sadcore dadwave is a new microgenre of culture interested in publishing poetry, art and fiction by some of the most sadcore and/or dadwave out there. send submissions as attachments to no more than 3 poems, 3 pieces of art / photography, or one short story per submission. no simultaneous submissions.
fucking juliette binoche by dan holloway

You should be at a poetry slam but you’re not.
You couldn’t face another night of polite smiles and 8.5s,
Drinking cider getting beaten by oneliners
From a guy who lacks a basic grip of irony
Who thinks misquoting Kerouac’s as hip as he aspires to be.

You’re in a Dean Street clip joint.
Outside neon rips the sky
Like screaming tears from every dream that travelled here to die.

A hostess who looks like Juliette Binoche demands a drink.
You say cognac and a hostess dressed like Lana Turner brings you whisky
And asks for fifty
When you only have a twenty.
Juliette says “that’s plenty, you can pay the rest with your hope”
And puts a notebook on the table,
Opens it, lights up and tokes and passes you her smoke,
Chokes on her whisky, strokes her wrists distractedly
And clicks her pen
And then you say

“I want to rhyme with holy fools
whose only rule of poetry is flow
where verse is free
And wordsmiths badder than the worst of me”

Behind the thickening membranes of her eyes the light retreats a little,
Fingers tighten and she whispers “start again”

“I want to suck the sacred poison from intoxicated skies
Philosophise with rent boys
High five the hell-bent and the heaven-sent
And stent the city’s arteries
With sycophantic merengues to the high priests of the moshpit
And wash the slack-skinned strippers
With oils and scents and the unspent dreams of the departed.”

She dissects you with her disappointment.
Her words infect you, dripped from lips injected
With so many years of intravenous hurt
“There are more lines of poetry on my face
Than in all the rhymes that you will ever write”

And you remember:
You should be at a poetry slam
And this is why you’re not,
The superficialities and artificialities,
The shiteness, triteness, emptiness and skin deep sheer banalities
And you say “I want the pain to stop”
Juliette Binoche unbuttons her shirt,
Opens a condom,
Throws the rubber on the floor
And slides the foil across her chest and takes your hand
And presses it into the blood,
Peels back a flap of skin
And your fingers slip like toes
Through the sand on the last beach on earth
And as her heart contracts beneath your palm she says
“I want the pain to start.”

Dan Holloway is the sexiest bearded poet in Oxford not called Paul. He is the author of The Man Who painted Agnieszka’s Shoes, a novel written interactively on Facebook about the importance of pain in virtual reality. Its principle protagonist is a dad whose daughter went missing 10 years before the novel starts and may or may not be trapped inside a mobile phone.

three poems by clarissa ames

jam band

it’s all dudes and

they’re in a jam band

but they all play



where does this idea of memory

come from?

I don’t want to remember architecture school

which is really rigorous

they take you and break you down

you design rooms and houses

and don’t see other humans

this is a mexicanism

you walk down the street in mexico

someone could throw a bucket

of water on your head

look out a bucket of

water is coming at you

Clarissa Ames graduated college and is now roaming the streets with wild packs of dogs. She’s been published a few times and has all her shots.

three macros by theBeff

TheBeff is a Jeff from NJ who lives above a queer dad bar in Manhattan and works on the Internet. He makes movies and news, writes puppet shows, and throws art and music benefits in NY/NJ. You can reach him at or on his tumblrs

three poems about hummus by vicki tingle


i can view my own face from three different angles in a mirror that is specifically designed for that purpose.

and it looks like late at night the traffic lights change colours for cars that don’t come

and the children play in car parks and sing songs regarding

'crack smoke' and '666' and 'dick sucking'

like ‘666, 666, smoke some crack and suck my dick’ and it looks like

this is a very apt way of looking at things.

and you have to wonder, if you smoked enough crack would your teeth fall out

and make your mouth extra soft for dick sucking

but too soft to even say ‘666’ anymore.

have i kissed some hummus into your mouth

and changed the texture of your words.

can you play your childhood games and sing your songs

in front of traffic lights smeared with hummus

if you cannot see their colour.


seems like i have become addicted to my job

and i am not very good at my job.

i make mistakes constantly

and feel tired constantly.

