Beautiful – Lennix

My body is speaking to me

The tongues of my skin

Speak languages that do not reach my mouth.

Whisper sweet nothings, to which I can not reply, the words caught in

Linguistic purgatory

Trying to translate beautiful

a noun, a possessive word


The word is stuck in the spit of man as he yells at me

“Hey beautiful”

The word dies, becomes synonym with his–with plaything

Becomes notes in the orchestra of catcalls that illuminate every city street I have ever walked in.

And yet the tongues of skin, like sirens calling to Odysseus

Urge me to hear them, to learn their dialect, to find the flowers in words

Men turned have into knives

And yet I remind them,

That language is a weapon

Reared against anything feminine, to invalidate it, to hide it, to pretty it up for consumption

And yet, my skin speaks– vehemently of these reclamations

Of taking words weaponized and weaving wildflowers

Of the glory in survival and how to survive we must teach ourselves to speak–

Because the world, the man, thrives on our on fear

To speak,

And so as I lick my wounds,

My skin, she sings my a lullaby

My mouth finds the hidden curves of her words and mimics them

Moves them around the roof my mouth, down into my diaphragm, and lets them rest in

Between my ribcage, where they safe but soft, but strong, but mine


About Lennix: Queer. Trans. I believe that art is the only way to recreate myself authentically.
I am a student at Simmons University and I love pastels.

IG: lorionphotography

(photo provided by Lennix)

Poem: “Insomnia” by Briana Joseph|Submission Saturday

Recently, I have been suffering

from a severe case of insomnia.

I lie in bed wondering how many

voices I have escaped in the daytime.

People tell me to count sheep but at night the only sheep I can count are the

black children sewn up

Lying in boxes colder and larger than the ones they store their toys in.

I am forced to acknowledge the things that I have desperately been ignoring

like the skull left dripping golden brain matter

Splattered like a Jackson Pollock painting on the sidewalk.

See that’s the thing about black people, we become a chalk outline on the pavement

Only for our brown skin to become the dirt that cultivates the tulips and daisies they decorate our graves with.

At night, I constantly shift in discomfort and I’d like to think that I twist and

press into the mattress with hopes of somehow leaving my imprint in these sheets as a reminder

A reminder that I am able to leave my mark on this earth with my body’s own power beyond a hashtag.

That I still have a body. That I am matter. That I


They tell me to listen to music but the only lullaby my ears are attuned to is the ambient wailing of a police siren.

In ancient mythology, the siren was a creature that led sailors to death with its song.

How befitting of the relationship between the black man and the men in blue. Lured with the promise of

protection only to become shipwrecked with the realization that they were merely chasing a whisper.

How easily the things we had hoped to be our salvation can elude us as the ones causing the ruin…



– Briana Joseph

Funky Friday: WeSingSin



Listen to this Shortline! Review exclusive release:

WeSingCin – Balance

Mr.y (mist(ə)rē), better known as WeSingCin, is a 22 year-old artist without a definite home. He was last seen drifting into the shadows after hearing the whispers of the Bad Magician.

To live one’s life as honest and true to one’s self is the mission behind WeSingCin’s music. It’s a direct line into the thinking process undergone throughout his day-to-day life. Growing up in a more than religious household, the foundation that was intended to be set forth was the distinction between a righteous or a sinful lifestyle. However, those two things are subjective. In choosing to speak on his own truths and being transparent within his work, WeSingCin hopes to challenge the belief of what, precisely, “living right” entails.

If any of you still have any concerns about Mr.y and where he disappeared off to, speak softly and listen closely.


Interested to learn more about this artist? Check out our interview with him here.  You can also find his SoundCloud here!

Submission Sunday | Poem, “Fearless Future,” by Walter Herres

Heaven or hell, being a gentleman or a deviant destined for a cell. Many past authors, scholars and sages have transcribed through the ages the secrets of passing cyclic degrees, to in turn stand stable upon  feet rather than knees. The wise show reverence to noble truths; as fools make shackles for themselves by conduct. More so his ancestral roots are weeded and bleeded out. Who deserves human rights ? Why withhold liberties and justice for all?

When without the corner stone to Americas founding , the governing structure kharmically will fall.

Moving along the currents, to current life as we know it. 

Persistence gives momentum into the neo matrix of myriad opportunity.

However who can enter the courts of prosperity cheerfully, without a shaming virtue wholesomely.

Leaving hidden links to the vaulted up genealogy of numerous unseen sphinx.

Lost to a civilization who’s favorite past time is bigotry, due to the fact they are unable to see , blinded by lusts desires and the all mighty note of currency. Constant meetings, surveying and graphing lands, like the Dutch, French and British dividing Africa with the confirmation of shaking hands. 

Now unearthing what is hidden beneath the sands yet rather obvious once brought to the surface. We are a chosen generation born into this unjust nation , to rectify the cry of every soul not race, taking the bitter distaste of Master’s leftovers. Then, digesting the past accommodating spacious freedom when it rings…….Echo….. Echo. Presiding powers that be, from the continental congress to the constitution all brainstormed so economically, that till this day and age distant relatives of southern slaveholders hold seats in Congress which rule and super rule, while lobbying aka puppeteering the presidency.. 



Find Walter on Facebook!