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;

Continue reading



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,

Continue reading

The Modern Heretic

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.

Continue reading

Golden Boy

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


peter page.pngPilgrims 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