Thoughts On Feathers


I like it when the feathers poke out of the fabric of my pillowcase.

I pull them out, fluff them, and blow them into the air above my face. This can go on for hours.

The trouble is that I need a belief in something outside myself to make atoms congeal. I need the comfort. What I really want is an ascent on a chariot of fire.

I prize the rising of my thoughts. They lift me up out of the mundane, grey slop I must paddle through to get to the supermarket and back.

FIREEvery day I am swimming in the middle of the biggest school ever. Millions of silver fish whirr past me each day and scowl when I cross their path, drunk or lost in a daydream. I can’t help but wonder if they have forgotten all about feathers, and the way they float.


What is the use in any thoughts, when they can fold into themselves in an infinite regression? Even one’s very being can turn upon itself. Even blood and marrow can mutiny, and send my granddad into the black water.

Mortality is imminent, and I spend half my time thinking about the point of all things.

Like why do I bother to exist?


I’ve looked everywhere and it seems the world has no outlet that I can plug into. My heart’s phallus goes unmatched. I can’t seem to connect to anyone and the silver fishes are too busy having fake orgasms.

I walk into a park designed by a dead, white man. I find a big, strong tree and slide my knife into it until it bleeds sugary sap all over my hands. I kiss it and apologize. This will be the last time.

by Alicia Krawchuk 

featuring artwork from Alicia Krawchuk 


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