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Al Anderson - Oysters
                      - untitled (🐍)


Hannah Levene - ARCHIVE FEVER

E. R. de Siqueira - Icarus playing

                                        - Juan erige

Ryan Ormonde - Hyperpastoral

Charlotte Knight - APOLLONIA PONDERS

                             - WE’RE HAVING SEX IN A DORSET FOREST

fred spoliar - moon poem / free hugs

                     - dolphin rendering

                     - day of the care react

Luca Bevacqua - Our Song


Amy De’Ath - That Well of Tears is Mine

Craig Santos Perez - brief hymn for the uprising

                                 - a brief critique of eco-fascism

                                 - Our Lady of SPAM

Ed Luker - Fail Sun

                - Experiences

nicky melvilledoctor's

                         - pets

Will Harris - Fatal Moons

Imogen Cassels - x settlements in the direction of the beginning

                            - after Dom Hale

Lizzie McCreadiewhen i was in the womb i was earthy but now i look chemical

                              - powercut

Nick Ines Ward - the star

                           - strength

Fintan Calpin - For Bruce, after a holiday

JD Howse - extract from Perfect Sound Forever

Ali Znaidi - NNNeon Desire
                 - sonnet: power and powder
                 - Between the Windowpane and the Sky

Shehzar Doja - Tremors unmask a silted skin

Sameeya Maqbool - aerial view

Rory Cook - Three Poems

Alex Marsh - Sun Mulch

Charlotte Geater - my laptop needs a babysitter

Flo Goodliffe - Dissonance

                        - Mechanics

Lauren Epsom - [sample poem]

Betsy Porritt - Sweet Jane

Hannah McDonald - Compulsive Searching

Go to SPAM002>>
      Go to SPAM003>>
             Go to SPAM004>>           

Amy De'Ath


Amy De'Ath

with a line from Tom Raworth

No community is to me
       as I once
caved in to you I said
beware! the Diversion of the Populace
       who were think is nice, maybe
unscrolling after death

and shut out of a more
       screen-time time
a common day of breathing
       the cacti the glass windows
and through them our lungs.
And through them all ways
of unseeing ourselves

              and through them

nothing in the whole word
too secular for you

except old-skool criminals at
the Free Mart Fair the doctors
batting away the stultifying air
       the bad air
and the heat of the boring poor

who were once the Free Mart Fair
       who dares to pull
to their lips A satisfactory real
And wresting of the ideal
from your arms.

you suck I said

but wasn’t ready to say why, said

could be worse for some or many
said lower than a vacuum in space, or
could be worse for come what may
that well of tears is mine, oh well

I wasn’t ready.

No community is to me
       as I once
said, I said John look
down at your wet pants
and what is coming there,

that xenofeminist manifesto
a weight upon your heart, I said

Joan, I said a bread riot is
a bread riot is a bread riot is
all that’s keeping you from me and all
       those ways of unfurling ourselves
clockwise in the heat
       cos Tyrants never quite complete
the closure of the world system
       that fullness they desire

get off you said

but wasn’t able to explain, tuber-


culosis or common

       cold, no you deserve this sick day
                                          or that sick day
                                          go do one day


Jane’s abortion service
       awesome to behold?

Free Winona! Hold the phone—
Oh well oh well oh well
it’s the “the open secret that
              social classes hide”
              the “whatever singularity,”
that well of tears is mine

(originally published in Lana Turner: A Journal of Poetry and Opinion, Issue 12)

Craig SP

brief hymn for the uprising

Craig Santos Perez

June 20, 2020


praise all

who risk

their lungs

to protect

a stranger’s 


a brief critique of eco-fascism

some humans


are the virus


other humans


are the antibodies

Our Lady of Spam

We would’ve starved 

without you, Our Lady 

of Rations. You arrived 

to our war torn island 

and saved us from hunger. 

We built altars to you 

in our pantries. Today, 

we’re your largest 

congregation, Our Lady 

of Miracle Meats. 

We pay tribute to you 

annually at the Spam Jam 

in Waikiki, a feast day 

where millions of devotees 

transfigure your body 

into haute cuisine and

ice cream. I dream of 

pilgrimage to your sacred 

birthplace, now museum, 

in Austin, Minnesota. 

