Announcing the glorious, bloody birth of a poetic movement: New Formalicious. Also known as The New Formalicious.
Here are the answers to the questions you're frequently asking already.
Everything you've been waiting for. Everything you've been dreading.
It is assembled from their greatest failures.
While John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, has often been cited as the first New Formalician, the movement as such began on a windless afternoon in the early twenty-first century, when all the lights of the city began to flicker simultaneously and a gypsy moth landed on a young poet's hand, whispering, "You must." He didn't. A movement was born.
In the nude.
Freedom is an illusion; worse, it's a Jonathan Franzen novel.
New Formalicians strive to attain the transcendent by way of the sensuous. You'll notice we didn't say “sensual.” It went without saying.
You have always been one of us; you have only just awakened to that knowledge.
Are you saying you'll host?
Look out the window. Do you see those streets? Those houses? Those people suffering the impossible heartbreak of what it is to be human every moment of every day? That's our f*cking anthology. (Our friend's press was supposed to do one for us, but they folded.)