The writing of David Robert Smith
The stories, essays, and poems of David Robert Smith — written with a spirit too large for the world that contained it.
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Awake: sickly conscious, shaking with caffeine, feeling that he would never sleep again. He searched for something to do: a book to read, a movie to watch, a person to talk to, but nothing, nothing, nothing but the pulse of a vein in his left eye throbbing in time with the digital clock, the red electric madman screaming "3 A.M.! 3 A.M.!"
Read the story → “Short Story
Awake at 3 A.M., shaking with caffeine, a young man searches for an escape from his own restless flesh — and finds it in the cold open air.
Short Story
A writer is hunted through the halls of Salem High School by a torch-wielding mob — for the crime of taking his own work seriously.
Poem
A scent that pulses and possesses the senses, that rises in confrontation then backs down again, that moves like the tide, that drowns then leaves dry.
Poem
Know me as the Persephone who is at ease among the dead: seed-hungry and greedy, not wanting to ascend.
Poem
You ice and crack my body, a winter wind. Never have I been so proud to be broken.
Poem
A hell of cells a cell of cells, bones, they hold like iron bars. Skin hangs on me like a suit: seemingly seamless but easily torn.
Poem
The umbilical cord (the womb's leash) can not be brought to bedroom sheets without first stretching and snapping.
Poem
Arenas and stadiums breaking the body to the beat of the crowd. They drink in the sight like wine.