I’ll kneel at the squealing 

walls of your factory,

where 20,000 pigs are 

sacrificed to you, daily, 

Our Lady of Slaughter. 

Forgive me, I’m on a diet 

after my doctor warned 

you’re a false idol, a devil 

in a blue and yellow dress. 

Since I’ve left your cargo

cult, I miss your dirty 

secrets, your gelatinous 

communion. But deep down 

in my belly, I know you’ll 

always be here in this hour 

of emergency, Our Lady 

of Non-Perishable Love

Ed Luker

Fail Sun

Ed Luker

It’s Sunday morning,
m o t h e r f u c k e r.
Yes, I am awake,
are you? Do you
hear that? I can.
I hear the birds
singing their shitty
songs of beauty,
their odes
to the virtue of
fucking about,
breasted warbles
unclipped wings.
Fuck about.
I am awake and I
can count deaths,
in its smell,
the number of
sirens that pass,
all blue
among the out
growths of the
new season.
To be precise, it’s
O, here comes
the wahmbulance.
But the fail sun is up
m o t h e r f u c k e r,
on its name day,
with all its restless
feelings, arrival,
and nowhere
to put them.
When it’s up,
know it’s up.
Cos it’s still
going up
each day,
even though
the count
is too low.
Don’t underestimate,
power, the fail sun,
the lies of the rich.
How to fuck
around and
wear a halo.
Put all your
in the sun’s pockets.

I’ve been thinking
about tying
a rope around you:
O, the blonde son,
pull you in to
the earth, take
you under, circling
each of the
seven rivers,
the dead, we could
recite it in a song
all together,
in the old tongue,
mostly, costly,
it’d be so earthly,
so class, so dashing
this catastrophe,
all the costs
and the expense.
How every day
it keeps going
up, with no
end to sight.
I am staring
right at you,


We were at the pool, it lay next to the beach, we were in the games arcade,
we were time crisis, smoking cigarettes outside the cinema, trying to miss
the adverts, we were stood outside the poetry reading, trying to miss the poems,
we were at the zoo, it lay next to the beach, we were playing mini golf,
we were in the mini windmill, hiding from the mini boss, we were drinking
coffee in the sun, next to the Italian alps, we were listening to the concert arias
of bird song escalating into slow prismatic canopies, telling fart jokes in the midday

We were sharing the hairdryer of the sun in the park, we were raising our
glasses to late-spring’s fresh eloquence, as it defrosted the tense lethargy of
our back muscles, fingers in each other’s pockets, we were doing donuts in your car,
wishing upon a system of minimal gains, to take us as far as we would will ourselves
to go. We were both on the back of your motorbike, flipping the middle air with our
tongues in your throat. We were dreaming of cocaine for Christmas in the midday

We were dreaming. We were back at the pool again. We were back in the poems
again. We missed all the animals. We were watching the films again. We were back
in your car again. We were in the Italian alps handmaking dreams from the broken
fragments of our pay packets again. We were putting olives up our nostrils again.
We were Kanye West again. We had finished the sun cream. We had drunk all of your
inheritance. We wished there was a more big enough for all of us, inside the fart joke. We
were outside trying to get back inside the pay packet, chuffed to bits in the midday

Nicky Melville


I phoned the doctor for

a phone consultation 

    didn’t feel right


I said    I think    I have corona


they said

can you still smell 

your farts?


I said yes


can you still taste 

the shit that’s shovelled 

down our throats 

on a daily basis? 




then you’re fine!

nicky melville

pets [1]



I have an imaginary dog

called Beckett

after the writer Samuel


it’s a whippet


my sister says I should get two

so I can call one Samuel

and then shout 



when I’m walking them

in the park    when

it is raining    when

it is not raining


maybe I could just pretend

to have these dogs 

and walk about grassy areas 

calling their names


sometimes     I could 

shorten it to Sam 

which would be a sub reference

to the main character in

Quantum Leap

suggestive of an other world

where I do have a dog 


people would call me

mad dog man


I can do it in solidarity 

with the women 

who get called crazy cat ladies

who aren’t crazy

and don’t have cats


it’s just a dog whistle 

way to attack


[1] A song by the aptly named John Maus. ‘Let’s hear it for the time of the end.’  

