By: Atticus Ellis Naughty boy, your verse will do you badUnless you cloak the name that you once hadBehind a crafty pseudonym at once.Heed me, and don’t play the heroic dunce. Every stanza can be fraught with dire risk.You need…

By: Selina Whiteley Helix in B-Coil After Alan Ginsberg, “A Supermarket in California”Foucault, I see you, frail and gaunt, your pneumatic lungs,collapsing, as with rasped breaths you flirtwith that dark-haired paramedic.Do you not think of your Defert? We need him…

By: Sivaprasad. V The Outspoken They say it’s made in the HeavenMen tie the knot to make it happen on Earth.To the disciples of Comte it’s a permanent social legal contract.The society’s nod for sleeping together. A few are destined…

By: Ria Banerjee  The vicious tentacles ofa fatal virusengirdles the world in alethal coil.The world gasps for breath,frantically choking, coughing andspewing out sputumand venom.It is a barricaded battle fieldof the living andthe dead.Or, perhaps of theliving dead.People go back and…

By: Michael Summerleigh Aaron looked around at the empty apartment…sunrise through naked windows setting newly-emancipated dust motes to dancing…a table and a chair…the laboured hum of the old refrigerator now reprieved from cooling anything at all… In the freezer was…

By: Fabrice B. Poussin Leftovers The select few in assembly had taken a huge biteof a feast destined to a multitude of destitutethose in rags who erred from scrap to crumblequietly, abandoned dogs of skin and bone. Incongruous bursts of…

By: Alan Berger We leave them to die  It’s not their faultThey don’t have the toolsIn their head vaultsTo make a fine life In every cityThere they areHere they stayHere they comeWelcome to your paradiseWe would be rather gratefulIf you keep…

By: Jill Olson Clinking glasses intermingled with twitters of laughter.  Bethany had put on a great spread for us to graze on, as we discussed this month’s book.  The fire crackled, whispering its presence while coupled with the aroma of…

By: Mike Zone Everything is fucked Writing poetryhoney-comb moonAllan in purple dream hazein search of toilethe just didn’t have the heart to tell herhe wasn’t the manshe was searching forthe night beforeeverything fuckednationalized pizza deliveryhobo’s hosting baby knife fights ###…

By: Stephen Kingsnorth This eyrie place,is it maids’ garret or penthouse space,servant peephole surveying classor milling subjects from royal box,pink plaza market peopled underneath? A portrait gallery:summer clothes brought out for wear,sunshine fashions unwrapping scare,swaddled usually from view,hairless legs displayed…