Writing Archives - Page 3 of 55 - Sensitive Skin Magazine

Sixty

Patrick O'Neil

There is nothing easy about turning sixty. The days whip by in a whirlwind, kids look younger, and you can’t understand what they’re even talking about. Cops, bosses, and doctors could be your daughters and sons. Films a...

Screw

Marc Olmsted

It was the end of the 80s into 1990 and very hard for us to find a good rock n roll dance club in San Francisco. Everything was disco electronica and it all sounded the same with that amyl nitrate bass beat. The more inter...

VLADIMIR MAYAKOVSKY

Jack Hirschman

VLADIMIR MAYAKOVSKY You, thunderer and swirl of the flag of blood and roses, kneader of the bread of poem, deathless comrade of dithyramb and liberty, you whose suicided life I carry as a forge, ...

In This Dream

Rebecca Weiner Tompkins

IN THIS DREAM We are always dancing: you lift your arms above me like a bird in a summery place. Sometimes there is music and the softest shadows; other times the air carries us through the rhythm of tall, flat buil...

where night and day become one—the french poems /1983-2017 by Steve Dalachinsky—review

Valery Oisteanu

where night and day become one the french poems /1983-2017 by Steve Dalachinsky Great Weather for Media, NYC, 2018 Steve Dalachinsky is a poet /cultural reporter of our time, not only via his essays, but also through...

Snail Poem

Peter Orlovsky

Snail Poem Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired & handsome felt, Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at blown up clowd. Ear turnes close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound o...

A Hermit Has No Plural by Gabor G. Gyukics – Review

Ron Kolm

A Hermit Has No Plural by Gabor G. Gyukics, Singing Bone Press. A Hermit Has No Plural, a collection of poems by the great Hungarian writer, Gabor G. Gyukics, is wonderfully unique. It is a surrealist vision of a world...

The Gods

Jenny Seymore Montgomery

i. Pluto and Uranus. Shadows overhead at my birth during another nuclear test. Soon I will be blown across the kitchen by a toaster, blacken bulbs, sit in pits of Mount St. Helens’ ash, grieve the bulldozing of ever...

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream

Harlan Ellison

Limp, the body of Gorrister hung from the pink palette; unsupported—hanging high above us in the computer chamber; and it did not shiver in the chill, oily breeze that blew eternally through the main cavern. The body hung ...

Tom Wolfe – Requiem for a Writer

Vincent Zangrillo

Tom Wolfe liked to match. When I saw him on the cross trainer at the gym in Southampton, pumping away, vigorously chewing a chiclet, his head bent over his Ichabod Crane frame, tall but exceedingly lank, his blonde bob part...