Dreamers
13 dark lullabies
The Blue Hued Warehouse - Jozef Cain
in the warehouse…
i stub my toes on old red bricks
from low-income housing
unit 176,
racing to find that one pic;
the one where you're smiling—
your hair like a willow at dusk
in the warehouse…
i crunch my index finger
in an old brown filing cabinet
shuffling the rolodex,
scouring for that one note;
the one with your lipstick imprint—
the taste still lingers as i read it
in the warehouse…
i cut my wrist on old fragile china
from nan's mobile home
rummaging through the cupboards,
licking for that one shot glass;
the one with brandy from loire—
your breath still warm when i drink
in the warehouse…
i fall up creaky old stairs
on the fourth floor
spiraling out of control,
trying to find that one window;
the one from unit 8 on wilson—
your strut still excites as you pass
in the warehouse…
my heart stops beating
for a moment from the torment
and i freefall off the elephant ladder,
looking for that one book;
the one with your god—
his voice still calls for me
© Jozef Cain 2025 - inspired by Stephen King's concept of the memory warehouse from his novel "Dreamcatcher" (SSDD) 
Adoptee - Kali Fox-Jirgl
You were there last night as I drifted away To the dreams where I’ve never seen you before. You’re a stranger to me, just as I am to myself In this life you gave me to endure. My mind visioned you as beautiful and radiant- You were smiling in the sun. Your eyes glowed bright with the spirit we share, And then, like that, you were gone. The day I was born, were you smiling then? Or did you have tears when they took me away? The creation of life is a beautiful thing Unless it’s secret and hidden away. I don’t blame you for the choice you made, The decision that must’ve changed your life too. But you left me with nothing to know about myself, No records or genetics - no story to value. Can you imagine never knowing yourself? Living a life with a void in existence? Always seeking the missing piece that will provide your soul with wholeness? Do you know what it feels like to be empty? Having to fill in the blanks on your own? Forever searching for the meaning of life With a history that remains unknown? I think you showed up in my dream last night Because I’m searching for everything lost The line between the stranger in me And the me that I know will be crossed. I will have my original birth certificate soon; And your name will finally be known to me. A name erased in shame and disgrace - The name that cloaked my natural identity. I’m unsure what I will do with the knowledge I gain, A search for ancestral narratives? Who are my people? What did they do? Were they moral and dignified relatives? I don’t know that my search will lead me to you, I fear what I will discover. I’ve lost a lot in life since you gave me up, But don’t worry, I’ve been a survivor. The gift of life was wrapped with indifference But tied with a bow of perseverance. And as I search for all that is rightful to me, I continue to live life as an obscure adoptee.
© Kali Fox-Jirgl 2025
Death’s Question - Heather Zoccali
Death grins, rolls something small between its fingers.
A tooth. A stone. A promise.
It leans in, voice dry as struck flint~
What will you make
with the brief burn of breath?
I will drive my name into metal,
bend it barehanded until the edges bite,
until even rust remembers me.
I will split my voice against canyon walls,
let it ricochet, sharpen,
turn every echo into a weapon.
I will take a knife to silence,
gut it open,
pull my name from its throat.
I will carve myself into wind,
let my breath linger in the lungs of strangers,
a whisper they mistake for their own.
And when the last ember coughs to black,
when my body is just a case,
I will not fold into quiet.
I will crack the dark wide open.
And long after,
when dust settles,
I will still be ringing.
© Heather Zoccali 2025
Kaleidoscopic - Ann Marie Steele
Tickle my pencil whiffle my words swallow rank paraphernalia Whistle my poem scribble my death wish forgot that these seats are taken. Feather my bosom peachfuzz my pussy fuckaway all of my sorrow Pop my peony shallow my skybreath reap but don’t dare to swallow. Lego my ego forfeit my taco cash in that golden ticket Cyber my soft skin bully that boner my sweet kaleidoscopic racket. Pickle my heartstring Soft boil that clamshell Until I am good and ready Freckle my wishes Fancy my fortune Dear one, just hold me steady.
© Ann Marie Steele 2025
Rebirth (The Spiral of Being) - Ute Luppertz
How many times have I been here?
It seems like yesterday when I took my last breath, and in the blink
of an eye,
I climbed up the mountain again and rolled the boulder
downwards.
An ant crawls on my foot; I want to squish it, and it stings.
I am human. That’s what I am dreaming into existence.
Did you know that ants can sting? How long do they live?
As long as I think about them.
When I forget, they die.
When I forget me, I don’t exist either.
Illusions.
Dreaming myself into creation, into being.
Is it?
Not at all?
Real?
Just a speck of dust?
A red balloon floats in the sky, and I bend my neck.
The sun burns my gaze. Blinding.
Sight turns inwardly curious.
On I go, finding yet another life to live, suffer, and enjoy.
Finite fantasies. Lust and loss, fleeting thoughts. E — motions.
