed door. she said
    she hid in her closet, calling her roommates
    until one of them came to see
    the nothing he left behind.
    i wanted to leave nothing behind,
    burn through the summer
    like our sidewalk fireworks,
    but instead i kissed three boys
    and felt bad about all of them,
    smoked my cigarettes to the filter
    with the squashed rats by the loading dock,
    showered in the dark, went to work
    stoned. i wanted that floating feeling,
    pills and 40s, ponds at sunset,
    but i was too broke to buy emotions
    or full packs of cigarettes
    and i was left with three-for-a-dollar
    superette loosies, vague foreboding,
    crippling guilt. i don’t remember
    the last days of august
    as anything more than a misplaced phone,
    a last shift at work, lying down
    on my borrowed bed
    and waiting to be haunted.

    Cassandra de Alba lives in Massachusetts. Her work can be found in ILK, Red Lightbulbs, Plain Wrap Press, Illuminati Girl Gang, and Shabby Doll House. She can also be found on Tumblr and Twitter.

    She has six more poems at Electric Cereal.


  8. The Apocalypse Friends You On Facebook
    by Timothy Volpert

    and you’re pretty sure you’ve seen it around so you click confirm
    but when you finally see it at the bar that night with some mutual friends
    you realize that you really only recognized The Apocalypse
    from photos these friends had posted that you had only ever seen it
    around your news feed and does that count as Knowing Each Other?

    This becomes the humorous facet of modern life
    that you and The Apocalypse start a conversation over.
    So now it doesn’t matter. But this isn’t funny enough as an anecdote
    about how you and The Apocalypse met to get this story told.

    As far as anyone knows you and The Apocalypse have always been friends
    and soon you realize it has been a very long time since anyone has asked you
    How do you two know each other?
    and soon you realize it has been a very long time since anyone has asked anyone
    How do you two know each other?
    and soon you realize it has been a very long time


    Timothy Volpert lives in Kansas. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Mobius, Kansas City Voices, and Stone Highway Review. He can also be found on Tumblr and Twitter.

    He has four poems in Electric Cereal today.



  9. twigtech:

    sentences that are like rooms

    that you can walk into

    and get the sense of it being lived-in

    even with the clutter all cleaned

    there remain finger oils on the walls

    pile of nail clippings under armoire, receipts

    the off-white rectangles where framed photos once hung

    i walk around the room imagining all the lover’s

    spats, the spilled wine and laden air

    "pregnant with fake-seeming meaning" you say

    how many people have used the same sequence of words?

    the sky seems blank and fucked in the exact

    way photos forget what they are Of


  10. arbitrarynewsandreview:


    Manuel Arturo Abreu is a person I have only interacted with a handful of times, but gosh do I like them. They’re super-intelligent, particularly about linguistics, but also incredibly kind and supportive of people. Once when I found out someone I had a very…


  11. wordwordwordwordwordword:


  12. girlsgetbusyzine:

    Girls Get Busy #22 is finally finished and available online for free HERE

    Featuring: Chanelle Adams, Kani Anifowoshi, Monika Ardila, Braudie Blais-Billie, Liz Bowen, Carlin Brown, Dana Burns, Alexandra Bussiere, Emily Smit-Dicks, Maggie Dunlap, Monika Forsberg, Forty Elephants Mob, Mariah Friere, Charlotte Gaffney, Miriam Galea, Emma Gruner, Caitlin Hazell, Hinni Huttunen, Jazmin Jones, Melissa Jones, India K, Aisling Keavey, Olivia Lawler, Lora Li, Maja Malou Lyse, Moira MacLean-Wideman, Nelly Matorina, Ilenia Madelaire, Melissa McElhose, Carol-Anne McFarlane, Madeleine Meunier, Pema Monaghan, Aditi Nagrath, Nuie, Katie Honan Pellico, Laurence Philomene, The Phoney Club, Christina Poku, Rhea Ramakrishnan, Louise Reimer, Leyla Grace Reynolds, Cornelia Van Rijswijk, Elisha Van Rijswijk, Nyssa Sharp, Hannah Siegfied, Beth Siveyer, Nandi La Sophia, Christina Svenson, Elis Talis, Rhian Thoms, Andrea Tirrell, Barbora Togel, Alexandra Urbina, Lin VanderVliet, Emily J. Wang, Haley Winkle

    📖 🎨 📖

    Curated by Beth Siveyer. Cover art by Nyssa Sharp

    Girls Get Busy is a feminist creative platform that supports artists, writers and musicians.




    imageZine all printed & prepped! Binding today, then shipping out tomorrow. 

