Our new book offering, Dylan Krieger's incredible Metamortuary,

Brilliant impromptu variations on Ovid's Metamorphoses

with dazzling excursions through life, poetry, and death.



Order your copy of Metamortuary

for $18.00 + $3 Mailing

What I want is to find my people, my kin both aesthetically and ethically, and to enact our lives as artful revolution together. I would explode the canon even if it meant exploding myself. I’ve never wanted to be prom queen, and I don’t plan on starting now. Save me a good seat at the weird kids’ table. I’ll meet you there.  —Dylan Krieger

Review of Metamortuary, from isacoustic, by barton smock:


Oh what smoky anatomies abound in Dylan Krieger’s Metamortuary. This is music, a fatigue learned by osmosis, and Krieger is a metamorphosister, a conductor whose verse shepherds the black from every unborn sheep into the brightness of the spiritual body’s pop ruin. Full of deconstructed wordplay and subliminal gestations, Metamortuary indicts deeply and paroles the self to a transfixed mirror where one can be seen as the two it takes to weigh a bullhorn with the incubation period of a peephole. I have not known such a humane loneliness to exist, let alone to have been created from the orphaned nothingness and plural threesome of biology, weather, and locale. Each of the book’s four sections, Dangerous Meat / Raw War / Quiet Catastrophes / Eternal End-Times, is a detached possession belonging to the same church of an absent and holy endeavor where Krieger stages population myths for an imagined audience of resuscitated reanimations with a language so alive and so secretly killed that it renders irrelevant the spelling that revelation too often uses to sound out the shape of its more basic priests. In other words, there are no other words. Creation is the vacuum. And may all of our current surgeons go, by design, to a dust once breathed by Krieger’s needed and presently corrected demons.

girl, overdetermined


here lies the pythoness piledriving toward a new body

doctor-gods, hear my cry

resuscitate these age-old horror stories

a double-sexed child under the knife

parents standing back terrified some otherworldly

alter-ego might go bump in their binary night

in this dimension, before the world formed

the nurses chanted out their sterile windows to the streets

an uninterrupted cacophony of teeth

but eventually the seeds of juxtaposing beasts combined

to forge the moon new horns

the seasons’ warring warmths

the sordid orphans we call angels wailing for what

would ever after halve beyond repair:

glitter fish from gutter bird, pearl from oyster

puckered boy from suckered girl–in the suckling stage

they may strike you the same, but soon enough

the surgeon demands a decision, each incision

a distinction between tumor and lesion

between the multifarious deformities

of windward and leeward demons