By: Linda M. Crate you took my love for granted left me cold and bare without the golden autumn laughter, my breaths were shattered as my heart; everything felt like a zombie dream forgot what my brain was used for…
By: Linda M. Crate i love penguins and white tigers, but leave all those arctic wolves buried in their snow father’s arms they only use their fangs to wound and impale; i love polar bears and white foxes, but leave…
By: Claire Scott We hold our dead hostage Squeezing every memory Every story every feeling As though they were oranges With eternal juice Keeping faded photos Old diaries– ways to keep Them more alive than dead Keep them hovering Listening to…
By: Claire Scott The past cancels the present Closing doors and windows With clicks and slams Circling and circling In a closed space The continuous curve Of a mobius strip The past sucking possibility Eating our present minute by minute Hour…
By: Claire Scott I live inside parentheses My home since I was six At night I gently lift one Or the other and slip out Tentative, tactful Not upsetting syntax Not capsizing capital letters Or kicking commas To the foot of…
By: Claire Scott the other day wearinga heavy overcoattall rubber bootsa plaid scarf wrappinghis heavenly neckcoughing, his voice nasal fromscotch and cigaretteslooking slightly stoutlooking slightly bentstubble on his divine cheeksoccasional nose picking a bit grouchy, complaints ofstuck bowels, arthritic knees he…
Did he mourn the demise of his old mother who‘d walked into the sunset forever? Did he confront the flashbacks of unforgettable moments which billowed from the smoky ashes? Was he dying for the golden moments he had once lived because…
By: Sonali Raj He will go out on his bicycle when no one rides bicycles except dressed in fluorescent; He will go in everyday clothes, take the dullest road, by the ruins idle boys play cricket in, by the city drains,…
By: Sonali Raj don’t say i used your body …….say liquor women whisky …….husk women liquor city musk, your eyes …….lie about where you’ve been
By: Harrison Maxwell Peter Haines The Pastor’s hand slipped through the holy water nimbly, like the babbling tide of blood filled oceans. Baptised in autumn he stands in the rain, droplets sketch his lips and drown his dark green irises….