By: Deryn Cressey-Rodgers When we were young, we danced like GodsAnd burned like angels.Original sinners, sinning strongBut frailToo poor to pay the costOf crossing.Feinting, falling, freedom-fightersLiving off scraps from the grail-fires,As the brightest candleMust gutter before the rise of dayWe…
By: Sarvenaz Ghasemi The Madhouse of Ogden A cold and dark December nightLight of moon that is mourning whiteYou won’t feel the sun warmth when it riseWhat’s good of a heart when it just dies?Far deep beneath the waves of…
By: April Mae M. Berza Love is political. And so is lovemaking.Voting for democracy of desiresseemed illogical but we foughtfor this freedom as you expressedthe purest intentions to me.When we visited the parliamentof passion, you deflowered my soul.You governed my…
By: Ikera Olandesca hello doc. how are u? i dont want to sound paranoidor attention seeking hehe but my body is feeling superuseless lately. is that normal? is it normal to miss people so hard all your muscles cramp and…
By: Mini Babu He remained with themfor thirty uninterrupted yearswith habitual grandeurof bouts of revelations,at what times,He carpentered an extraordinarilyflawless table,for His mother to unwrap,her wishes for the familyas food,and at other times,He proceeded with thoroughlyhurried stepsto the limitsof peaks,…
By: Enrico Barigazzi Stubs The ashtray is filled of smolderingtracesthey’re representing the unrepentantscraps of a vanishing short timelapse images over images are bundled upby the slow hands of the futureminds are emptythe last midnight dreams have flowed outof the illusion…
By: S. A. Gerber Edgar Allan Poe carves the roast—Dorothy Parker stands to toast—Hemmingway begins to boast—Shakespeare sits with ‘Hamlet’s’ ghost. Blake, alas, not using rhyme—Emily Dickinson looks sublime—Virginia and Gertrude in their prime—Dylan Thomas pours more wine. Nathaniel West…
By: Salim Yakubu Akko Grief as My Uncle I’ve learnt how to speak in my motherlandas how a toddler learns how to walkthe language of grief I was taught how to countas how young poets reckon poetry linesthe colours of…
By Patricia Saunders Taking wings I am falling in emptiness with no handrail to clutch,I am drawing in breath and plunging down passagewayswith invisible steps that vanish when trod.I am dim with night, and full of light,transparent in darkness and…
By T. G. Bianco Laying on a bed of nails,I mustn’t move or budge.Every breath I take draws blood.Why am I on a bed of nails?It’s quite simple,I . . .was . . .born.Born with a mind that couldn’t give…