A desired, undesired end 

I have a rope tied around my throat. 

My eyes burn and turn crystalline. 

My veins, red, green, blue, 

are about to dance. 

I think of all artists who speak of their work of art, 

and the brushes behind it. 

But I’ll never get to show my work of art. 

I’ll simply give my last breath to regret, 

regret for the person I was. 

Each time I sink into melancholic thoughts, 

each time the thread of fate pulls me into the abyss, 

into the deep sea, 

with tides crashing against me as I drown, 

my hand silently reaches out… 

but I only sink. 

And I will drown, 

drown without ever being a valued, loved, important, or useful person. I say goodbye to the only ones who ever welcomed me with warmth, even though I don’t deserve it. 

God, just take me. 

The wounds on my body and under my nails burn. 

Please let everything heal from me. 

And may tears of fury have served some purpose. 

Now, yes, this note is a great work of art, 

But one with a bitter, sorrowful ending. 

Goodbye.

As I touch the bottom of the sea. 

Self-portrait poem from my bitter heart 

Like an unopened chest, 

I stayed with the deep intrigue of what else is inside of my deep eyes. 

Like calm tides, 

I transform into a great wave, full of all my regrets. 

Like the meow of a baby cat, 

I shelter for the protection of my parents while naked from the world I am. 

Look at the free and rebellious wind 

What I want to be, while I witness the world counting all the stars. 

The trunk in the middle of my heart 

Prevents water from passing through me. 

While I wait for the distant dawn, 

I become a sea of tears with my deep darkness. 

My inner demon is anger 

the anger that only calms the salt. 

I am a rainbow of emotions, 

and a roller coaster. 

I am a survivor of the world, 

and a raised soldier. 

And with my wounded hands, 

I open the doors of my future and the doors of my heart.

Where my feet and head really are 

They say I don’t know 

where my feet and head are, that I’m always daydreaming. 

But if only they knew 

that my dream is the real world. 

The sky is always bright, 

Filled with clear, open clouds. 

Flowers have no color, 

only an origin 

that makes them slightly different. The rain is sweet. 

In reality, 

The dark sea doesn’t exist. 

Only calm tides. 

In reality, 

we are all heroes from past lives. All of you

Wear a smile without a cape. 

At night, 

the moon watches over us. 

In the day, 

the sun protects us. 

And we are aliens. 

But in the end, 

the sane one in society of madmen is the madman. 

And that smell disgusts me. 

The smell is green, dark. 

The fog in our eyes disgusts me too. 

Open your eyes 

and stop daydreaming, 

so that we may see 

our beginning.

I will dissolve when I die

start six feet under, and the water table will rise

and I will be carried away into you

so I give myself to you now.

You are the ocean

and all things return to you.

All things return

but two parts of me stay.

One part is lost at sea

and the other part is searching for it.

And I cannot find either.

They are both dissolving as I surely will

The ocean is powerful like that

But I am losing myself.

And you have me.

So I give myself to you now.

I will dissolve entirely.

I will be the entirety of the ocean

I will be so much

so small.

I will be a portrait of myself.

You will be the entirety of me

I will not be the entirety of you.