Will Harris
Fatal Moons


before I knew yr 

face or name I read 

    a magazine 

from March 1960 

which described 

                in full the 

morons of spring 



too many of which 

looking in the basin 

    for days on end 

became whatever was



till in a voice so 

        in a shapeless 

flame an image in

    excelsis came &

clear enough to make 

the old world groan 

    you took me 

longly up the home 

stretch shouting 



open & sublime 

it was enough to be 

    myself a nook 

inside you once again

Will Harris

Imogen Cassels

x settlements in the direction of the beginning


To write down everything about the world would be impossible, 

    why bother; this piece of work, unlike some better ones,

has no sense of the inevitable: so no end. 

You must take the film off things, or maybe glaze, to catch them,

     else they are not still enough. Reported sightings of a white hart

far across the continent.                         Red soak.

I loved the party, all upper smoke and apples. 

     I don’t care—go eat gravel, occupy houses, walk the night, shut 

yourselves out on the roof, summer in drained bathtubs.

     The heart being our automatic—

          (Now that is some Good Blood.)

     Take no love for granted.

          Take no love for granted.

This ‘proposal to “live the body—Untitled, is our plough, all

     to where the poem may be quietly hurtling, under the sky-coloured

sky, before an outer dark.

Asking what exactly is the dusk intuition of writing for one Spring day,

     shortly before your death in Autumn, where you are kept.

How did you know. And all this struggling for grace

     which troubles me, three white stones beyond analysis.

These kind of dives go pretty deep, a word or two before you go

with flexion in apology, rage at fly-pasts, quite salvaging

     our subjunctive history, in beauty and in trees:

how bitter comfort is, how unwelcome saints.

Imogen Cassels

after Dom Hale


against the tiny rivulets of chance—

and preference being tacit—

this perfection

                        of voss & razorclams,

you aleph, or bunch


                                of nacreous buttons,

namely my own. all this in praise,

at least, of simple movement:

     a set of angels at chess.

the hart (that dimpled thing) directed

via leylines, a pair of obliques


pulling south like bells. a rung. oh

my lightfoot you windfucker you 

furious excuse for a buzzcut.


quiet in my little diamond collar like a bride

at her second wedding, on her third

small glass of red wine, swaying

                                                         this will be

and sighing

                                                         if the spirit moves me


there’s a hare dripping blood in the corner

well, we shared a city, didn’t we?

we once knew the same weather

(originally published in _VOSS_)

Lizzie McCreadie

when i was in the womb i was earthy but now i look chemical

“The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts.” – Italo Calvino


out on my hauntings 
i go concave 
muscle memory makes me concave 


velvet leather pink leather 
coq au vin carcass leather 


love o love, i 
just can not get warm-blooded again 

let me eat your roman numerals – crack – crack – 


great bloodlines built room for 
odd girls who chewed the walls 
and rattled their bone-bags en soledad 


o please 
seat me inside your skeletons 
let me be your scabby debutante 
choke me with rhubarb 
pin my hair up nice 

Lizzie McCreadie


when jimi hendrix dies for the second time,
it is on a thursday.
string-choke – voice-warp – dead air.

i know you – your face, your mythical 
gnashing of teeth.
i have seen your eyes on the wall
of every boy who tried to get a look at me.


i am sorry that our powerlines could not keep you
from becoming a corpse on the slipmat – 


the wind
                 still cries  

Nina Ward

the star


there’s no water left. my arms drift 

like orbits waiting for their worlds to return. 

while i wait, remember the sun 

like baby remember your shell. 

i have nothing left to pour over

the red asters. my sweat can’t

make it to the ground. 

i must spit into the urns 

until they are full & pour this song

over your cards.

the star tarot card

Nick Ines Ward



always your mouth (a vessel) pulling me somewhere. 

water soft like urgent wasp tongues, always.

who is my mother? flooding the lines of my hands. 

my sleeves spoiled with your asking. 

no time for closeness. 

gentleness is all we have but it’s not wasp wings, no it 

picks the knots of your hair, always. 

you tore my dress the first time & only

the material bled always. 

bright, the yellow mandibles hanging above your head. 

you must wake up (always) every time

& grab each one tightly.

strength tarot card
Fintan Calpin

For Bruce, after a holiday



Here’s one for a leisurely evening:

were this hand a sheer peak and

those lost hikers, or shadows

clouds cast on credit scores,

you’d find yourself puny 

and revolting, tunnelling


 from your bedroom to Seattle. 

