Gone Lawn
a journal of literature
About This
How to Submit

Gone Lawn 29
Summer, 2018

Featured photograph, Levitation 1 by Christopher Woods.

New Works

Paris Weslyn

In Halls

A gaggle of geese obstructed my view of the sun. Yellow fire hydrants hose off girls in grey signs. And red pants never stop waling with boys on longboards, driving into cyclists. Terrified faces—still angry at alarm clocks—embark on journeys though endless halls of meaningless shit. Never make eye contact. Look down. Look down. Head out of clouds, eyes on the floor. The day crawls on underneath you and you never touched a single solitary soul. The sweet nectar of fear swallows you whole, drowning in misery, cascading from a cubicle, staring empty out of windows. To not have. To not have. Splitting the infinitives of your very being. Chilling and cold, sweat races down the spine of festering wounds, which walk sturdy on feed to haunt mothers in the night, warding off Lilith, protecting the babies, whose angels kick the ovaries of hope—as to ensure nothing new is birthed, out of the hearts of dying tears. Mom always said, "sit down and shut up." Sit down and shut the fuck up. This fuck is dancing on the tip of an anxious tongue, chopping the weak down, right in the knees. No one ever told them the sun didn't have a reason to shine, and they never asked why. These kids keep taking notes and eating shit on top of sloppy lovers—grinding, gnawing, gnashing their fangs, tongues, slimy and wet, outlining the blueprint of bodies lying dead next to them. Naked and honest, I lie on the chest of infinity. And then she came, listening to the heartbeat of eternity, lulling her to sleep.


Cities trap our soul in the smog of invention
Bodies can feel, but the brain hushes him with joyous cries of 'progress!'
An age-old sickness swells in the belly. Bandages allow it to fester.
Rimbaud once told me, 'life is a farce we are all forced to endure.'
Babies thrown out
Beds all made
This is the plane we've been given.
This is the battle we must face.
Wide-eyed, stupid, and dumb,
set off on an endless quest over the edge
further into the depths of a void.
Mother May I is a game long since abandoned.
She spit us out and died at the hands of our creation.
I can't feel the Earth when I sleep.
I can't feel the Earth in my skin.
I can't feel the Earth when I walk,
Trample on her face.
We live in Decay and stomp on the grave of our mother,
With Leviathanic boots, crushing her skull.


There is honey in your bones.
I am here to suck the marrow.
I swam through an ocean of tears and bathed in loneliness to strand here cloaked pure in despair
before your altar and longing for the tenderness housed behind your eyes.
Sleeping under warring stars I wait for your golden voice to make the sun rise in me and echo
through the halls of my consciousness.
Ever-present: I hear you loud and clear, and radiant, and proud.
Where did you travail?
Where did you break those chains and fling them far across the heavens?
Admiration escapes from my pores.
Admiration rages down my thighs like some extraordinary waterfall, forming a cool basin around
my feet for you to wash your face.
As I swim through the forests of your imagination, moonbeams beckon me over the edge to slip
inside your sticky, sweet goodness and drown there.

Paris Weslyn is the return of Spring, creeping forth to cast out the darkness of Winter. She is a Black woman refreshed, reborn, and blossoming, whose purpose is to respond to existence with awe and wonder.