It’s speaking to me

Mid sleep checklist incomplete

Dreaming of writing this

While skating and collecting snowflakes in my pocket

I’m with my old boss looking for the next word

It’s underneath the ice and as long as we keep moving

they’ll appear

Slowly we place each word one after the other

What we build here makes complete sense

Door hinges break without salt so we sprinkle liberally

And we have to crack the window so my mom can hear her alarm

It’s in the next house along with my mom

The moons out it’s big and the night sky makes me weak

So I sit on the porch watching it glisten hoping that in some way

it’s speaking to me.

Love Song

 

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I admire his persistence

and oh, how his howling soothes

like the thumping inside her womb

those vibrating drums birthed from her mouth

I admire his persistence

how her beats stretch across his howl

The night twinkles

bare, bare, bare, with dull blood

Dance in her womb, crawl on your knees, eyes shut

A mighty hand guides you to the unknown

 

-Saschia Johnson

 

When Feelings Collide with Words

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She came And She went
She Left. She never Said Goodbye
I Meeean
I Said It To Her From Behind
But With Her Back Turned To Me
I Didn’t Have Much Confidence
That We Would Meet Again
Like If I Got To Say It To Her
While Looking In Her Eyes
And I’m Just Going Off My Senses
But Something Tellin Me
My Last Kiss
Was Last Night
So I Had To Send This
And I Didn’t Want to Express This
Fearing I May Come off Desprate
But I Guess Ima Keep Speaking
She Came At A Tough Time
She Woke Me Up
When I Was With Her
I Found Breath To Keep Breathing
But Maybe Something Wasn’t True
Now I Guess I Could Keep Sleepin
Cuz Maybe The Answer Wasn’t You
So I Guess I Will Keep Dreaming

-Marco Anthony Fabretti

Check him out on Instagram @marco4him  or  Facebook 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saschia Johnson- Morality Collection

Saschia Moraldom

Moraldom

Wrap me in white and send me along,
away to a place where there’s no rules

Rock me steady on a hollow log
listen for my beats, while I drift along

Gift me your love while in white I dream
but what I want is to be alone, I suppose

watch as everything escapes from your scheme
but please oh please let my lover of prose

Sing until I’m a blooming rose.

Saschia Johnson -Creator from Southeastern Connecticut

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Wanna read more? Here’s another great piece in our collection written by Simon Williams

Artist Chad Cocilo

Meeting Artist Chad Cocilo was an honor. When writing this I was more focused on who Chad was as an individual and who he was as an artist. But I have added a link to The New London Patch which goes more in depth on his art style and technique.

“I pay no attention whatever to anybody’s praise or blame. I simply follow my own feelings.”

― Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

“Fuck em all.”

We were on our way to meet Chad Cocilo but right beforehand, he asked us if we wanted to come to his studio. I was totally siked. When I think “studio” I think of Jackson Pollock, alcohol, cigarettes, and wet canvases with paint brushes balanced on them. My co-pilot, on the other hand, thought in the opposite direction and felt it wasn’t a good idea. So, I said, in my oh-so-convincing voice, “We’ll just drive by the club [his studio resided over and check out the scene.”

We parked across the street and while Melissa smoked, we assessed it together mentally. I felt her tension ease, which I’m sure was only because she forced it to, knowing how excited I was. It didn’t take much assessing to know the area was questionable. I text him to let him know we were there and he met us outside. We walked up to the building arms brushing against each other. We got to the door and I noticed he has those ocean eyes. He was standing there tall and brave, eyes kind of sad looking. Cigarette in hand, while he was waiting for us in jeans and a button down. I would have never guessed him to be an artist. Then again what exactly should an artist look like?

He held the door open and allowed me to lead the way up a dark and narrow stair case. As I began to walk up the stairs I couldn’t even see a door at the top. I put my hand against the wall to guide my way. The building was old but the stairs were sturdy. We got to a door with no lock. I was afraid to open it because this wasn’t my door to open. I admitted out loud that I was scared and stepped aside. Melissa stepped aside as well, saying with her eyes, “O no, it’s not gunna be me.”

He strolled up with his broad shoulders and casually opened the door. I turned to look in the studio, my mouth dropped and I was completely awe struck. It was like the Willie Wonka of art factories. I felt like dancing, but there was artists at work. This was more than I had imagined. It was creativity heaven. Any medium you could think of in every shade. Paint in cans, bottles, jars, and on canvases that were strewn from the floor to the ceiling. And it was a high ceiling. There was nails, wood, glue, artist made tables and fixtures everywhere. I felt creative just walking in. I was amazed. Where have I been? How could this wondrous place be in my town and I never knew about it?

After shuffling around and attempting to contain myself. We found a table to sit at and began to talk. He seemed a bit unsure, at first. He began to warm up after a few questions, a cigarette, and a finished can of something alcoholic. I enjoyed listening to him speak. He spoke soft and monotone. His voice was so easy to listen to, even with the noise of the art demanding my attention.

Chad had started as an artist after the passing of a friend which led him into gifting art for others. He surprised the family, band mates, and close friends with portraits he created. After some time, he broke away from stencil work and graffiti and started doing work that came straight from his own mind. It felt more like his work. It’s a challenge for him as an artist to put his art out there for the world to see while facing criticism.

“You can’t take anyone personal ever because that’s their own insecurities. You can pick and choose what to take from it to better yourself,” he says. He even shared that he’s been called a phony because he’s sold expensive pieces around the world. Even so, he feels a freedom with his art. He focuses on that freedom and not being stuck. When he says stuck he doesn’t mean literally. He means, he doesn’t want to be stuck in the 9-5, “counting sheep” work week.

“It’s just nice to know there’s something else out there.” His freedom has ruined relationships and gained new ones. When asked by an ex-girlfriend if he was just going to skateboard and paint for the rest of his life, his reply was, “hell yea!”

On my way out the door he says, “You can ask me anything. I am an open book.” I respected his transparency, gave a genuine nod, and turned to the staircase where we had begun.