NEGLECT — PAUL ROBERT MULLEN

    mostly lying in manky rooms curtains drawn            the weight of sea-side town choking decomposing shopfronts under midwinter heavens   it’s too easy sometimes to give way to tears   even the lake is fucked            you say rusty shopping trolleys mouldy condoms squawking seagull staring at its own reflection         […]

SINISTER SIGHTINGS — LINDA IMBLER

  I was told, that in days of old, the old ones walked unseen. But Astor, demon king, and all the rest, have endured classification and kept havoc as their pledge. Cain, crushed under stones, and Judas on a tree, Nero choked by strings that betrayed him, his music not in tune with the human […]

POSTCARD FROM AMERICA — HOWIE GOOD

  The smells of old cooking fires cling to their clothes and hair. I’ve been warned not to look too closely at their faces. “Let us in,” they beg. They swear for the ten thousandth time that they’re deserving. We like to think we’re like peace-loving Switzerland, just without all those cows and Alps, but […]

THE NEW EVANGEL — CODY SIMPSON

  I had a dream last night. The whole Midwest was a plain parched with thirst, its grasses crying out for rain. Wildfires raged, the buds of the earth too scorched to bloom. A muffled hunger moved through everyone I saw. Their stomachs ached for something other than the bread you once gave. A need […]

AFTERWARDS — HOLLY DAY

  as death—“what’s happened to my son?” the eyes, so tightly closed elvin frail and pale questions she should never ask.   screams and tries to look behind the smile reclining in his midnight coffin pulls apart his lids in hope of finding answers.     Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Plainsongs, The […]

YIELD – PAUL ROBERT MULLEN

  i return             as most do                   to die you see            i am weary of travel a wheel i had to break before this carcass disintegrated into unfamiliar dust death must come for me where my name is known                   where the ground will accept my bones   Paul Robert Mullen is a poet, musician and sociable […]

THE GLADE – MICHAEL GRIFFITH

  Only buzzards fly in these stale skies, only thin shapeless clouds pass over the iron sun. The moon seems little different, perhaps made from tin, and those clouds don’t much care whose light they sop up. Trees once tenderly shielded their daisy cousins, but no leaves stay on the spider-leg branches and bark has […]