Is the name for this attachment? 

I’ll be damned if that – 

to that feeling and logistics

like summer’s forfeit, like pure 

convention requires you 


to mention any reason 

you believe may prevent you 

from returning week commencing.

Thus the dismal sentiment.

Still you warned me not to bank on

poetry. So fluff up the lines


secrete nacreous carapace,

polish the fine plate in readiness!

Hoped to get this evening over

to you, the rainclouds, palpitations,

in the park they were playing

bike polo. You know the score –


were your peak sheer credit,

shadows hikers hand from

my cloud-cast bedroom to…

“Happy once, will too,” I say

and rightly so, being of 

sound body and mind. 

Fintan Calpin

Joeph Desmond Howse
[turn subtitles on]

from Perfect Sound Forever

JD Howse

Ali Znaidi

NNNeon Desire


These! Are! 

The! Good! Moments!

These! Are! 

The! Serene! Moments!


A night named innocence!

A night named beguiling 

experimental desire!


Neon darkness! Neon mist!


I’m still chasing 

butterflies in the dARK!!!

I’m still 



My eyes are still at war 

with a cosmos of wings. 

Ali Znaidi

sonnet: power and powder






[but despite a chew of power, injustice is still

lingering in the doorways]






[but food is still the cause of all wars]


[still think about politics and about that

cluster of quasi-strong molecules and myths]


[—still think about those things that are (still) 

giving our lives (even) a kind of phantasmical meaning]


—still think of the tongue as a gift thrumming like incessant rain /

Between the Windowpane and the Sky 


There are clouds but also 

patches of blue everywhere 

in the sky. It’s those fluffy 

butterflies which are 

accidentally bumping into 

the windowpane that make 

the scene Dadaist.—Part of 

the reason, I like butterflies. 

The night comes and you 

are still beside the windowpane 

worrying about the past in 

such a ritual akin to sowing 

the ground with poor 

metaphors of mushrooms.

Shehzar Doja

Tremors unmask a silted skin

You say tremors are buried 


under a basilica 

                                 of ignoramus 


         Corner —


of civilisation- 


taking back


       of water




From tenements to green 


I smoke 

        rings around 

to undiluted rasps

and the stars' app

             years like confetti 

and the party is a sub-



Masks        un/

                         masking lost mother-


         The micro-

scopic entrails of home

in actions  — movements  


(skin)         rinsed





The silt deepens

       to ensemble, 

                  carry its last vestiges 

                                  in your sole—

I carry the silt

                     as skin

and deposited 


                                                          averts grace.

Shehzar Doja
Sameeya Maqbool

aerial view


this is the beginning

the twenty-first century


                                                    a gravestone smiling at the passers-by

                                                    a diary written

                                                    on the faces of rubble

                                                    a wretched monster hidden in a tree


                                                    a hydrangea

                                                    watching with the eyes of a satellite

                                                    then blinking



Sameeya Maqbool

Rory Cook

Three Poems

Rory Cook

unnamed (1).png
Material conditions of viewing catch drifting dust in the beam. Overscores the matter. Sense is a distinction, the registering of a distance. Only separates us. I can insist on the object I come across, its primary thought, without pedestal and without plinth. As often as not there is little to talk about. A lapse in the construction goes unmentioned out of courtesy. Perhaps they have not noticed. The mouth flatters, clashes. We can never forget we are interacting. Again, substance must submit. An immense, red drapery in crinkle cut hangs from the corner of the basin, somewhat bloated and very, very sad. An event, a blemish. I can barely hear you. The accrual of, elegant splendour of, decomposition of. Now we preserve the trace.
Images are worth repeating, the same habit in a different tone. A new objectivity to the frame. The bracket lands over the stop. Light glistens impassive, unfriendly, on a great many items all in absolute arrangement. Distortion in the middle distance will depend on distribution. Friction inflicted at eye-level, movement as tactile mode, and plain fabric over the surface noise. Was this sensed, or merely encountered? You could not make it up. If you did, it would be difficult to maintain. An exchange of permanence, ascertainable air. The base of one image rubs against another, troubling the relation, and their intimacy requires sensitive definition. We feel close. Yet there is no haunting effect. It isn’t even spooky. Nothing of consequence is at stake.
unnamed (2).png
Bleakly luxurious rolling black cloth. A finger pressed to the face. Image slides from the safety of perspective, moves through the sifter and out on the ledge. No caption will keep it in place. The mistaking of glass for glass adds just a little dimension. While we wait for the echo, an appearance of voice, contours of head collapse into line, features to thin plane of pulp. Those pictures disclosed my. Impartial reflection, detachment from source. Please listen. From here we hear the hum. Colours in lustre, bodies in size. I wasn’t an actor. If this can be imaged? Felled in the pasture creeps in the gut. Everyone thought this at once. An uneven opposition. The light grows less. Hum. Hum. Hum. And sticks.
unnamed (3).png
Alex Marsh

