By: Alan Berger What stories to chooseWhich ones to tellThey choose youAnd tell you what to sellI’d rather be a year too earlyThen a second too lateRather not be out with someoneThat I just can’t takeRather stay home and masturbateAnd…
By: Robin Long cling to the submitted words, disfigured,like the leather face of plaguewith spices shoved into a protruding beak herbs, to protect and stave off stenchpestilencenoxiousdisease—writing?it never felt like my disease, before only a dressing of another wound. Those…
By: Stephen Kingsnorth Meeting Delhi We drop suddenly,overtaking the ox ploughingbeside the tarmac. Heat-hit,little mascara boyswrest the bags from usbefore, bewildered and affronted,we grab them back. We overload Ambassadors,unsuited cases and rucksacksbulging, over-flowingthe gaping jaws of convoy boots. Soon, undergraduating,…
By: Lynn White Against The Tide Will we wait for the tide to turn.to carry us awaywave after wavegathering up the debriswhich surrounds ussucking it up like so much dustgetting rid of it all,everything goingwith the flowsinkingbeneath the waters.Everything.But not…
By: Elena Mordovina The thing that surprises me in this pictureis the cat painting exactly my portrait(you need to put your glasses on to see) –The one you shot then, ten years ago, on the balcony.Don’t worry, I’m quite happy…
By: Ken W. Simpson Demons are founddining greedilyabove groundon ghoulish soupfresh flesh fingerssanctimonious syrupboiled bigotfresh flesh fingerspedophile pigstuffed hypocrisywith promiscuityas the devil’sdessert.with I scream.
By: Annapurani Vaidyanathan Hope likes to slither away into the shadows. It loves to sleep beneath greying clouds until a ray of sunshine knocks its socks off and floods the sky with rainbows. It needs you to dot the i’s…
By: Andrew Campbell The following was written as I stood on a hidden hill off the Natchez Trace Parkway, about four miles into an overgrown trail. It remains, and will always remain, as it was when I scribbled it on…
By: Paweł Markiewicz there are finitely October-idesmeek shooting stars – the friends of nighttimehave fallen aforethe visit of themorning star – the boon VenusI was able to feel theireyesome miraculous silencea dreamier eviternitybelongs to meI can think of its waking…
By: Elinor Clark Fret A strange misfitted longing I neatly fold awaypairing memories as socks beforeI place them, tidy, in the drawer. You fret too much, you always saidlike the seasoggy brume cleaving blue.Think too hard and of coursethings look…