The Zine is a Spaceship 001 – Homeworld
The Zine is a Spaceship 001 – Homeworld
The first issue of poetry zine “This Zine is a Spaceship” explores the meaning of home amongst a myriad of possible explanations. Contains writing from members of the Tumblr community featuring Victor Romero, Harley Foxwall, and Sebastian Lubbers.
Calvino wrote of swirls of fluid amid the darkness, crossing a distance unseen and uniting two lovers whose eyes are given instead to others, unappreciative of the gift of sight. The lovers are instead blessed with spirals. They are the beauty of the universe, of God, of creation. Devotion to another no matter the space in between. Extending appendages out into the universe. Reaching.
Footsteps on the carpet outside are insistent, bound for the dining car or the bathroom, perhaps even retreating to their cabins for the night. There are no faces. Legs are propped up against seats. They are sounds, they are a pressure in the air. The clacking rumble is ever-present and eventually another marvel that is long forgotten. Swirls in the air. Low hums and voices, darkness all around. The lights diminish and a book becomes ineffective. Stories in the air tell of silence. Untold expressions, unseen voices. Curtains are drawn shut and the pressure is low. Stories rise and fall. The window offers another world. Trees are frozen, awaiting the thaw. They sit in silence along the tracks. They do not see, they are.
I am a dying fire, encased in stone. The pressure is low and I dream of reaching out into the universe.
Submit to TrainWrite.
Calvino wrote of swirls of fluid amid the darkness, crossing a distance unseen and uniting two lovers whose eyes are given instead to others, unappreciative of the gift of sight. The lovers are instead blessed with spirals. They are the beauty of the universe, of God, of creation. Devotion to another no matter the space in between. Extending appendages out into the universe. Reaching.
Footsteps on the carpet outside are insistent, bound for the dining car or the bathroom, perhaps even retreating to their cabins for the night. There are no faces. Legs are propped up against seats. They are sounds, they are a pressure in the air. The clacking rumble is ever-present and eventually another marvel that is long forgotten. Swirls in the air. Low hums and voices, darkness all around. The lights diminish and a book becomes ineffective. Stories in the air tell of silence. Untold expressions, unseen voices. Curtains are drawn shut and the pressure is low. Stories rise and fall. The window offers another world. Trees are frozen, awaiting the thaw. They sit in silence along the tracks. They do not see, they are.
I am a dying fire, encased in stone. The pressure is low and I dream of reaching out into the universe.
Submit to TrainWrite.