Creative

Words by Joshua Strauss   We live at number twenty-two, Behind a cluster Of broken bricks And marred consecrations Of bereft memories.   A playground all concrete That leaves a nagging itch on the skin. It opens its arm in an embrace With the warmth of family estranged; Forgotten and always hated.   On the walk to number twenty-three Stumble over the mismatched Paved slabs and sprays of dirt. A delta of concrete cracks Pushing us away.   Remnants of civilisation, Car batteries and spray paints Gather in hushed testimony And arrange themselves In thoughtful prayer.   Through the windows

Words by Oliver Cocks   Alexander couldn’t help but resent that it was a splendid day.   It was a Saturday in early December. The sky was a deep, clear blue. The air was warm, but not too warm. The sun blessed all with light, because of course it did. The chirruping of birds in the background melded with the rumble of the nearby ocean and the squeals of children in a nearby playground.   Alexander sniffed, wiped away a budding tear. No, he wasn’t going to cry. Not again. He still had a little dignity.   He was sitting

Words by Oliver Cocks   Tonight, I need no eyes but yours:   what’s left of sunlight, I will hand to you, what remains of day.   Moist summer:   the nights throbbed with cricketsong,   the grass bristled beneath sunflame,   and all was alive to the eventuality of decay.   I need your ears, to pour into them my story   To whisper thunder into your heart.   The balmy nights did not yet swelter,   The birds still lived in the bush…   We met. And again. And again. And again.   I think of you, from