Introducing New Blood Into Ink Curator Devika Mathur: A breakfast of memory

Meet Devika Mathur, latest member of the Blood Into Ink Collective.

Blood Into Ink

Devika 1

Sky tripping oranges and bars of star-dust

falling in our frolic skirts.

My sister, I conjured the sustenance of despair and morality

with your apple pie and the almond milk shake.

I churned your spotted skin into my minty breaths

making our bodies glow in the collision of the moon.

I heard mama cry and my cat frowning on the neighbours

when my back was scratched and segmented into tiny fragments.

I remember we did not eat our Dosa or any other fancy dinner for multitudinous days

oh, my sister a week passed by in disconsolate tanned knots of your memory.

And I am still a shivering, paradox of myth.

Bifurcated, haunted.


Devika resides in India and apart from educating English she enjoys reading and writing anything raw and dark perhaps. A hater of hypocrisy and a staunch believer in love she loves solitude and often dances to express her emotions.
Her work has…

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Feminism is my Realism- Kindra M. Austin & Christine Ray

My first duet with the lovely and amazing Kindra M. Austin.

Whisper and the Roar

SONY DSC SONY DSC

I am Organism

Female

Defense Mechanism

Natural

Feminism is my Realism

Because #MeToo, Motherfuckers

I’ve been abused

Been paid less cash

Called a Radical Cunt a

Bleeding Heart Liberal and

Put in my place—

Not my place, but theirs

I’ve been judged by the size of my body and clothes I wear

Been held back by (un)intelligent men and even stupider women

Who mock my Heart and Common Sense—

Slammed by Pseudo-Brain influenced by Meme Culture

I am Organism polluting the Cesspool

Feminism is my Realism

(Kindra M. Austin)

I am Organism

Female

Defense Mechanism

Instinctive

Feminism is my Realism

Because if I had been paid my 80 cents on the dollar

For every time I have been called

Bitch

Dyke

Ball breaker

Since I was 12 years old

I’d be in the damn 1%

Told my whole life

That I am

Too angry

Too emotional

Too loud

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Oubliette: Sir Eric Syrdal & Lady Kindra

Two of my favorite writers and human beings spinning epic verse.

Kindra M. Austin

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Oubliette 

The march began on meadow land,

where I keep house ‘neath abiding sun.

The march began, and

begot

a shadowing plague—

a swelling wake. 

Of heaviest heart

bound to an iron weighted fate

t’was in a blanket of

frost

wrapped a bitter cold

ancient blade

War drums fused with beating of hooves,

quickening. Quickly, I donned my steel—

took up arms to greet

my foe.

My lea, made tundra,

sparked flame in me.

Dreams of the past

like crackling tinder, fueled

bone upon bone, grinding

piston steam

a great war machine moved

making deep runnels in the earth

building upon dirges in my head

Antecedent episodes of

kinfolk carnage, unforgotten

has now begotten

the Great Rise—

Hearken!

The dead do toll, and

vengeance is nigh.

Up from the earth

rising on a chorus of black wings

an unkindness masses

takes flight

a carrion feast!

they will sup upon…

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Call for Submissions: Telling Our Stories About Invisible Illness Creatively

I was looking at the top of my dresser yesterday and noticed how all my jewelry, cosmetics, brushes and combs have been pushed aside to make room for creams, ointments and lotions to treat pain, muscle cramps and improve sleep. It was a stunning visual image that really brought home for me how much my life has changed over the last year as I learn to live with fibromyalgia.

This image has stayed in my head and has planted a seed about a possible series exploring what it is like to live with an invisible illness told in photos, artwork, poetry, prose, short fiction, essay and other creative mediums.  I think this could be a great opportunity to educate, to entertain, enlighten and express ourselves creatively.  If you are living with an invisible illness or are caring for someone living with an invisible illness I hope you will consider participating in this project. My goal would be to publish it as a week-long series on Brave and Reckless in February.

Email your submissions to christine.e.ray@gmail.com by Friday, February 9th with your name, the name you publish under, a brief biography and a link to wherever you publish your work.

Feel free to share this call for submissions.

You Never Could Help Me With Math- Kindra M. Austin

Kindra M. Austin sticks her tongue in the empty tooth socket of loss.

