THE EXHIBITION
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THE EXHIBITION •
‘Tchaikovsky’s Click’, ‘When Does a Boy Become a Snarling Canine?’, & ‘You’re Officially A Woman’
Richie Magnia is a student at the University of North Texas, studying Creative Writing and Media Arts. While primarily working as a screenwriter, he got his start in short fiction and poetry. Working in various genres, he is able to meld them together to create cinematic prose and poetic cinema. Themes prominent in his work include: violence in men, cycles within families, and the connection between art and violence. Acting as president, he is the founder of UNT's Screenwriting Camp and has been featured in the North Texas Review, Mantis, and Wingless Dreamer. He can be found on Instagram @richiemagnia.
Photographer - Tobi Brun
Tchaikovsky’s Click
Fifty-fifth of Swan Lake, Op.20, Act II
Realization settles in the pit of the stomach
caressing in a searching manner
in a dreadful spirit —
mix it carefully with two fingers
gouge them into the eyes
staring into the mirror.
“Who is he?”
He tries to recall the features that held his gaze mere seconds ago
“I cannot recall my own face.”
He recognizes himself enough times to hold them in the palm of his hand.
“I recognize myself
I slam a door
chunk a remote
yell a profanity.
the click in my stomach.
I recognize myself
I stare at a wreck on the highway
pick raw at a hangnail
fantasize about choking—
the click in my stomach.
I recognize myself
in my hands not my face.
They had just gotten into a fight.
That’s what I hope it was.
the click in my stomach.
I recognize myself
in the carmine and the wine;
they dance, battered in holy matrimony.
the click in my stomach.
I recognize myself and I don’t know if I like it or not.
I recognize myself
in the pupil reflection,
a heart to heart
a knife and a hand connection.
the click in my stomach.
I recognize myself
the weight of me sinking me deeper.
I wouldn’t find a love like this ever again.
the click in my stomach.
I recognize myself and I don’t know if I like it or not.
Before I know it,
the click is gone.
I recognize myself
yearning for return
realization that time stood between the next click.
whether I like it or not.”
You Are Bare, Let Me Dress You
You can search your home
for something you will not find,
in your full cupboards,
in your wedding beds,
in the palms of your neighbor.
You are bare. Let me dress you.
Without me,
you will find slashes
in every which way upon your back.
It’s your fault for not letting me dress you.
I will gift you soothing rain to rinse your skin
because I am kind and you are bare.
You will pick your scabs,
keep yourself raw and willing
so I may cover them with my own flesh
until you have to pry the skin from yours.
You are bare. Let me dress you.
Will you tense up
or will you not be able to stop yourself from squirming from my grasp?
Why are you shaking?
Stop squirming.
You are bare. Let. Me. Dress. You.
You yearn to be seen.
You yearn to be consumed.
Let. Me. See. You.
Let. Me. Consume. You.
You are bruised and you are battered.
You. Are. Bare. Let. Me. Dress. You.
I will come for you when the time is right,
when you least expect it,
when you least deserve it,
when you don’t even have grey hair yet,
when I need you,
because I’m me and I can do whatever I want.
But for now,
let me dress you.
When Does a Boy Become a Snarling Canine?
When a boy become so hungry
he can’t help but bare his teeth
and threaten the throat of his mother
When a boy no longer quivers
in the face of danger and discernment
and runs to hide behind his father’s leg
When a boy begins to use his pinky nail
to scrap out the muscle of his mates
from the cracks of his bleeding gums
When a boy’s stomach is filled
with any who let him sink his teeth
but time goes on
When does hunger return and only his mother remains?
“You’re Officially A Woman”
I can’t go into that store anymore,
walk in like it’s no big deal,
grab femininity by the twenty-count
and pay an absurd $10.49 just to feel like shit.
Mountains upon mountains of lost opportunity will drown,
and I’ll be left with “a simple stomach ache”
and a craving for something I know isn’t good for me.
Why couldn’t He have just put me in the right one in the first place?
Blood will pour down my leg,
seep and stain into my skin.
Boyhood is slipping through my fingers
and is caught by a heavy flow cotton.
Heat will make me rip off my clothes in the middle of the night,
Your divine creation stranded, searching for cool relief.
Tears will fill my ears as I am reminded
of what You chose not to give me.
No matter how my clothes hang from my body,
no matter how flat I can get my chest,
no matter how many times he calls me his darling boy,
the blood still remains.
No matter if manhood presents itself on my face,
no matter if I change my name,
no matter if they finally call me their son,
I’ll still have blood stains on my legs.
Jesus Christ,
I CAN’T FUCKING BREATHE IN THIS THING.
Richie Magnia is a student at the University of North Texas, studying Creative Writing and Media Arts. While primarily working as a screenwriter, he got his start in short fiction and poetry. Working in various genres, he is able to meld them together to create cinematic prose and poetic cinema. Themes prominent in his work include: violence in men, cycles within families, and the connection between art and violence. Acting as president, he is the founder of UNT's Screenwriting Camp and has been featured in the North Texas Review, Mantis, and Wingless Dreamer. He can be found on Instagram @richiemagnia.