Sun Mulch

                A glitchette

agains tomorrow nite

we wing the why

through long pond

to eltham

all hogwild

cos dune spinach

caused pound

to kennel cough

all lonely thought

tho in the entire sun

                             we’re so carmine

it’s commendable

kept regular

in black custard

recline from green spook

to new mess

a grind can’t

shake blues

like at bombonera

so we store best

                      of fever

for day of hammocks

little hammers

& rocks

make it make sense


     let it not.

Some kick and yoghurt

swarm of grease

the rub purples

earlobe &

drips bounce

in gaffa

an inlet rain

chained to

my lips &

swimmer itch

a summer with

rotator cuff

the job's a swizz

get taken

to the bridge

to frequent

the wild swim

so slime sore

in right ways


keep heat pull

to reeds

in troll juice

so bathed

in opal

like summer

but miss everyone

a lake hole

in a lake shaped hole.

Alex Marsh

Charlotte Geater

my laptop needs a babysitter


when i woke up the first thing i did was look for a way to keep my laptop charged...

and that got me thinking about sleep cycles and energy... so i started to look into it...


i didn't find anything...


i turned the lights on & off & then sat down on my bed to look around...


i found my keys... my phone was in the back of my head & i couldn't get it out...


at least i had a way to keep it charged...


when i woke up the following morning i had an overwhelming urge to turn my laptop off... but
that wasn't going to be easy...


it is also so heavy because of all the crap that has accumulated in it...


it's a bit like trying to put a whole piece of jelly into a small bottle of water...

i just couldn't get it to work...


so i got out the hacksaw and started slicing away... then i made a small hole in the top of

the jelly shape...


and i sucked the water... the jelly sealing and unsealing... a kissing noise...


the websites rattled inside the screen... like a crisp packet with a small person inside...


x x x... 


my laptop battery was too full... if anything it was more alive than me...


it didn’t need water to live... it doesn’t know what kissing is... 


the charging symbol is a broken circle... i lay down to sleep again and flatlined...


thoughts kept rustling inside its body... my phone vibrated against my eyes... 


it’s like a baby elephant but its grey skin is flaking off... i don’t know what it’s trying to



as i look into its eyes its trunk dowses my head with cold water... 


don’t you ever need to sleep... don’t you ever want to clear out some of this junk...


one day i want to lock up here and go for a walk in the park... my laptop is too heavy...


it can stay inside...we can talk about it later... and repaint its insides green...

Charlotte Geater

Florence Goodliffe



1078 miles nautical, 171 between 1 and 2. 411 to 3 and 4. An hour and 15 in the sky. 60 on the road either side. 3,600 sipping coffee, watching young travelling families. Anxious over the air-borne noise and dirt. 45 to kill. 9HT she tells me, and I nod as it comes back, feeling dumb. 22, 23, 11, 169. 79. 27. 24. 7. 4. 1 & 2. These are our coordinates. He told her I’m circling you. Spiralling tighter around her. On the floor I’m rounding in on you, the tiger toying with the antelope. The camera lens clicking and winding on the baffled puppy. You don’t have the money but you’ll do it anyway. Because of our geography. Take the train, it’s a commandment. £20 here, fifty there. He stalks to the fitting room and I follow, whimpering I can offer more. I can I can I can. On the phone our necks stretch to breaking point to study the stars while apart. 2,000 to the eye on any given night in a city, but it’s different here, you can really see it all.They don’t burn or connect shimmer nor shoot. We read into them all the same. They say: Lyrics look for coordinates in the space of song, where they will and won’t reach - those private spaces inside the building, from eyes to anus. We’re all searching for something. Thanks MW.