Kindra M. Austin

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Something happens, and I am reminded that

all of the good words have been taken by the 80s.

I can’t write you a heavy synth song, penned in black kohl;

can’t dip my heart into inderivative hair dye—

there’s no such thing, really.

***

Something happens, and I am reminded that

I can’t call you.

***

Something happens, and I am reminded that

I can’t hug you.

***

Something happens, and I remember that

I’d forgotten to miss you for 5 whole fucking minutes.

***

There are 300 seconds in 5 fucking minutes, and 3,600 seconds in 1 hour, which means there are 86,400 seconds in 24 hours, or 1,440 fucking minutes in a goddamned day, which means there’s a lot of fucking time spent forgetting to remember that you’re dead.

***

And I can’t even manage to write you a love song.

(image: slate.com)

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this-Matthew Eayre

Matthew Eayre’s writing leaves me breathless.

unevenstreetstudiosdotcom


My first year in high school was my last year in high school and I swear on my life it wasn’t my fault that I was the epitome of unreadable literature. I was raised like a weed in a rose garden, I was taught to be the stone which will not erode, I was trained to stand against a hurricane without fear or concerns for my own safety.
My first year in college was not my last but I fought the system the whole time. I was a spark plug in a water pump, I was a boyfriend in a lesbian marriage, I was a cup of coffee inside a box of frozen pizza. I argued my point of view and my professors would tell me, this won’t help you, and I replied, how small can I make my thoughts, how far from my home can I go, how am…

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#MeToo Writing Contest Honorable Mention: Camila Henao/On Love and Muscle Memory

Camila Henao makes us feel the muscle memory in this #MeToo submission

Blood Into Ink

Camila H

If love is like muscle memory
Then
My heavy head will always aim for your chest
In bed, my twitching legs try to find yours to tangle against
My cold hands will always cup the back of your head
Gently
Fingers reach for the familiar spaces between yours
My lips curving before meeting
Crashing
Reach for your neck, the palms of your hands, the edges of your narrow hips
Shaky heart beating against my chest
Same responses, time after time
And again and again and again


But then
Colder now
You began teaching my body a new set of movements
Reactions


If love is like muscle memory
Then
My heart now tightens in response to your harsh words
My brains unspools and restrings
Itself all day long
In its attempt to understand you
At times I can feel all the tendons and fibers of me
Straining against their learned behaviors

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#MeToo Writing Contest Honorable Mention: bone&silver/#MeToo

A powerful #MeToo submission from bone&silver

Blood Into Ink

MeToo Gabrielle Griffin

Why had my cousin rung me 5 times in thirty minutes? I returned my phone to airplane mode, and pushed open the classroom door. But during the lesson, my attention kept being pulled back to the call record, even while I taught; why was my stomach knotting?

The one hour dragged like mud, then I pressed redial.

‘It’s your Dad. He had a heart attack in Hawaii and…’

And is in hospital. Is fine. Will be fine. Or confined to a wheelchair at worst.

‘… and he died. I’m so sorry.’

Who took my knees away and punched me in the gut? Can I just curl up here and die on the street too?

A passing cyclist wobbles and stops. ‘Are you OK?’

No. Yes. No. I can’t share this pain with you, leave me alone!

Lying in bed that night, alone at home, with a silent waterfall streaming out…

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Unresolved- Olde Punk

OldePunk shreds us to ribbons with his words and makes us love it.

RamJet Poetry

unresolved

felicitous, felonious

eminent, impregnable

pregnant with speeches

of impenetrable verisimilitude

I bore easy and adore the sleazy

so let’s get cookin’

fentanyl and vodka piledriver

my everyday lay-away life

I hate the Mondays as much

as your Sundays

and although the Beatles were great

I like the Who better

Who are you?

not me first

me too

or the both of us

hotboxed bath salts

tainted with the blood of a virgin

human trafficking my thoughts

across the void of crime and place

my face, appearing on milk cartons

at home

nobody knows where I’ve gone

too old for the Amber Alert

and too young for the Silver Alert

averted eyes at bedtime with cocaine shivers

and tequila sunrises through the curtains

shots fired into the pain of name spoken

with the coldness only old love knows

nose bleeding the fuchsia minutiae

onto the Kleenex wadded up

and tossed in…

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