i have not been in love in a very long time

or maybe i fall in and out of love constantly.

maybe i just fall in love all the time.

i can feel my brain slowing down

gradually throughout the day

until i go to sleep at night.

i dream in colour but so does everybody.

i splash water on my face when i am hot

but only when people are looking.

i have sex with people that are of no consequence

and i go home while they are asleep

because i would rather sleep alone.

it just seems more normal for me.

i eat hummus when i am sad

which is all the god damn time.


if hummus were an aphrodisiac i would be horny all the time.

i would climb through windows crying

and demanding that frightened people get sexy for me.

get sexy for me humanity:

my mouth is full of hummus.

i need to share this feeling with you.

let me kiss the hummus into your mouth.

vicki tingle is a 21 year old writer living in brighton, uk. she has written an e-book which can be found at her other writing can be found at and she tweets at she eats hummus every god damn day. 

two poems by santino dela

do you believe in dads?

i don’t believe in dads
the dad is a governmental superstructure
the dad is an authoritarian hierarchy
the dad is a cruel and commmon catastrophe
kill me dad
i’ve been bad
now i’m sad

dedicated to dads

hey dads of the world
you destroyed my friends self-esteem
when you told him he was “a failure”
do you know how your words can hurt
let me explain the value of love
to you dad
i think that you forgot about me
i think you forgot about yourself
why do we keep forgetting each other
why can’t we get over this little bump 
on the road
i think all of our dads are going to die
and this is not a bad thing
it is a neccessary thing
sorry dads 

santino dela is 21 year old artist, writer and poet from vancouver, canada. he is currently traveling the world seeking meaning, love, peace and tranquility. he has a novella coming soon and is available on twitter @santinodela and online at

i’d rather stay home and watch the television, sweetness by sian s. rathore

oh go on then, describe something as Kafka-esque

if it makes you feel clever
and please stop quoting Frankenstein
why do you think you’re too clever to admit

that your childhood was not harmonised with 
musicals and show-songs?

you’re only human.
you’re barely even that.

hours lost in researching, you rise and make
a stropping exit

“I’d do
anything, for you, dear, anything…”

you call me from the kitchen for another measure.

“For you
mean everything, to me…”

i notice the amber’s heavy legs inside your glass.
it reminds me of Chanel, a luxury even I know well; 
Chanel slipping down your crystal throat, 
whisky heating on my temples.

so maybe now I call you an angel.
I didn’t mean it as a compliment. 

"As long as he – needs — me”

your voice is frozen. You seem sorry about something.

"The sun’ll come out”

of course you didn’t mean it.
you were drunk
we all fuck up. 

Tomorrow, betcha
bottom dollar…”

and every angel falls some day so
stand and spout your elegy, angel
don’t forget to dumb it down for me
“Looking back, I could’ve played it

i wonder if she sings still, too?
(I’m going to cut your hair in your sleep
let’s see how strong you are then)

You press against a nibble-mark
sustained from just a week ago
"like petals under skin" you said
"like you were made of flowers" you said.

and drank another whisky
flattery will buy you time. 

"So long, farewell,
auf wiedersehen, 

sian s. rathore has been published in every lit mag ever. 

above the influence by beach sloth

If you could give one piece of advice to every parent, what would it be?


Don’t jaywalk

Don’t bail them out of jail

Don’t forget, we will always be your kids.

Don’t let my little brother become me…

Just because I’m a teenager doesn’t mean I’m doing drugs

Learn to be a light in this dark world of ours!

Talk to your kids about the dangers of marijuana and how it is poisonous and terrible and will ruin their life



I would say Think right, do right, be right, live right, and be like the Omegans of star Caladan. They stay healthy because they drink milk. Drink milk, think milk, be milk and taste milk.


Let your children watch Dragon Ball Z. It will teach them to defend themselves against evil (Like bullies, robbers, terrorists, etc.)

Eat yo kids

Bi-monthly Chuck E. Cheese trips

We went to sea world for fireworks

I saw my sibling go through so much because of drugs that’s why I rise above every day. Jk lol

Let us make more mistakes; it will encourage wisdom in our futures.

