I dread the poem I shall one day write
To read to those who knew you, knew your heart,
The kindness of your soul.
Its rhymes are phantoms in my mind;
is not a period
but it’s funny how the homograph is used in this way—to shut things down, as a period (.) is the end of a sentence, the shut down of conversation, a period as it seems to be also does this too whenever a girl has one,
Some days I think I might have been a witch.
I have the temperament for one – brooding, meticulous,
able to whip up a potion as easily as winking
in the rusted cauldron that hangs over my firepit,
chattering in the background like an old housewife.
They’d come to my cottage (of course it would be a cottage)
and track mud all over my freshly scrubbed floors
and ask me to fix any number of ills.
I am eight years old when my father takes me on a ghost hunting tour
and I do not sleep for weeks afterwards.
My mind cannot shake the spectres on my dreams –
they have embedded themselves into the bricks that built the city
and pave the streets Continue reading
How do you store light the way everyone else only stores life
How have you trapped the heat of a thousand suns
When I can only hold on to the warmth of one
And how did you create this magic field
And when did you become my angelic shield
And how do you fend of the demons that I didn’t know I didn’t need
Did you know you do all that whilst the rest of us merely breathe
There is so much magic circling your palms
But I pray it’s only me who is captivated by your charm
And If you stay a while, I promise I’ll help you hide
It’s really fucking selfish, but it’s so that no one else finds out
That under that smile is the source of our light, and a secret gold mine.
by Taran Cheema
Pilgrims bound by empathy
Return to the mines of entropy,
Guided by the Godly wisdom
Of Corpus Christ’s stockholm syndrome.
Sunlight shines just behind
The corrupted loom of woodland,
And canopies shade the soil
From what the clarity would lend.
By the charity of bondage
They weigh every next decision.
Nearing an open clearing,
Their minds are forcefully undressed,
And visions rhyme out
As they stand in their arrest:
A mound of broken shackles,
Liberty buried beneath.
The sound of spoken silence,
Swords wielded without sheath.
A room with four walls and no door —
A room with a ceiling and no floor.
by Peter Page
If you are a dandelion,
I will whistle your skin until
my cheeks turn purple,
so each part of you
can know what flying feels like.
by Katie James
Down in the dark, the old man sits there and rubs his face
with the palm of his hand. He’s watching the computer screen
and he’s falling asleep, when a sound comes from the case
behind him. The case that remembers a certain teen
and his brave-faced grin in that dimly lit alleyway.
Behind him, a flash of red, yellow, green. Continue reading
by Alex Scott
That it’s normal to be hungry, all the time.
That the ball was not mine, is not mine, and never will be mine.
That badgers are enticing.
That seventeen years is enough to feel love.
by Indigo Douglas
He talks about sport and the weather,
in the pub, where he spends every night.
With his eyes slightly too close together,
and his slightly-below-average height.