You hold me
under a flow
it knows none, all

Tied with a lash,
I’m beat with a bag
of the spare change left
when we
both went under

is a hex, to live
a trap

A future, thin
dear as paper
I’m told to fatten up
on hell


Anonymous asked:

Do you remember your first kiss?


Yes, awkward, shaky, and full of lazy tongue.


Anonymous asked:

How early did you fall in love? Was it a person/place/or thing?


I fell in love with music when I was about 4 years old. I listened to soundtracks—Oliver and Company, The Little Mermaid. Also Phil Collins, Michael and Janet Jackson, America, The Beach Boys, etc.—my parents music, the primitive foundations of my taste today. I was incredibly taken by the raw, emotive moments in music. I swooned, I had favorite sections I clung to, I danced, acted, sang into a spoon.

I sat in front of that stereo all day, every day. It was my uprbringing, the foundations of my musical intelligence—very intuitive, unspoken, felt. When my parents were unavailable or argued, I would run to my room, cover my ears, and sing “Wouldn’t it be nice” loudly enough to cover the yelling.

Music is as much my mother as the moon is.


When people think they transcend the act of interpretation there is little room left for communication that isn’t hegemonic. Difference becomes something to be highlighted and at all costs relegated because the existence of difference strikes at the heart of any claim to the real


pale beatles
who barter my body
for a lack of guilt

spare me
the strength of your
unspeakable nose bone

I know the things you do
with a sweet
smelling magazine

—Ashley Marie Scurto

By Ashley Marie Scurto, Holga 135 35mm


Concurrent plexiglass
an ocean in between

words I say today
drown in tributaries

words I read are
a beauty pageant float
with a rubber toilet
attended by pages torn
from Paul Virilio

I could live there
but I smell all
these trees

-Ashley Marie Scurto