Talk about future plans. Like collage

Make a great trust with them

Trust your child. And support whatever there doing in their life. & never give up on them. Also don’t do drugs they are very bad for you. And I lost a very good friend from it. I don’t want to see anyone get taken away from it! So please communicate with your daughter or son or both! I was once down this road & I realized I went down the wrong road… and turned back around. So yes I’ve made mistakes and now I’m above the influence! 

Be understanding

Be good parents

Suck more dicks

Three simple phrases that could solve everything

Some of these comments are stupid, I’m 14 years old, and could give better advice than some of you adults, saying smoke weed with your child, and drink while pregnant, this page is called ” above the influence.” Why did you like the page if you support drugs? My advice would be to always be there for your child, to put them in extracurricular activities so that they won’t get involved with drugs, and talk to them about the dangers of drugs.

TEACH YOUR KIDS ABOUT JESUS….teach them to have a relationship with Christ

If it wasn’t for my parents being there for me (and if God wasn’t in my life), I wouldn’t be where I am today

Disciple your child

I have a voice and brain too so let me say what’s on my mind

beach sloth is the dad of the alt lit scene. he writes reviews here and has also been published in screaming seahorse, thought catalog, banango lit and up literature. what a cuddly sloth. 

immortal game 1851 by cecilia lydia geddes

People are more violent and selfish, due to something introduced into genetics

The outside world is more controlled, weather can be dictated

Anything can be simulated or made synthetic such as sleep, these are never comparable to the real thing

There are things called paradoxes 

The stock market is strictly controlled, there is still a rich poor divide since there needs to be an aspirational culture for the economies to grow

This room was a skull
This room was a secret
This room was bones of a ceiling
That kept the roof from your head
You were promised
You were the left
Fingers clutched into the flowers

His words flood you
His touch pushes through
His smiles unhands you
His breath out does yours
A beetleknot at a time
Runs them beneath you, over and under,
Over, over, and through

The mot and bailey, the buttress, the view

After, in a slump„ he said again, yes
Next time, if you dress as before

cecilia lydia geddes is unknown. we know nothing about her. 

two poems by matt margo


// its strength

crinkled by wealth //

// useful for the psyche

convulsion begins //

// dreams immense, hopes losing

yet to be //

// what you accomplish

unshakable devotion in our sights //

// a noise today

out there but not unaided //

// left to say to you at times

singe all passages //

// shallow call in the dark

take a trail //

// survive the study

facts reaching a decision //

// a kingdom similar to this

friendship in reality //

// fresh loop

clock //

// be proven false cannot be proven false

trust //

// settled now

falling down //

// so much moving

cobalt paint //

// maze-like

sugar alone //

// two-colored

thoughts crash //

// little one

out of bed //

// idle talk

reshape edge //

// shepherd’s core

piping hot stones //

// at home

tattered and worn //

// unwrap me

but not too slow //


at that exact moment

i knew what the future would deliver

on the final night of my first summer

and added shades of white to the air

i stood with the blue paint at my disposal

as a lonesome human being

and i felt capable of embracing it all

miles and miles beyond

i was an artist at last

i climbed the rooftops of my city

i scrambled to the peak of every skyscraper

the artist that i had always strived to be 

Matt Margo's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bravehost Poetry Review,experiential-experimental-literatureBlue and Yellow Dog, and elsewhere. A full catalog of his publications can be found at He currently resides in Hiram, Ohio.

i have been wanting to make out to a taylor swift song for six years by sarah jean alexander

do you remember when i had one of your beard hairs stuck in my throat for three


i kept shoving my fingers into my mouth, clawing at the back of my throat.

i spit up blood before i spit up your hair.

it was half an inch long, black and coarse.

my throat hurt more after it was gone.

the tickle was lost and my throat felt smooth and plain.

sometimes i think it is still inside of me.

i had a dream last night that i found a snake in my dad’s back yard.

every time i took a step towards it, it split in two.

soon i was standing in the middle of the lawn surrounded by 300 snakes and all i

wanted to do was pick one up and hold it close to my face and and whisper ‘one

is enough, little guy, you don’t need to keep splitting apart.’

my family jokes that i am the ‘fat one’ because i don’t work out.

i don’t know, i feel normal even though sometimes i am lazy.

i feel ‘averagely thin’ even though i am not very toned.

i walk around the city a lot and my calves are huge.

my parents are marathon running freaks.

my sister was employed at a gym for awhile and really thinned out, but then she

had a baby, so who’s the fat one now? (still me).

i have been waiting to make out to a taylor swift song for 6 years.

last night i kissed this guy in bed while taylor sang “drop everything now, meet

me in the pouring rain. kiss me on the sidewalk, take away the pain” and the

melodious pop country music coming from my laptop made everything feel OK

for a second but then i laughed and said ‘i have been waiting to make out to a

taylor swift song for 6 years’ and really ruined the moment.

