Drew Krewer currently co-edits The Destroyer at www.thedestroyermag.com


Contributor Notes

Drew Krewer

Drew Krewer

Drew Krewer




Boy Snow White.


Snow and blood, engineered beauty. The beautiful eye, rifled target easily overturned. I’ll hem for you forever; don’t spill me. I’ve seen the cage interior, found poison like an animal.  I’m resigned to ironing and being dressed by others. I can handle being hit with an apple or two.  Coffin of glass, delicate coffin, I’m delicate let’s be delicate together. Tangled in Sugartown, not the glamour of a train track, not a screaming, but a falling asleep. A prince to kick the candy from my throat.  I will cook I will clean I will whistle while I work, so pass me my lips I have nothing to say.





Boy Rapunzel.


Don’t shut your door, let’s circulate some air. We wish you were different but it’s wrong to touch a girl. The bible tells you so, tells me no, sexy no-no. The beauty of football is all in the thighs. So revved in the night. Orchard’s edge, motorbiked and blond. You are stolen booze, opened windows, the hair to get us out. That was the story that kept us here, but there are many stories. God would blind you, but he’s stuck in my house.





from Superstation Queen


Frothy-mouthed children with assassinated teeth populate the countryside. It might serve one well at this juncture to examine, by tongue, the elaborate inner contours of the mouth. Swine understand the gravity of exsanguination and will find comfort in the familiarity of mud.


The supreme synchronicity, of fathers locking office or shed, summons from an infantry of fridge the beers, cold against the hands of devoted wives, who marinate deer meat from last week’s huntin.


What cruel and calculated manipulation is housed in Hon’ I’m Home. An infestation of expectations and bravado.


I have waited for this moment, for the fathers, the marinatin meats, the children desperate for a drink. Sprinklers have populated the countryside, they are taking over, it is inevitable, love this while you can.





from Superstation Queen


People here believe in, in moonshinin one’s way to emotive jactation. You, planted in a thimble, pray tell me how one avows preeminence in the world. The world’s finest took my likelihoods, sad-ironed me into a kerchief of a person. You could have had that person, but you constructed conglomerates over its body. Above the carcass, people eat chicken of engineered taste, surefire tongue-heaps. Best chicken in the world. The populace finger-lickin, clucking over the ceremony, in this town that is the capital of turfgrass and reading, where the libraries shall flourish in abandoned places. Empty greetings repeat, become rhetorical and numbing. We are gathered here today to establish our magnolia as the tallest in the world, gathering chicken in the gullet-purse, you know we’re paying. You’re tearing a breast apart for the last time, the restaurant an aquarium of grease, minimum wagers moaning over their battered, deep-fried skin, fat flooding the streets. Tornado, little darklin, cross the asphalt river lined in billboard, empty out your spinning little heart until you’re just a threat and a headline. Dying here would be fortunate. All it took was lightning and a tree. Watch them suffer with a sudden knowledge of the world.