—————————————————————————————-

a revolution

sit on the back

porch in the

drizzle, end

of summer

listen to the

crickets plot

a revolution

your father once

told you dreams

were useless

hard work was

the only way

to get ahead

kind of ironic,

since that fucker

didn’t believe in

hard work either

he just wanted to

beat it into your

soul so he could

think of himself

as a good father

yet another thing

he failed at

still think about

cigarettes and a

glass of scotch

watching the cat

kill a mouse and

bring it to you

for a reward

————————————————————–

the mystery meat

never trust a skinny

chef

a nail shop that has

no koreans working

or the mystery meat in

any sandwich for lunch

and you wonder why so

many people fail gambling

on baseball

testing the limits on sanity

watching my mother’s health

fail a little more each day

i tell her it is probably better

she dies before democracy

does

and the young still want

to get married

and the rest of us only see

the cliff and an endless

fall ahead

just fucking jump

——————————————————————-

slipping into the abyss

i thought i would

let out a loud

collective fuck

before we are

never allowed

to do it again

slipping into the

abyss of scrambling

underground like

the cockroaches

they all think

we are

say goodbye to the

freedom of speech

and hello to the

consequences of

speech they don’t

approve of

fuck fuck fuck

i never was any

good at conformity

and was always

fucking proud

of that

the twilight is here

i ain’t fucking

changing now

——————————————————————————

volunteer

the only job

i seem to be

qualified for

is volunteer

hell,

i remember

back in 1988,

i was 12

years old

and told

my mom

and dad

i was going

to mow lawns

over the summer

to make some

money

there was a

drought that

year

i mowed one

lawn

never got

paid for it

so yes,

volunteer

i guess it is

———————————————————————

if she only knew

breathless beauty

but always just

out of reach

always her choice

by the way

if she only knew

what could have

been

two worlds that

are completely

different

colliding into

a beautiful

kaleidoscope

of wonder

sexual tension

for years to spare

but the comfort

of endless miles

between means

there is never

the need to take

a chance

and just like that

a moment in time

lost in whatever

like so many damn

times before

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been nominated three times for Best of the Net and once for the Pushcart Prize. He’s been published for over 30 years now, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Misfit Magazine and Mad Swirl. His latest chapbook, to live your dreams, will hopefully be out before 2025 ends. He has a blog but rarely has the time to write on it anymore. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

The beginning is the end

Like a hummingbird I utter the words

That you once said to me

Once upon a time in an evening

Gradually becoming dark

Cold as night

Lack of warmth and certainty

Whispers of the unsaid, uncared

Words and actions

Clustered around the buds

Some were yet to bloom

Or

Some were blooming like a passion

A determined choice

Between duty and dilemma

The storm of mistrust arose

Serving them all the premature death-

An obvious nip in the bud.

23.09.2025

Blue Curls

03.04.2020

Post Memory

Part I

Ashes emerge out from the glass of

Memories,

Dangling between past and present,

Beings become non-beings.

All flames fade and evaporate,

All go for impressionistic images,

Pictures signify the other pictures,

Images another images;

Memory is mixed with tears

And the soothing aches

Come out of the

Translucent prism

As post memories.

Drizzling memory

Is draining itself out of rotten bones,

Flesh, blood as

Veiled with the scars

And transforms itself

 Into a new soul.

Post memory freezes me

Like a chilled out cabbage,

Cold, calm,

With no vexation

Like a patient

Without sense

Lying on a hospital bed.

Silhouette walks down

Through the urban spaces  

That was once countryside;

Time shakes hand with

The ruins and figments of

The dead waste land.

Like slithering out from the bruised

Skins of snakes,

Like fragrance emitting out

And spreading all over the room,

Memory comes

Memory mingles

With thin air

And gives birth to post memory.

Serene, sober, smooth,

Like patches of cool powder

Around the neck applied in hot summer.

2020

Part II

People escape from the ugly

Reality,

Bypassing the truths of mortality,

Night owl records the details

Of livelihood,

Burnt cigar seeks solace in burnt memories.

Tripping down the past lane,

She finds a strand of word

That she hid from

The loitering passerby.

Holding an old bottle

She stares at the starry night,

Pictorial paintings of photographs

Flash upon her imaginative eyes

And whispers-

“Where am I now?

Where will I go?”

Time blows like wind

To tell the tale

That was once half-told.

2020

Like a China Teacup

like a china teacup

soft curves, with veiny blue flowers 

slithering across every corner of my milky white body, 

rimmed with smooth gold across my crown, 

reflecting the sunlight

like a china teacup

fitting in my palm, 

easily crushed into eggshells, 

sunny yolk spilling on the tiles below.

like a china teacup

i am filled with rich personality,

sweet like honey, coating the back of your throat

my energy, staining your teeth a brownish red

burning your tongue when i come on too strong

like a china teacup

i am beautiful inside and out,

my delicate flowers coating my porcelain skin, 

golden rim that gleams in the sun

i am,

like a china teacup

I didn’t expect to feel unsafe. That’s the hardest part to admit.

