"holy see" by nat raum

Updated: Oct 25, 2021


raising stakes and bleached cotton cloths bedsheets on which

to project indie films everyone knows on which to make

love sober to a rustling breeze and the wails of late summer locusts

[i always want to feel the way i felt in oaxaca: suspended

in time, like the way it feels while you’re in the air after

you jump off the high dive or when you dip your feet into

shallow hot springs or taste the first drops of agave on an

eager tongue.]

swallow the blues one at time sound-activated strobe

lights bounce through gently parted ground-floor living room

window blinds peppered chocolate french kisses

eventually there is no body je suis ici en train

de mourir whites run red bleeding pink and greying

matter to water running downhill i’ve lost all trace of

woman (i thought that psychic death was simply the

dulling of neon signs inside of me over time)

[no matter how many times anyone says purity is a myth

i can’t help but attach to the self that could have a chance

at it. but there is nothing unspoiled remaining and

therefore nothing worth saving.]

[tonight i will let myself drop through the mattress onto

the carpet below as i reminisce about each cataclysm in

reverse chronological order.]


nat raum (b. 1996, they/she) is a queer disabled artist and writer from baltimore, md, usa. their practice centers around creating hybrid work in the form of books and zines that explores existential crises, troubled states of mind, and deep dark secrets. most of their recent work pertains to their history of trauma and subsequent c-ptsd diagnosis. they are the founder and editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press.

Instagram: @pikesvillerye

Twitter: @sausage_candle

fifth wheel press IG/Twitter: @fifthwheelpress

Related Posts

See All

We pour shampoo into Norah’s hot tub, well, not her hot tub, her parents’ hot tub, but we’re the ones using it, and we want bubbles. It takes a lot to overcome the chemical treatments, but eventually

amanda palmer presents to me a man o' war where my face should be pink-brained siphonophore water pocket dry popped dead upon the sand where she beached me white and blacked like weimar and worri

A chill wraps itself around my neck and needles make a knot inside my right fist. The right joint always raised red flags, even when I chose to chalk it up to acidic butterflies, especially on the nig