Sarah Jean Alexander is a sad mom and feels at home here. She’s written some things. Talk to her (@sarahjeanmd) and read her ( 

WZRD by roshan abraham

My mom had a jewelry box I was not permitted to touch, go near, or glance at. When I asked her what was inside, she responded, “one serious fucking wizard. Two ears, two noses, one ungodly staff, a hat made of dead cats. Two eyes; one seared, one forgotten.” She kept it at the top of her dresser, just out of reach, but close enough that she knew I would stare at it, wonder about it. Sometimes I went near it and pretended to try to open it. Every time I did this she smacked my hand, reprimanding me and reminding me what was inside, one serious fucking wizard one serious fucking wizard one serious fucking wizard and it was worth the mark on my wrist just to hear her words because they were sharp like knives but cool and emaciated like the winter wind and warm like the stove and they were sweet like burnt honey, dark and ominous as two donut holes. I think of her now and I want to crawl inside her mouth and die in the space between breaths; in the small deaths between phonemes, in the magic and the heat of her speech. The dresser was moved, eventually, the jewelry box left open and sideways on the floor, empty. I played a game sometimes where I ran around it, as if looking for the creature that escaped, but this game grew tiring when no one gave it a name.

Roshan Abraham is a writer or a liar. An e-chapbook of short fiction is forthcoming, he said, shrugging.

three macros by maria lavender

maria is a new dad. She makes collages, takes pictures, and is working on her first zine. Her internet persona lives at

three poems by caleb bouchard

Bro, Carl Hiaasen just drove by me; pick up your phone.
I need you to buy me a PayDay while you’re in there.
It’s cloudy and looking at this water tower is making me hungry.
Alright I see you walking out.
Gonna steal this pen, bro. 

Our new landline
sounds like something
out of Super Mario Bros…
very nice!

Two of the


over the stairs

have gone out,
so now, all I am

able to see on my way to bed is a

of a boy
standing in the snow.

caleb bouchard writes at and tweets at @imcalebbouchard. his work has previously been published in screaming seahorse and have u seen my whale?

three poems by martha dittoe


Sex used to make me feel fulfilled
Like, the feeling after having “good” sex seemed to linger for days and I would feel satisfied
But now that I am not having sex, let alone “good” sex,
I feel extremely nervous about sex in general
Like I want it so bad, but what if it is “bad” sex
I will probably just want sex more
And like the boys I know with “nice” penises are retards
And I haven’t seen any of the penises that I would currently consider having sex with
So what if [attractive boy] has a “lame” penis or he is “bad” at sex
And then we mutually don’t want to have sex again
But attempt to continue our friendship
And then it fails horribly and I have one less person to smoke blunts with 


When I feel angry enough to be mean my vision tilts back and forth
Thinking about all the people I have been genuinely mean to
All I can come up with is lesbians that treated my friends poorly in high school
And a boy named Stephen who had curly hair and a big nose
In china my high school Chinese teacher got drunk and Stephen kept knocking on her hotel room door
and trying to make her say tongue twisters and [something involving a rubber chicken I didn’t quite
I yelled a lot and punched him in the stomach and tried to punch him in the face but a boy that looked
like buzz lightyear held me back while a boy that looked like me put his hand over my mouth
And boys I like, I am pretty mean to boys I like 

Despite massive sleep depravation
I really don’t want to go to sleep because I am so emotionally volatile
That I am feeling a deep meaningful connection to comedy shows on Netflix
Which I am not ready to give up 

martha dittoe is a terminally bored 19-year-old college student living in cincinnati, oh. her blog is a notepad document titled “popo” that nobody will ever see.