The person I was speaking with—a renowned sexologist, celebrated for their kink-aware, trauma-informed approach—had built a public reputation on consent, care, and empowerment. I had admired their work from afar. So when they asked about my medical condition in passing, I answered honestly. I was vulnerable, but I trusted the space.

What followed was not care. It was emotional domination disguised as engagement. The conversation veered into territory that felt coercive, destabilizing, and eerily reminiscent of a D/s dynamic—without negotiation, without safety, and without consent. I was misgendered after clearly stating my pronouns. My health condition was weaponized against me. They insisted on being the one to send the Zoom link, failed to ask if I wanted the session recorded, and never offered me control over the space.

And then—to top it all off, so to speak—it felt like they were playing cat and mouse with me. Like I was the tied-up sub and they were a literal psychopath hiding in plain sight. The dynamic was not therapeutic. It was predatory.

I left feeling retraumatized.

And I’m not alone.

We live in a time when boundaries are under siege—from political rhetoric that dehumanizes queer and trans bodies, to therapeutic and spiritual spaces that promise safety but sometimes deliver harm. The rise of authoritarianism isn’t just happening in governments—it’s happening in micro-interactions, in the misuse of power by those who should know better.

This is why instinct matters.

Instinct is not paranoia. It’s not drama. It’s the body’s wisdom speaking before the mind can rationalize. When something feels off—when a conversation leaves you feeling smaller, silenced, or emotionally cornered—that’s your signal. And it doesn’t matter how many degrees someone has, how many books they’ve published, or how many panels they’ve spoken on. Anyone can violate a boundary.

And anyone can choose not to listen when you say “no.”

As queer folx, as neurodivergent beings, as survivors, we are often taught to override our instincts in favor of politeness, professionalism, or perceived authority. But politeness won’t protect us. Only truth will.

So here’s mine: I was harmed. And I’m speaking up not to shame, but to protect.

If you’ve felt something similar—if your instincts whispered “this isn’t safe” and you doubted yourself—you’re not alone. You’re not overreacting. You’re remembering what safety feels like.

And that memory is sacred.

Let’s build spaces where instinct is honored, boundaries are respected, and care is more than a performance. Let’s haunt the canon with our truth.

About the Author Kandy Fontaine (aka Alex S. Johnson) is a queer writer, editor, and literary agitator whose work spans poetry, fiction, memoir, and radical cultural critique. As the founder and editor of Riot Pink, Kandy curates voices that haunt the canon—centering queer, neurodivergent, and trauma-informed perspectives in defiance of literary gatekeeping. Their work appears in Neurospicy!, Nocturnicorn Books, and across underground zines and performance spaces. Kandy is also co-host of The Smol Bear N Pickles Show, where they explore the intersections of art, identity, and resistance with fellow visionary Alea Celeste Williams.

Kandy believes in the power of radical empathy, messy truth, and literature as a tool for survival and transformation.

📧 Submissions & inquiries: georgebailey679@gmail.com 📚 Riot Pink: Queer literature that bites back.

Self Portrait with a Piano

The bench doesn’t know me anymore.

Not like it knows my sibling,

Or my mother,

Or my grandmother,

Or my grandfather.

Not like it used to know 

Me.

A poet sits down at a keyboard and tries to remember what it felt like when letters were in order 

from A to G.

Tries to remember a language of symbols she spent so long studying

And too long forgetting. 

Grandfather stares down at her and she wants to share anything with him other than a name. 

Music has been proven to help the forgetful remember

And she is forgetting how to look at something written

And make it her own instead of picking it apart. 

She is trying to forget how hard dedication was

So she can have just this one thing. 

She is trying to hold on to everything she ever was without fighting for it

And it is slipping away.

I sit down at the piano again and pretend I never left.

I will let it all return to me slowly.