Welcome to Naked Cat Lit Mag

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Submissions for Issue One are closed

Submission Guidelines:

We are a new literary magazine looking for your raunchiest and most taboo work. We want poetry, prose, and flash fiction that will leave us wanting more, sweating in our seats. Give us the stuff you're afraid to send to more classy mags.Keep it legal. This is an 18 plus mag on the taboo, but we do have our limits. We do not want anything depicting anyone underage AT ALL. Our names are on this shit, yall.Please send your best, dirtiest work to [email protected][Poets:]
Please send 1-3 poems for consideration.
Please paste them directly into the email with a short third person bio. Please add socials if you want them included.[Flash Fiction/Prose:]
Please send 1-2 pieces under roughly (;)) 700 words for consideration.
Please paste it directly into the email with a short third person bio. Please add socials if you want them included.We accept any NON-PUBLISHED work.We do accept simultaneous submissions, but please let us know if it is accepted somewhere else.We unfortunately cannot compensate our contributors at this time but hope to be able to in the future.This is both a print and digital magazine.We cannot wait to slither to your work.

CHAPBOOK SUBMISSIONS

We are now accepting chapbook submissions for Winter 2023-24.
Send us anything! We don't publish only erotica, but we do have a preference for the unusual and weird. Nothing is too weird for us.Please send us a 20-40 page chapbook to [email protected]. We accept all the files and if we need something different we will tell you.No special formatting required either.These will be both digital and print.

Editer tip jar: $RyanDeHart1
so we can get Redbull and go all night

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Excerpt from "The Elizabeth Series" by Amay OrionCovalent BondsLast call rings out
like a siren song
-time to go.
My boots stomp concrete
while your bare feet brush pavement.
It’s a short walk home,
and we can do it all
by muscle memory.All the neon signs know us
by our first names,
and they call out to us
from their symphony of electric hums.
Most nights we answer
with hungry mouths
and eager tongues.The oak barrels on my breath
meet the juniper behind your smile
to make our signature cocktail.
I hold your hand for warmth,
you hold mine for balance.
Affection is not your strong suit,
but passion comes easy
by the third or the fourth.
We are ethanol-soaked lovers,
blissfully unaware of the weakness
in our chemistry.Perennials
It’s a beautiful, subtle thing,
the way you occasionally
fall back in love with me.
A lingering touch there,
a soft smile here,
and then there you are again-
like you never left.
I brush your hair from your face,
and you look in my eyes
like you did that first night.
Just like that,
our love started coming alive
like daisies in the springtime.Juniper BerriesYou always drank gin and tonic.
I remember you always smelled of juniper.
I still think about the night I chased you,
the two of us drunk, down 17th street
and yelled for you to get in the cab.
You wanted to run home,
4 miles, at three in the morning.
You were always running
but never to me.
You used to eat cinnamon
even though you knew I was allergic
and I remember thinking how
you must be doing it on purpose
just so you wouldn’t have to kiss me.
And maybe, some nights, I was happy
about that.
I remember the week you spent with
your mother, when you didn’t return
my calls or tell me you were alive.
All because you hated the city,
and that was the farthest you could get
without leaving me behind.
You weren’t ready for that
just yet.
You were always ruining the evening
and I was always cleaning up after you
hoping you would one day learn
to stop making such a mess, but
you simply were a mess, one that I
could never quite clean.
I would be better without you
but I still love the smell of juniper.

Excerpt from "CHAOS" by Arthur DeHartI hear the moans
And cries of technicolor confusion.
An allusion so simple,
When you touch me,
I come to life.I’m tired of hearing of my own birthday parties,
The ones that I don’t attend,
The tears and tears in my mother’s tendencies,
Confuse the English language,
Maybe if she loved me,
I could attend them myself.Maybe the ancient people had it right,
And I think when the moon rises,
They are still alive,
Their rites and passages,
Traversing underneath us,
Being so vulnerable,
Bone tired,
Thinking how stupid and miserable we all are.I never format my books right,
Because poetry isn’t pretty,
And I am not your,
Poetic mistress.
When the critics tear me apart,
I will pinch and clutch,
My pennies either way,
Because these emotions are,
Cheap in nature,
Unlike my love for humanity.

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