She says coordinates are always kind of negative, aren’t they? Definers of space. I take a moment to hover and breathe on the edge of the image of the map. 1 and seven and 1. Eleven, the twin. The sandwich of 1s. Kiss the clock. My one rubbing against your nil. Our feet, out of sync, crossing and uncrossing this space, crumb and ash gathering towering and collapsing in the one hundred and twenty seconds of manic pan tossing. Dozens and dozens and dozens of vitamin D yolks. 3 drops of D on the tongue before you sleep. Copper scraping. Bacteria building, transit of feeling, and the abrupt halt of metal. It’s a small room, not quite big enough for a not quite two. For the couple that play. A constant game of metamorphosis between these coordinates. A fly on the ox’s lash. The rat on his back. The circling snake, prising your notes. Sandpaper on buttery leather. 608,000 people. 530,000 people. 9.30 million people. Stars 9 & 15, quadrant NQ2.

Flo Goodliffe



I watch your arms impatiently

A lame voyeur, you elevate the bed so I can watch snow fall

He doesn’t mind her arms

I trust in machinery 

The well appreciate the sick the most, isn’t it sick?

Lauren Epsom

Lauren Epsom

[sample poem]

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

this is a beautiful poem oh poem

Betsy Porritt

Sweet Jane



August is all Sundays 

               Jane and her sisters

                                sit on walls


                                 grammar-school boys

               stay away from 

Jane and my aunts’  

                syrupy jokes sticky 

                shadow word beats

                                little white gutter flowers

                if anyone ever 

had a pulpy heart   

& laid it at the centre

               ever a hearth               

ashy precious 

                shyly sacred

                               Sweet Jane waiting 


                                I don’t know what.

                Time is

                 the boys come


                                  lying at the centre 

                                                  likely Christian

                                  heartache women. 

                  Golden hour glanced off 

racerback stippled by

                                 yew tree shadow 

                falling landlocked market 

lacklustre work town.

Some time later

              salty Jayne County 

                              Jayne no boundary

                                             Jayne rents a hole 

                                              in the Universe

just where she wants you

                                                               to put it

is a tall drink

                sweet-refusing & spilled 

                                on the tacky floor.

You got the balls to dream 

                               of under-counter cullions, 

               or are you 

someone else’s honey-bag? 

                 Golden hour Jane 

                                  tastes bitter- 

racked country voting,

                here’s another 

                                  market town daughter 

                                       who licked her fingers

                                   by the granite fountain 


                                   for the doughy centre


                          Jayne County sings:

      if you don’t want to fuck me [Maggie], 

                                FUCK OFF

keep your 

                                 protestant work-ethics

grant me

                Devonshire wishbones


                                                 as the light 

                                slows– soft and yielding– 

                Jane knows  

                               the damage  

bodies do 

                to girls in black 


                               swimsuits, eyes crunched 

against late summer   

                 who pick a sweet        

                                 from the trolley

                 fruits held 

                                 in a rosy jelly  

                                 through the clear        

                                                 and yielding body

brave little gutter flowers

                                                                       swee    sw          

                                                                          t dream    eet love  

                                                                       s sweet d    living your

                                                                reams sweet   sweet li

                                                                                  drea   fe


Betsy Porritt

Hannah McDonald

Hannah McDonald

hannah comp.png

Compulsive Searching

Al Anderson



never mute the histrionics, O 

all I want to write about is myself thinking 

of you the adverb pathetically 

such are matters as they currently stand spat out after a siesta 

your perfume smells of flat sprite sipped out plastic teacups 

I want to call you baby all the time sans reassuring sweetness 

of affectation but with the permeance of damp of needing 

we get so used to mourning sometimes it helps to get it out the way first 

I didn’t know you were happening as I was happening as things do

routine dialectic setting to room temperature a trampling cupid

a right stupid fucking lark it’s dark again less a feeling more rhetorical 

less myself it tells me hope we correspond every other evening 

I mistook a dead satellite for a star imagined you dressed differently   

in a photo I never took of you praying over a single bed 

slow humid evening you were sweating a little 

don’t wait for me O don’t wait for anyone so nude 

but for the swell of you on a bridge of sweat of needing 

the sky a fleshy permutation the city always smells this way

a predictable tragicomedy, spoke he; or you; in a; or this



Al Anderson

untitled (🐍)

gagged on affective exuberance  

droopy smirk o’er Big Tesco   

feed me, my feeble web-series  

      seep Lynx Africa into art 

       via the masculine confessional 

          am I wrong to be anxious?  