I feel my toes until they freeze in the ice of the Sahara.
A burial and chants, the women moan and wail because it’s the
customs — the breeze on my skin.
An exhale, the welcome to non-being.
I have been here before.
Others sit Shiva while I search for where to go next.
Ah, I see. This time, it’s the North. Wait, it’s nothing but a construct of
the mind in the sphere of non-navigation.
Swirls. The cosmic crescendo of creation and destruction.
Who are you? Show me your ladder to the sky while I roll in the sand
until I become one with the dunes and a speck in the solar system.
We sigh with delight and exhale softly.
A deafening rumble, then stillness.
I un-re-member myself.
Until we see each other again. © Ute Luppertz 2025 - originally published in Soul Magazine, and reimagined here
The Dream - Linda Kowalchek
Deep in sleep When I’m supposed to be at rest, I am transported To the darkest corners of my mind. To a time in my life I long for, As if it has been stolen from me And auctioned to the highest bidder. A summer long ago Where I went searching for love, But now know it was only A primitive quest for twisted pleasure. The anticipation of the touch of a stranger, The thrill of not knowing what it would lead to, Unfamiliar hands roaming my body And stroking my insecurities. The fingers that explored my emptiness And manipulated my heart, Tricking me to believe in a connection That did not exist. Imagining. Fantasizing. Believing in a fullness That would never come. Nameless. Faceless. Heartless. Only a dark pulse. A deep voice to lie to me, My perked ears to hear what I lacked, And my open body to receive The punishment that entered it. How I have missed the sweet shredding of my soul And the bitter taste of rejection that always led me To my next manic search for a new entity To feed my hungry being. But tonight, I was taken to a place I’ve never seen. A place where I no longer need the manipulation Of someone without a name, Without a face, and without a soul. A place where I no longer crave The prodding of a stranger. A place where there is calm. A place where there is strength. Then with a gentle ease and a resolve I did not know I possessed, I walk away, Leaving the past behind.
© Linda Kowalchek 2025
Dozing - Andy Frakes
Just this morning, one more river dream. And swimming shallow in it, I wavered with the current. Someone else was standing in the rhubarb on the bank. His shadow laid across the flow. A different forming of myself, no better and no worse but shaped by someone else’s hand— a set of plans I'd made and now remembered in the glow. And when I left the water he was helping me to stand. The river dream was ending in the sun, and what remained was how it felt to stand above the flow, to cup my hands and let it go. As I said my thanks to him, I received the gift: from the spring, a life to live. And from that life, a self to be, a self I could forgive.
© Andy Frakes 2025
Slept on Supernova - Edward Swafford
Heavy is the wearisome head that wears this Klaxon crown, slow down soma in awe of Yourself, crux in ostentatious yarn-spinning Yuletide inceptions false dawning falsettos Incumbrancers sibilant, hear it? Snakelike? Through cupped ears you lipread like Horus A fucking puppet with singed scalded strings Pulled prodigally By God(s) of men and their straw idols toying Cloying was your molten wax waned wanton Siren songs serenaded with fervent shimmer Dusted regal raindrops, entranced equinox Hemispheric hieroglyphs, confetti of saffron Metempsychosis Signature embargoed; temerity to truculence Two eyes, so focused on crest felled chaos of Your own invidious inimical insidious match Making, strike-a-flame lighting the night with !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Insurrection Lunar gravity grounds churlish ideations coax The blood-red orb in my sky lie with comorbid Conditioning facile factions, streaky sunburnt Love-lines a vertex their vertical limit a vortex — — — — — — HoRiZoNtAl Inversion now hostilities then hatred when?? In clock-cradled due time, hissss at me then Goldenseal daydreams subdue your esoteric Edge of treason, elope under pharaonic suns Mirthless worthless meaning weaning me, my Strident subterfuges Of your sanctimonious seven rebirthed sins sly Sycophantism of pharaoh-shaped fanaticisms Fail your tongue |w-h-i-p-l-a-s-h| fore-strapped Fallacies breathe Ra’s rapturous applause unto My malachite-imbued face, a survivor by name Memories never yielded, now? I Know Who Quelled Me.
© Edward Swafford 2025 - revamped for Substack, originally published in Baptism Fire.
Revelations in Dreams - Elena. W
Got assaulted by an old man at a fair, cause my blouse was open tried to buy a fifteen-dollar sandwich and complained, walked away and somehow got it anyway. Mistook a skunk for my cat and had a fight with my dad. Then it switched to a crowd of people, discussing my make-up according to my last situation(ship) wreck. I have never known if it makes sense But I have a feeling dreams are obscure revelations of the past tense tender and unpleasant hopes and wishes, dark happenstances and mongering fears. I´ll still cast a single glance towards him. Then the boys back from school reappeared in uniform, gave me a hug as if everything was forgotten, and nothing was lost and I woke up at 6 am again. Owing to the short dreams, I am trying to make sense. All this switching gears is stressing me out my engine runs low like my iron despite heavy desires.
