Like birdseed, a sequinned gown, They would glitter them into the crowd each year around Christmas time. It was your smear- fingered -smile Little treat. We curled our tiny bodies into the ruby- lip slippered red of those opulent seats, sat tight as a bow. We savoured the buttons up… Hush, now let us begin. Slam Searing Black. That gunshot spike crack was the very worst sound of my life. I wanted to shred shed wolf peel at my skin. Wings battling uselessly into the wax of lights. You're a hunted animal. Fresh. screams, fever, green gaping horror-mouthed memories bashing again and again and again and again at the walls. Trapdoor. Claw. After a while, you know the hot scent of desperation. It's the ugly, stubborn snarl of curled fag smoke. If you want a light, you always, always, always have to ask them, even though you can hear them: their crabapple laughs crackle, vines choke at your ankles along the whole sterile length of the aisle. Snare, trap, flare. You're cored. You can no longer bear the sight of them. You shrivel in the corner and lick at your wounds. Fawn and Freeze. Retreat, curl up and Dry. Eventually, you don't even recognise your own white face. You are definitely not today The fairest, fairest… Each nightfall, animated eyes blare in this hunter's wood. They watch, watch, watch Watch. Your hair witches with time. You hold out your finger not for a ring, but for yet another bite of heat and blood; Your body spread out on a slab. Be good or they won't let you out… Gasp down til you bloat leak and weep like a frog. It's not real, it's not real. It's not real… Now you're encased into tall ivied walls. What you know is that they long to return the lush butchered prize of your heart. who even is the villain Anymore? One night, someone pads. tears at the plastic with fangs- and there's that familiar sweet purple glint once more. It's winking at you: royal like a cloak. About the author:
I'm an autistic social researcher based in Cardiff with a passion for heritage and museums. I also live with chronic eczema. I use poetry to engage people with research, and I am inspired by connections between artists and their work as well as interpreting well-known histories and stories from fresh perspectives, or uncovering under-appreciated historic figures and the tales they can tell.
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I have been asleep, what can I say? I missed a few years, gliding in and out of old nightmares, not always night dreams. Sometimes I’d daydream my way through months before the screams would force me back into the darkness. Sleeping was better than being awake and watching the reactions to my twitching (how horrible to witness yourself in a nightmare). I hadn’t noticed it was twenty years since I had had a thought, a real thought that breathed in the air. Sleep thoughts seemed so convincing (I do dream in colour, don’t you?) and the thought woke me and I realised I was naked (I always sleep naked, don’t you? Well you don’t have to say, you weren’t on display whilst sleeping) and a fig leaf won’t do, not after all these years, a fig leaf doesn’t even begin to cover it. About the author:
Hannah Linden has struggled with depression and anxiety most of her life. She’s a survivor of multiple traumas, including the suicide of her father when she was a child. Her poetry explores many kinds of impact from mental health challenges and she is particularly interested in the way trauma, and the experience of marginalisation, is explored in folklore and fairy tale, in both negative and positive ways. She has a Northern working-class background but, for many years, has lived in ramshackle social housing in Devon. She is widely published and, most recently, won the Cafe Writers Poetry Competition 2021, and was Highly Commended in the Wales Poetry Award 2021. Her debut pamphlet, The Beautiful Open Sky, (V. Press) was shortlisted for the Saboteur Award for Best Poetry Pamphlet 2023. X: @hannahl1n
The bright colours of a seaside variety dotted on beach huts stretch out behind me. The smattering of rain strives to deter their charm and attraction. Today, thoughts cry. The sand dilutes. With stress, fragments and words from my pen fray. The pavement weeps, and it distracts my eyes. Shoulders knot. The sun collides. The sea falls short. Tomorrow, attentiveness will win. A visit here will champion. Clothes will lead. Colours share. Stages glow. The wind will rejoice. The song will saunter. Loneliness will dwindle. About the author:
Kay Medway works full-time in a library. Kay writes poetry in her free time and had a poem for children in The Dirigible Balloon's Chasing Clouds anthology to raise funds for The National Literacy Trust.
I’ve had my boss battles with exes & ecstasy, almost lost my lives & pressed my perks, but in real life, you cannot change difficulty Zeffo checkpoints, slave to shapes & analog sticks, new cut scenes, I’m stronger with armours, upgrades & allies but the final boss taunts, taking names like Coronavirus & BXO & PTSD – I am not ready they know the force better (& their weapons are way cooler); so, for now, I hold this ground & I’ll always remember when I heard you say ‘when an obstacle is in the way, it becomes the way’ About the author:
H. K. G. Lowery is a writer & musician from Gateshead. He gained a Distinction in his Masters in Creative Writing from Graduate College, Lancaster University. The department of English Literature & Creative Writing awarded him with the 2021/2022 Portfolio Prize for his work which received the highest mark in the faculty. Lowery has recently been published in Poetry Salzburg, Errant and The Ofi Press.
When everywhere is dark & silent - birds have slept in their nest, men have gone to the heaven, sky has been covered by the black cloud with little ashes, animals have taken a rest from hunting, eyes have left the watching mouthes have stopped the talking, legs & hands have hidden their appearances, noises are no where to be found, talk to me then _ I will be waiting for your call beside the river Where I could hear your voice like that flow of water Let us meet in the night, when we could hear our voices loudly & clearly. About the author:
Imam Sarafadeen is a Nigerian poet and writer with a passion for poetry and other literary genres. His works centers on grief, love, and nature and his works have appeared and are forthcoming in Poetry Soup, Baskadia, Words Rhymes & Rhythm, Sychronized Chaos, Academy of heart and mind, Poetry Planet and elsewhere. Sarafadeen is currently studying the English Language at Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto, Sokoto State. Nigeria. He is Imam Sarafadeen on Facebook and 11bamikale on both Twitter & Instagram.