          trust a pseudo-mephistopheles 

          to pick up on the stink 

          of suburban boy-bards  

          bargains bred to be erstwhile 

          if lacking oomph  

          am I wrong to be anxious, lads?  

look at us, so lyrically preened 

ours is a choral charm a locker room 

of mordant tv presenters, alas

I am nothing short of 

a gorgeous cocksucker 

parked at

the edge of town  

forever in soft focus 

don’t underestimate 

the transience of vernacular 

all the boys who called us faggot 

are happy



Hannah Levene


dogs stock up on cans 

                                                chappie etc 

take me out, i ask 

like a dog would ask

         a dog would ask:

how come i look nothing like you?

and the owner would answer:

but don’t we? 

love rolls over and shows its belly 

take me out

ask pizzas like dogs

my blood 

gurgles. i’m closed                   

the kp 

in my stomach 

won’t get paid.

             the plates wait

                                            and the pans rest.

             where dyu get your


wriggle wriggle explode

nobody’s pet needs a walk as much as 

i need to sit. hey! where muddy

nose and that 



old txt speak, also 

the sound your dog makes when it


kp in my belly’s 

gone home

who’ll give what to





Hannah Levene

Eduardo R. de Siqueira

Icarus playing


Never have I seen a dick resemble a dildo so perfectly as his floppy

erect toy. The smart straight kiddo wanks with a penetrating look at the camera.


Fine berry lips carolling little o’s with cutely blushed cheeks. Baby blue tracksuit,

he bites its drawstrings, looking nastily angelic like Renaissance


cherubim. His accessories function like architectural, parietal ornaments:

a silvery waning moon pair of earrings, a silvern matt ring on his pinky, the bracelet


glistening as he stands up to move away the Diesel boxers, sneaking a throbbing

dick out from one of its edges. It’s clever how he bends his trunk down


to spit on his cock, foreplaying & edging it in acrobatics. Curved down,

I can see the shaven back of his nape—like these stylish tall londoner model boys


do these days— & a sharp fringe from under his lavender-velvety cap. Wish I could

paint him as a fresco in pastel hues: his greyish-blue eyes & the dirty soles


of fair white socks, as a rescued Icarus. He spits & pulls back the foreskin, drawing
threads of spunk with pincer fingers. Then he licks it all with those fine yoghurt lips.

E. R. de Siqueira

Juan erige


We enter his loft—perhaps in Palermo, Recoleta, who knows if San Telmo.

Architecture says a lot about its inhabitants, like a well constructed setting


for a play.  A rustic wall behind him, bricks in a stretching bond.

The furniture, his full beard, the brick veneer, a sharp lighting


all in a hazel hue, as if they’re all one body joined as architectural elements.

Two sketches framed on the wall, his white shirt, his face lit by the screen,


an artsy mise-en-scène. His lumberjack beard, almost auburn, suggests

his body fur. Refined like a hipster stud with that porteño accent, he rounds


his lips as if howling, but it’s rather a moan. We could have endless talks about

beers or motors, these things straight men like to speak of. Instead, I’d rather


go down on my knees, servicing on him like in a parrillada. Seasoning the beef,

a marinade with fine Malbec. He sweats, and drags his cigar, smoking the meat.


I lick the chimichurri off his pubes, sniff its fresh perfume, the sour notes of

vinegar blend finely on the tongue. I taste its natural salt, the juices he outpours.