© Elena. W (Decoratingwater) 2025
Priceless - Maisie Archer
you can run but you can’t hide
it’s what they always say
lips curled, eyes narrowed
sweaty hands
(damp corners of mouths)
but I am smaller and faster and they give up so easily
distracted by fresh prey
we have become smarter, though
(or is it vigilant wary edgy tired)
and we stick together
you look beautiful when you cry
is not a compliment
(tears burn fury hot you can’t touch me here)
I (we) are more
than this
but why waste my time and breath
on you who will never listen
to a bag of flesh for use
possession
but I (we) are priceless
(your empty soul has no currency here)
those who came before me (us)
learned the hard way
(don’t we all)
secrets became whispers
beckoning on a tip of a cracked fingernail
pink polish chipped, split
(scratch your paint into their greedy flesh mark them hard)
always someone waiting
for their turn
(look for the mark)
I will always glance over my shoulder
(is there any one of us who does not)
we are born to be devoured
© Maisie Archer 2025 - originally published in The Interstitial sans title image
Fading Dream’s Fleeting Reprieve - BJ Dawson
Can’t recall how long I’ve been obsessed with daylight’s last blue kiss heralding evening indigo’s blissful ignorance, mating calls inevitably surrendering to slumber’s silence, a most bewitching hue skewed hollow upon dusk like once-paired songbird’s roosting trill no longer answered, fertile color and sound that never lingers long, bold and laissez-faire, the way she holds me there in twilight’s cold disrepair before letting go, letting indigo, letting earth’s shadow billow, ushering in the black. Delusions fancy myself better than this, heart, vicariously full of your overflowing love of self, of me, of another, new love smiling at you, observant enough to view the Goddess in you, and sure, I am all the better for your living your best self, entwined in another even as bit by bit, second by second each minute, each day, each week, every moment, my heart breaks, – just a bit – every time your heart skips a beat for another, this new love, loving you in ways well beyond my blue – beyond blackest night, heavy with absence of newest moon accented with coyote cries craving connection’s comfort, beyond stillness of wind, beyond sleepy silence of corvid roosts, beyond all nature finding her place among us, there is only darkness; indifferent, still, even as lone coyote’s cry is answered deep within valley’s floor, and if you ever wondered how a broken heart sounds, it’s similar to everything’s fine or I’m happy that you’re happy; lies and half-truths, wan pleasantries, codified, soundtracked by incessantly off-kilter, cantoned-angled, whirling, manic-panicked carnival music helping to navigate this new normal separately – together – and while delusions fancy myself a willing part of the whole, I’m miles from everything, including myself, another forgotten phantasy, piled upon endless abandoned dreams, listening for fleeting reprieve of reply.
© B.J. Dawson 2025
The Many-Sided Earth - Pixel Floyd
Take the Earth in your hand roll it around — for it is round but it might as well be flat as we can never garner more than what faces us. Turn it Like a Rubik’s cube, notice cubes within cubes on every side as grains of sand within sand lay flat before us. Sift it all you want — it’s still only one shore we hold in view. Ride Rüppell’s griffon into ethers of arid peaks into crevices of sodden valleys. Chase the mole down its runway — only to see the Earth is flat from end to end. Spin it around — surely, another flatness confounds. From the black soil of China to the red clays of Georgia, blend them, behold a burgundy — no less flat than the one before. If only we could soar: above the axis, beyond the zenith, graze the moon on our way past Venus. Glimpse the flatness of Andromeda — how she spirals, creating the whole. Know it intimately: nose to nose, lip to lip, yet aware of what exists on the other side of every side simultaneously. The beauty of that many-sidedness — all at once, all so close, in how it holds everything to its infinite plane. And still, we press against the flatness — the earthly wall that besets sans the rest. Lest we forget, our freedom lives in the many facets of celestial curves — coming together in converging tongues, straining to articulate the multiplicity of discordant harmonies that must find ways to harmonize with the overtones echoing — just beyond our grasp.
© Pixel Floyd 2025 - originally published in Scrittura
Poppy Fields, Reek of Lust - Julie Radford
it burns so bright, skin cracking, blisters bulging. black smoke fills her lungs. a murder of crows gathering just outside the burning field. mocking her. the higher the flames rise, the louder they get, the more she feels like they’re trying to call her over, tiny sparks of embers whirling around - like dystopian fireflies circling their prey. wake up. wake up. wake up. but what if she runs? can she make it to the crows? getting away with murder?
© Julie Radford 2025 | A guest post by
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Alright. I'm going to read this a few more times and hope, pray, beg, I have all these dreams tonight.
Amazing lineup of artists, thanks to all involved! 🌪🌪🖤🖤🥹