    32 pages, 4” x 5”. Grab your copy HERE if you haven’t already! 

    Each zine comes with fun color stickers of this issue’s art. 

    MEAT STORIES issue I. contributors:

    Message me to ask about trades or future submissions. Thanks!!

  14. Getting Good/bye
    by Claire Phelan

    The wind outside sounds like the ocean. I am a sodden mess of bed sheets those hours later. I am you:

    (always) the hypothetical self-harmer seeping between mind rivers, a husk, a cold and empty shell- a hand tracing the line between doubt and death. A skull of blood, a glass of juice. Making love to the self since birth, recharging with a stream, swimming in self, sensibility.

    An organ worth throbbing for.

    Men on the street tell me they want to eat me. This no longer cripples me in the moment- but I am still taken down trying to buy clothes, I am crying about our bodies then, in a mall dressing-room. I am rending wrists into ecstasy that explodes us into searing pain, a light worth breaking bone for, the jagged openings between shadows on an empty beach, the

    swearing into of new skin.
    I am growing into a hugeness that overcomes itself into a wet and careful deepness. My brain swells against the sun as I am being watched.

    I am thirsty for god and so I drive to McDonald’s. It turns out Salt is not enough.

    Life is not either.


    Claire Phelan lives in New York. Her work has been published in The Newer York, Keep This Bag Away From Children, Left Bank Magazine, What Weekly, and Danke. She can also be found on Twitter and Tumblr. The first issue of her zine, “MEAT STORIES” is currently in print and available at Etsy.

    She has three prose poems in Electric Cereal today.


  15. I am the meanest kid in the bounce house
    by Nathan Masserang

    I am the meanest kid in the bounce house.

    Parents see me in the bounce house and indignantly pull their kid out of the line and grab their shoes out of the pile.

    I’m in the bounce house and push your kid.

    I’m twelve and I like pushing kids around especially in the bounce house.

    I like the way my twelve year old hands feel when I push someone in the bounce house.

    My hands are twelve years old and feel like little half eaten, under-cooked potatoes when they are balled up into fists and push forward.

    I’m alone in the bounce house now.

    These parents got wise to me and my twelve year old potato hands pushing kids and shit.

    My parents got wise to this and fed me under-cooked potatoes for a week.

    I can’t eat under-cooked potatoes because I don’t know where the potato starts and my little fisted fork begins.

    I wish I was back in the bounce house.

    I wish my twelve year old hands and my twelve year old body sprouted little vines in the cupboard.

    I wish that I had dozens of eyes made from neglect.

    I’m twice my age now and living on my own.

    I bounce in my house to find old potatoes on the top shelf of my kitchen cupboards.

    My potatoes were neglected and now have mold and a dark, viscous liquid coming from them but they remain eyeless.

    I put them in a plastic bag and watch them bounce at the bottom of the dumpster as they fall slack from my hands.

    I want to throw the potatoes in the park across the street.

    I want to throw the potatoes at your face and watch you gag.

    I want to throw the potatoes in the bounce house at night and watch their eyeless faces roll around.

    I want to throw moldy, rotten, eyeless potatoes off of an overpass on I-290 and scream, LOOK AT THIS LOOK AT THIS LOOK AT THIS LOOK AT THIS LOOK AT THIS LOOK AT THIS.

    I want to be mean again but I wasted all that energy half of a lifetime ago.


    Nathan Masserang lives in Chicago. His work has been published in The Newer York, Keep This Bag Away From Children, and The Mall. He can also be found on Twitter.