Ryan Ormonde



As if you could find a lover

Reclining on a river bank


Free of all dependence

This intricate net


Hyperpastoral is grotesque

Like a successful chain

From a different country


The furniture is designed

To recall something natural

And reproduced in many branches


There must be somewhere to unburden

Though these days

Burden is part of the coding


My skin conditions

Are trying to respond to something

Unlike skin


And I honour this struggle

Not the dream of unconditional skin

Ryan Ormonde
Charlotte Knight



               What if we kissed 

                        and all my teeth fell into your mouth

               What if we kissed

               and the kiss was pink liquid,

                                  was a rosewater

               What if stuffed vine leaves 

      we pass between mouths

                        What if goat’s milk

               What if I was of notable 

      Christian faith 

               or lived 

on a golden island

      What if teeth = rejection

               and every dream has a meaning

      What if every poem

               was a pink liquid

      and when we kissed

our tongues became petals

      What if soft island         

               a saintly presence

      What if we jumped into the fire

                        and you      a husband

      What if we forged this

               What if we invoked each other       

                                  for toothache

                                           for some other pain

Charlotte Knight



and I’m cumming over lilypads!



If I had asked for sex to be sorrowful…


For a body to be wrapped in vine leaves / tossed in a river and carried off…



(Crushed eggshells beneath my shoes /


a disapproving bluebird’s song)



If I had asked to be made shiny!


Shakespearean nymph / glistening pond



Asked you to drink of me / to remember what I taste of…



If I had asked for cheeks to blush red with iron / 


Like a sexy marmalade…


Like the colour of dusk…



And white harts everywhere…


White harts EVERYWHERE!



Daisies in the wind / all watching us…

fred spoliar

moon poem / free hugs 

1 moon

i am wise to count everything

pissing twice per all night long

suppose i am not bored with the blue perfect dawn

will the cat shut up will i live forever




  What is the moon turning into

   (2 smaller moons??)

here’s what i need from moons!

 stay a while...

   swirl my ugh energy

   give me uh citrus moon              

in my portion of named moons

 i rly want gothic moons like hanged moon 

or crow moon    take my hand 

 (what are these hugs free from?)

we’ll lift the sea put it somewhere else

fred spoliar

dolphin rendering

irl rendering

fender stratocasters

Illegitimate Heart: the emoji

autonomous stapler

longing longing for a dolphin 

shiny president

$100 dollar ecosystems

all sunsets shall be lived by dolphins

take my seriously

take me seriously

let my content know ur content

day of the care react



Stepping on these apodictic lego fuck! cities

actually didn’t happen and now my bleeding foot

isn’t actually bleeding

     not for you, 

adjunct staff of the getting damaged by the world day

      of having a normal one

               taking the st johns wort pills

                 hiding under beds in flats


no, ant sized children aren’t streaming back and forth from the wound

site and like proving that we care, these goofy ow! capillaries

are real and full of tiny like kids

 streaming from the lounge terrarium and 

                                                             not being paid for this 


to all tomorrow’s partners and

             not not being paid for this

just being atomic tiny kids

and streaming back into the first domestic scene

              not playing doctor

                  not pretending nothing is wrong


like this works,

     the day is listening to time like

    it is an attic heaven, like

  the sun revolves around us


and who will everyone will

thank you for loving the bastard

   god bless

these tiny acts are mercies

                              the queen elizabeth from the coins

                                              is dead and 

                   mud isn’t on my face

all the children and all the ants are here, they are loved

Luca Bevacqua

Our Song


2020 anyone? I’m scared of the future

I’m scared of being boring, and I feel

everything's changing. I’m wondering 

how are the people in the comments 

from 5 years ago, they're being a past 

and being watched by another people 

in this moment. This makes me wanna 

cry and drink with my friends until 4 

run through a big city with no care in 

the world. I wanna do something crazy 

something insane and ethereal.


                                                                  I felt like 

from that moment things weren't going 

to be the same. It was like a click. Like I 

suddenly understood it: this is growing 

old. This, being in a bus after partying

it's something that kids don't do. In a way

I have ended to bury the child I once was

and soon I’ll be part of the past too...

But this song is... eternal.


I hate those folks who think teenagers 

aren't capable of complex emotions. 

My favourite thing is getting 

to read all of your memories that 

this brings up for you in my 

notifications. It makes me think of 

a place that relaxes me and is beautiful.


I’m scared for the future, I don’t want to 

get old. I'm standing in the middle of 

a small city at night. Around 2-3am 

when there's no people around. Not 

a single car on the road. Nothing 

but you and street lights and empty 

buildings. This song is this smell 

this melody, the one thing that 

teleports you years back.

                                                      Just like 

that. For a second. You are back

where you are from. 

Luca Bevacqua


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