By Dylan Willoughby

Your lips mouth an unbearable tongue
You read of darkness fucking night,
A jealous god swallowing his own,
His stomach a second womb

This entrance is not real, says the deceitful clay
We have disguised the banquet as a pile of bones….
You think you have stolen fire
But it is the end of us

Dylan Willoughby is a permanently disabled poet and composer, born in London, raised in Canada, the US, Chile, London, and elsewhere, and currently living in Los Angeles.  Dylan’s poetry has appeared in Stand, Agenda, Shenandoah, Salmagundi, Denver Quarterly, Green Mountains Review and other journals, and Chester Creek Press has published three limited-edition chapbooks.  He received an MFA from Cornell, and fellowships from Yaddo and MacDowell.  He record music as “Lost in Stars,” and have been featured by The Los Angeles Times, Entertainment Weekly, Echoes (NPR), KCRW (NPR), Nylon, XLR8R, Insomniac, Impose Magazine and elsewhere.