Sunday, August 20, 2017


I’m listening to wet drops
of Eden beat against
my window.
I’m bored
even of apples and
I taste serpents
in my wine.
Mother Mary
is too good for me since
I’ve become a little sinful,
but I’ve learned
there are ways around
the Bible.
So I call to Eve.
The woman who
spread open sex—did she
Her punishment for boredom
was pain during childbirth
but now we have C-sections
and multiple orgasms and
if she were here now
with me, she would
skinny-dip, smoke cigars,
get a Ph.D.
I want her bones;
at least a charm to hang
around my neck.
It’s raining drops of Eden
over and over.
The same water that ran
out of Eden and into
Euphrates seeps into
the ground—a mothering
earth.  And I’m
biding time,
waiting for
the apocalypse
or a leak in the ceiling.
-Donna Dallas

Sunday, August 13, 2017

should i be bothered if my name is 'her'?

my name is her in a different story. where i am
a little. boy learns stifling romance. a feather in a
hat. some wings.  was it her in red dress?  certain
voices carry recitations when i learn boy’s tongue.
little more manoeuvering. her kisses the tarmacadam,
not knowing what it looks like. i am boy. i tell her
whatever i want, what she doesn’t know. i tell her
anything. till she believes she is beautiful. there is
no thrill in breaking ugly, he tells over my voice. 

--Tanya Singh

Sunday, August 6, 2017

How To Begin

Constellate at just the right moment,
collision and attraction co-ordinating
to bring nothing into something.
Bed down well, make yourself comfortable,
you’ll be here for a while,
 so choose a good spot
and make your preferences known.
Plot the co-ordinates and map yourself gradually,
contour, river, landmass.
There’s no particular hurry,
though people do prefer it
if you stay on schedule.
Be good at long division.
Creep into people’s dreams,
whisper your names in storm clouds
and summer breezes,
flirt with moon shadows and twilight.
Make your presence known
as soon as you can,
bubbles, ticks, pressure, moving,
all these are reassuring.
If others want to check you out,
try to be obvious, subtlety can come later,
band a drum, crash saucepan lids,
shout from the rooftops.
Swim and have secret knowledge of the sea,
mermaids, fish people, eels, water mysteries.
Yoga is your thing, specialise in the headstand,
hands free of course, elsewhere,
you might spend years
trying to relearn this pose.
Get the choreography right,
remember the steps, you do know the way.
Don’t be afraid of light and sound,
hormones are clever things, and,
given the chance, they will help you.
Gradually learn where you have come from
and where you have come to.
Wake, feed, sleep, repeat. 
--Alison Jones

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Midnight Medicines

I start

with a sip
my glass
refills itself 
when I walk
an empty
bottle behind the bar,
costing me
ten times
its shelf

I hazily and halfheartedly
sobriety, my squeals
haphazard whirling
turns, fooling
only those
whose vision has
blurred in front of and 

Stumbling towards
the bar,
I think I see
a room
full of cartoon

Then a round
of unnecessary
empties my sad, though glamorous,
as I tip
the distilled liquid
my inflamed
minutes of my
that I did not really

--Jessica Gleason

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Two Poems by J. L. Smith

Editor's Note: In Manchester, I met an amazing artist. He was homeless, selling his poetry page by page. He sold me two for the price of one and I promised to publish them via my humble e-zine. Here they are. Let's hope we hear more from him! 

Me Myself and I 

Sat on the edge Society
wondering why I'm not a priority 
what's come of my life, come over me 
my life's in tatters can't you see 
beggin at the bank every day
get a job get a life people say 
i get not benefits just what people give 
to buy food and drink to help me live 
i live on the street a doorway's my bed 
people think I'm thick in the head 
it's just Me Myself and I 
nobody wants me do you know why 
don't I deserve to live with a smile 
to make my life worth the while... 

Street Life
on the street I have no home 
in a doorway all alone 
at night it gets so very cold 
no one for warmth to cuddle or hold 
day after day it's always the same 
people rushin past in the fast lane 
somewhere to go something to do 
oh why can't I have a life like you 
instead I'm sat here on my pitch 
waitin and prayin to get that hitch 
i have my regulars that stop with a smile 
that makes gettin cold worth the while 
sat out here is like Ground Hog Day 
so until I get my break it's just 
the way... 

--J. L. Smith

Thursday, June 15, 2017

Late Last Night

she penciled animals with her left hand:
dark pigs and dogs, but “Horses are too hard,”
she said. Self-conscious, with a diamond band,
a tight red dress, a round face acne-scarred,
she had bad teeth because she only brushed
the fronts. She kissed me. I smelled cigarettes,
her Heraclitean fire. Such moods! Blue-hushed,
to black, to blacker yet . . . a thousand yets.
And yet, she said she loved me: “You’re a good
man, just a little rough around the edges.”
I pledged that I’d live wilder if I could.
And then the moon above the cedar hedges . . . 
so white it blinded me till pale daylight.
I dreamed of my dead mother late last night.

--Thomas Zimmerman 

Wednesday, May 24, 2017


Growth, reveals, regeneration
It starts and stalls and restarts
There is a circular effect
A desire, yearning to start more
Perhaps before ready.
The muddy ground still frozen
Comes away in clumps,
Patience is required
To tidy up the edges only
When we really want
To sink our shovels into
Patience works area
We are still waking
Watch for the signs
Brown, brown, brown, grit
And dust
To green and black
Ready for the turning
To reveal the sprouting 
Seeds of summer.

--Ruth Sorochan