I see a ring a slab a loop a globe a tassel a drop light I am the age of the underworld the depths of the world the sigh upon laugh the dark upon light the veins in the brambles the skeleton in the thicket I take flower-beds out of sunlight eye-holes with my fingers fish-scales through the chink tree-tops from the shadow … Continue reading I
What if planets grew on trees? Towering trunks made of time, a thousand histories yet to be lived, all creaking under the weight of the fruit blossoming in this celestial orchard. How long did God peruse this garden that had the stomach for infinite Edens before he found the perfect planets for our solar system? What mattered to Him most? The colour? The shape? … Continue reading What If Planets Grew On Trees
By S. Iqraa Bukhari Continue reading Downtown Houston
St Pancras Station, walking to, and you’re already late, or on the verge of being it. You approach the entrance, hurriedly, but in the corner of your eye you see a woman sprawled on the ground. The station beyond is at once glittery and austere; it pulls people in and churns people out – an endless flurry of bodies, giddy and frenetic, like molecules around … Continue reading Mandala
Alice stumbled across the rocks, stepping on the dry stone and slipping on the wet green seaweed freshly soaked with sea water. The sharp edges dug into the balls of her feet, her flip flops a distant memory away on the sand with her friends. Ten minutes ago, she was lying next to them (the flip flops and the friends), hat placed over her closed … Continue reading The View From The Rocks
By Camille Fattal Continue reading Ghost Train
Our fathers glitch by fifty, hearts freeze framed mid- pump. Our mothers metastasize, pass errors womb to womb to breast. I enter GodMode: swallow the tail end of life and cheat death / cheat code / cheat this failing body, this inheritance I never asked for. GodMode is a common cheat code in video games, giving unlimited ‘lives’. By Jack … Continue reading GodMode
Matryoshka tiger-skin lancer: dot of yellow, I clasp your maimed torso; it is like a tiny, weightless bolt, and then that spill of oil: dew on a stark summer morning. By Joseph Bullock Continue reading The Wasp
I’m walking into a room made up images.
These are all images of myself
I assumed them from my figurative past,
Now they’re gathering dust on the shelf.
6 years old.
‘That’ day has come
‘lay down’ ‘legs apart’
‘Strip.’ Forcefully stripped.