A manager's office is built with spin chairs and sighs, desktop with mountains built with prioritization. storms build with skins to maintain professionalism and platitude greets good morning with strong steps, walking tall through dawns wear and tear that lingers in nonverbal cues, meeting pleasantry with formal attire while the unspoken falls off their sleeves. with heavy concerns under noisy spike heels or a trouser's feet walking tall with facial grimaces, left expose nerve on the peak of strangulated exertion which need subordinate’s attention. About the author:
Fadrian Bartley is a creative writer from Kingston Jamaican, his poetry is available in journals and online web magazines such as mixedmag.com. Pif-Magazine. The-horrzinemagazine.com Bloodmoonrising.com, and Festivalforpoetry.com. Fadrian is currently pursuing his degree as a freelance writer, his inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.
I left the city and went back home to the countryside carrying a suitcase packed with the silence, the journey of time could be identified upon its wrinkles and the foundation remain with regrets and balcony splits, after I wiped the journey from off my heels, I stood and looked at the future through the grey mist of caducity, fat and overweight as it eats nothing else except arthritis. then cold shoulders administered themselves to my welcome at a cold place beneath the roof, where nonverbal cues are louder than my voice and cigar puffs the air to sedate all that lies within, but wounded words which fell from toxic breath is stronger than barking dogs, and the fragile window glasses fail to withstand against the martyred words, which exposed to a neighborhood of vile tongues louder than my dislikeness, as the twilight frowned upon the post meridian the sea rest upon my lashes only to be hushed by curtains and doors, the crewing dawn open its eyes with wine brawlers of passerby spitting reality in drunken tales that become a stir of echoes for barking dogs. Through shifted curtains intoxication identify itself with tilted bones that rocks with the wind, while expose nerve open to dispute. Into the west of a hard knock life, a place that reveal how weevil dances in dry cornmeal, Proves how stronger I am than a giant, because I carry the thunder inside my belly. and if I complain those around me replied and said, God didn’t make the world with oil only salt, this is the bitter wind at my ears when I still complained and the world replied and said, God didn’t make the world with oil and dead meat, only salt proverbs and poetry. About the author:
Fadrian Bartley is a creative writer from Kingston Jamaican, his poetry is available in journals and online web magazines such as mixedmag.com. Pif-Magazine. The-horrzinemagazine.com Bloodmoonrising.com, and Festivalforpoetry.com. Fadrian is currently pursuing his degree as a freelance writer, his inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.
Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough edges between our fingers, and massages their temper before we misunderstand. let us have them submit to our attention and call that moment the vibes, so their inner voice will speak through puffing cigars and the smell of intoxicated pores through thick skins. let us speak to them in silence since they already know the meaning of that word but not in the shape and form of poetry, let them know that giants cannot crush the rain with bare hands or sweep away the river with their lashes. let them know that it is ok to empty the soul in front of the universe for all to see and release the clogged tunnel in their veins, let them know that petals bleed when no one is looking but birds and butterflies will know. About the author:
Fadrian Bartley is a creative writer from Kingston Jamaican, his poetry is available in journals and online web magazines such as mixedmag.com. Pif-Magazine. The-horrzinemagazine.com Bloodmoonrising.com, and Festivalforpoetry.com. Fadrian is currently pursuing his degree as a freelance writer, his inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.
i have never felt safe in my purple framed mind. i lay on my side with my brain wide open, hoping love will blow through my window. the door swings open from the emptiness of the wind, and creaks gently at me, before it slams to a frigid stop. as if to remind me that i am more alone than he. he has his handle, his screws and bolts, and his frame to fall safely and comfortably back into. i have nothing but my restless mind, and some dull furniture that shines brighter than i. even the roses outside in the neighbours garden have had more growth than i in these past few years. Growth. a word that floats in a wavering gold liquid on my tongue. i want to touch it, taste it, embrace it. and i do. it is disgusting. tiresome. cold. it saturates my mouth like curdled summer ice cream, melting in mid air. the taste of another dreaded friday enters my mind. reminding me that i have a whole new week ahead of me to feel low again. to feel stunted. to feel grey, not gay. i wish i was a somnambulist. i would do all that i needed to do in my sleep washing myself, eating, exercise, perhaps even act polite and social. without the pain and bore of it all. without having to actually do it. without being myself. without being by myself. alone. cold. Icy. About the author:
My name is Hannah Myers. I am originally from British Columbia and grew up in Glasgow. I am studying for an MA in creative writing at UCC. I adore writing poetry, game narrative, flash, scripts and ‘dirty rap’. Authors I am interested in and influenced by are Ludmilla Petrushevskaya, Raold Dahl and Sylvia Plath.
sometimes, I sit in the shower, knees in a crease; the water, relentless, raining on the nape of my neck, finding its way around my body like a first lover – the droplets cling to eyelashes like a prayer clings to Christ – tears Insanity /ɪnˈsanəti/ Noun. the state of being seriously mentally ill; madness staring at white tiles, the light, face evasive, a bluebottle against glass I leave the shower, wandering to a bed like Joaquin Phoenix in the climax of You Were Never Really Here (2017) About the author:
H. K. G. Lowery is a writer & musician from Gateshead. He gained a Distinction in his Masters in Creative Writing from Graduate College, Lancaster University. The department of English Literature & Creative Writing awarded him with the 2021/2022 Portfolio Prize for his work which received the highest mark in the faculty. Lowery has recently been published in Poetry Salzburg, Errant and The Ofi Press. |
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