Don’t talk to me about the dam and the dreamscape and spires scuba divers stand on like statues of some long forgotten sea goddess. Don’t talk to me about the flood that devoured my hometown. The stopped-up river swallowed the main street, and our tails split into two unsteady legs; dislocated, we crawled onto the rocky shore. In winter, we walk out onto the ice, towards the island we can never reach in daylight. You’ve never waded those half-drowned streets, slick with snowmelt but they flood my memories. So don’t talk to me about magic or the prayers I say to strange gods, or the broken glass grinding in my knees, or the language I speak in my dreams. About the author:
Meep Matsushima is a poet and librarian. Her poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Microverses, Liminality Magazine, and other fine publications. Say “hi” on Twitter @meep_matsushima or read more of her poetry at http://meep-matsushima.neocities.org.
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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. i imagine you as a morsel while i place you inside my needy mouth tasting you before I submerge you… tasting you before i hand your delicate scallop like flesh over to my violent tongue as it swirls you around and around like a merry-go-round in the front of my mouth thrashing you so wildly that your skin starts to tear and flake off, falling upon my curious gums, like autumn debris brushing against my velvet cheeks. my molars grind you into a flattened flesh diluting you with saliva so that you can slide easily down the dark pit of hell where you truly belong 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. You lie there, caressing the minuscule dark particles of my brain the reminder that you were once here a constant murmur in my ear Your sweet voice — echoing enticing me to live better to endeavour love and hope once again Your image severing my lust for life with a strewn icicle like the ones that hang lightly from the roof of the veranda hoping one will fall and slice through me as I slam the door harder and harder each time to lie by your side, frozen in time with larvae from the blowfly seems all but a dream to me one I fantasise about daily I would have the larvae devour my flesh consenting the soil to make love with my ossein, the thought of our carcasses inflating reminds me of that summer, the summer we rented a bouncy castle in the shape of a cat for your birthday together we shall bloat and collapse, allowing our love of creatures to bounce and feast upon us Mites Carpet Beetles Skipper Flies Ants Reminiscing that time I gifted you an ant farm after your first transplant 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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