about the author

Rich Larson was born in West Africa, has studied in Rhode Island, and at twenty-one now lives in Edmonton, Alberta, where he was a recent semifinalist for the Norman Mailer Poetry Prize and Pushcart Prize nominee. In 2011 his novel, “Devolution,” was a finalist for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. His short work and poetry have since appeared in Word Riot, > kill author, Bartleby Snopes, Monkeybicycle, Prick of the Spindle, DSF, Lightspeed, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and many others. His self-published work can be found at amazon.com/author/richlarson.

Bookmark and Share


font size

Hunger Games

Rich Larson

Alternative content

Make my spine into scalpels and honeycomb my bones, carve me like      Pygmalion, hips bleak planes, slide
helium through my veins, scoop chub from cheek, whittle me down,      perfection is

Hold tight behind my belly, like a fist like a stitched cyanide pill, make my      ribs a rosary for pianist fingers
that clopped too heavy on the ebony keys, I’ll feel them when I see perfection      is not

Show me to Them in angles, in beautiful vectors, the fuckers with fat      blooming over elastic, peeping out
of arm-holes, show them their sins dragging bloat onto the bus,
     stumping down the street, nothing left
to add

Stretch me brittle, extend the tendons between my body and my mirror,      make me a temple, no,
cathedral: sharp spires and cavernous spaces, vaulted and haunted, make me      less, make me perfection

is when there is nothing left to take away.

HTML Comment Box is loading comments...