The Quarterless Review ︎

A weekly, collaborative journal harvested from the fields of isolation.
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Connect:            ︎     ︎   ︎

Review ︎

A weekly, collaborative journal harvested from the fields of isolation. 
Learn more...


︎   ︎   ︎

Featured Artists:

The One Of Youngness

Poetry by:

[cold on the eyes]


    for John Godfrey

Eyes in hand, to show the window world its sure, emphatic wear and tear. Turns that wean the young of oneness, where light collides with holes. The negative spaces edged by wiry hairs, where they go to rinse. Steady muscles handle the printing of more notches on sparks, more levers to rigs, become crystal knobs sufficient for turns. Passing in & out of breath, levitating up a down, to scruples. Magnetic gravity holds, pro the spread of adventitious roots. Sit to read a book for the good parts. But the good still keeps its missing best.

[the pool-swishing arms]


“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she exclaimed.

“All the better,” she replied.

An unending universe came to their table to ask if they were okay on their drinks, or if they wouldn’t like to order appetizers before the rest of their party arrived.

“I think we’ll be fine,” she answered.

“Thank you,” she said.

She had a pale jade martini with salt around the rim, pierced by the olive more yellow than green. A plastic tea-light tilted back and forth in her fingers. She found the curves of its plastic flame were warm if she pressed enough, her fingertips could draw the warmth of its filament up through the whimsical surface. Using the tiny switch as an anchor-guide, her thumb could grip the tea-light with force enough to press the flame ever deeper into her fingers, until the warmth itself was deeper, more rewarding to feel.

She had a cheap beer with a brittle collar of gold foil. She made a practice of trying not to crinkle it, though would inevitably awaken as if from a trance, to find a rough misshapened ball, compressed from a tear she’d taken absent-mindedly. It was amazing that the mind could wander, and return.

Lady Gaga came over the sound system. They looked down at the granite table from their high leather stools. It shined but was almost phlegm in color, speckled with black chinks like a polished block of ambergris.

There was another universe across the way. The paper-white neck looked so large, choked as it was in a tight black collar, buttoned to the top. It spoke with a table and wrote orders with a pencil. They could not hear its sounds above the din.

Follow Morgan:

Instagram:   @morgan_vo


Morgan Vo is a poet and singer. Recent work has appeared in Can We Have Our Ball Back, Counter and The Recluse. He helps organize
G L O S S, a .pdf press.