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.

     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’

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.

​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.

 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.

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

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

      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. ​