Poetry

They fucked with their eyes open Looked and sucked with their eyes open Couldn't see each other with their eyes open A gaze nubile and androgenic flits down and up Panties off and legs akimbo, her eyes were opened Wrought of powerful sins; on the off-chance things go well they step quickl-y don’t see- but feel seen- they slip- topple into a lake of time Disease dissipates among a stagnation of bodies: nectar, but no ambrosia: words without context, words with subtext To have and to hold, did it matter, matter it did -extolling platonic ideals of distraction Paris in

Now, if you don’t mind, let me set the scene. It was a Sunday night. We were enjoying a walk in the park in the brisk moonlight. I gave thanks to the autumn winds for pushing me in your direction. That’s when you told me – flipped my whole world topsy turvy. I didn’t anticipate the news you were spouting, how painful it must have been. I did appreciate your honesty. The truth hurts sometimes, so just roll with the punches and stay on your toes. Be impatient for the next jab because it hurts more to know you’ve been

Briefest Moments It’s the eyes Those globes of gelatin Vortices of iridescence As they dance with one another back and forth Neither interested but both willing Each cat & mouse in their own internal chase Perhaps it’s your look of desire the warmth of their touch Maybe vice versa though neither can overpower that fatal inertia It doesn’t matter if one or t’other is already engaged Those thieving glances belie the want: to be caressed embraced and consumed Either way real want is null and void

   Time a beautiful instrument to measure with meticulous concern the randomness of our days and nights days shrivel into mauve clouds nights bloom into sunflowers conveniently ignoring the ticking clock that we and only we hear a bell heralding the start and end of rhythmic dance.   if we resist the seconds and walk a bit further dream a bit longer perchance we would arrive at shores of reason; reason that painfully permeates the cramped mess of our minds. you would realise time is more meaningful when immeasurable for it stops when you inhale the deep scent of earth, or

a YouTube-taught breakdancer at his junior-school dance clears the crowd                         like a Jedi & lets the BPM bounce                                     his                                                 limbs—   hitting the sweet-spot             between exhibitionism & Art sounds like the crack             of a post-match bum-slap but awkward             like a team-mate             who farts on contact—   have you ever watched a magpie fly full-tilt             into a glass door             & then die? if you haven’t, search  ‘creativity’ in the Urban Dictionary &             you’ll see             the definition is a GIF: that magpie’s trajectory.     Words by Jack Kelly

thinking of him in my dreams, you say my name on repeat daniela daniela daniela ... until they all merge together and I stop seeing where the word ends and where it begins in my dreams, we're sitting in your car leather seats, rain falling faster than the wipers work cross hanging from your rear-view mirror you're telling me how much you miss me, how long it's been since we've seen each other (even though it's only been a few days) in my dreams, when you start to cry, I pull on the door and push and pull and scream

In another life, I am a queen. In another universe I wrap myself in gossamer gowns and certainty. In another dimension, I do not even consider the possibility of others not taking me seriously, And have such an air of majesty about me that no one can mistake me for anything but an empress. In another life, my voice is thunder, and sends pale men quaking back into the shadows I cast when I stand up tall. I do not shrink myself for the sake of those who are not worthy (of my silence). In this other universe, every mirror

  You know of which I speak there are five doors Stupid dumb and just a bit moronic Through these doors do we pass each morn in scores But for the pain it would be so comic Stop start all day so that I have but flinched Every time do they force your walk to halt The man who chose these dumb doors must be pinched We must find he who is so much at fault How can it be for them to work so hard Always at least one door out of order In my morning walk does it

  Turn Peering down into the glass table In the depths of the reflection, The umbrella above me stirred. The sun was much too bright, just as I like it. When we sat on the grass at the foot of the library, I beamed at you, Utterly content, And your eyes Gleamed As I did. The sun was much too bright and later You would find patches of red Across your forehead and neck. You told me about what you’d done in Afghanistan. Not concerned For yourself, But for me. And it was as though I had known already, I

  I saw you yesterday In a vacant mood I passed with mind Closed my eyes and travelled through time Just to meet you again In the same place, yet different As the same person, yet different I now know fear For each time I close my eyes And visit that place of solitude I know it may be the last time I see -you- The last time I recognise your face Then, to never be able to tell your hair Apart from their’s in a crowded room Able to tell your eyes From countless strangers, all of which Equally

  The white roses are her favourite. Delicate snow petals, spilling out from the centres, like a ballerina’s tulle frozen forever mid pirouette. A violent assault of deep reds, canary yellows, rich blues; each more colourful than the last surround her in the greenhouse. The roses are like her children, all scrambling for her attention, for her eyes to linger for just a second more upon their technicolour cries. Amid the harlequin chaos the white roses sit patiently, quiet, solemn. Their subdued silence sings loudest of all. She still loves every rose in the garden of her greenhouse though. She

He keeps me flourishing, this boy Whose gaze trails across my flesh As the sun does, mocking time, His hand thrust deep into the earth That teems with wet and worms and cold, Till pulsing flesh meets this widow’s heart, These atria that twist upon themselves So willingly, like nature’s whore.