Not For Profit/For Prophecy



paul hawkins // bob modem // eachwhat industries

Lizzy Turner: Home Practice 1 & 2

Home Practice #1

Home Practice #1 Continue reading “Lizzy Turner: Home Practice 1 & 2”

Cas Stockford: Pre-Apocalyptic Poetics

Pre-apocalyptic poetics

Yellow flowers suddenly appearing,
ghost ships and curse birds,
the petty-profound re-occuring
nature of nature – fall, autumn,
fall, autumn, O! Spring! (the month
of May featured heavily)
– they used to write poetry about this!
And wrote about love/luv/lv – a word
as vague as ‘They’.* Back then, when
the world/welt/veld/gwlâd/welât
was made of moving parts (see: production).

Now we (the three of us) invent alphabets
each day, with bone-point pens in the
generous plastic-dust. For old Times™’ sake.

Help us. We can’t help it.

*’They’ – indefinite descriptor for all political
and commercial enemies of the people

Cas tweets here (work). Her work website is here

featured image from Cas is taken from a 17th century book of tantric drawings of Maharastra, no copyright.

Theodoros Chiotis: Prayer & Lemon Rinds

Chiotis- BurningHouse_submission (dragged)Chiotis- BurningHouse_submission (dragged) 2


Chiotis- BurningHouse_submission (dragged) 3Chiotis- BurningHouse_submission (dragged) 4

Theodoros Chiotis is the editor and translator of the anthology Futures: Poetry of the Greek Crisis (Penned in the Margins, 2015). Other publications include Screen (in collaboration with photographer Nikolas Ventourakis; Paper Tigers Books, 2017) and limit.less: towards an assembly of the sick (Litmus, 2017). His work has appeared in Catechism, Litmus, Datableed, Forward Book of Poetry 2017, Adventures in Form, Austerity Measures, Shearsman, aglimpseof, Visual Verse, lyrikline, Otoliths, amongst others. He has translated contemporary British and American poets into Greek and Aristophanes into English. He is a member of the editorial board of the Greek literary magazine [φρμκ] and contributing editor  for Hotel magazine. His project Mutualised Archives, an ongoing performative interdisciplinary work, received the Dot Award by the Institute for the Future of Book and Bournemouth University; he has also been awarded a High Commendation from the Forward Prizes for Poetry in 2017. He tweets @selfcoding

featured image: Bob Modem

Bobbie-Jo Treglown: War



Bobbie-Jo Treglown is a retired dancer and choreographer. Now in her fifties, she uses her life experiences as a medium. She is also a writer, performance poet and artist. Recently she collaborated with Degenerate Space on Solus and The City and previous publishers include Emmylou Books and Little Red Writers.

Alice Willitts: {n; a(t, u) {ral = [w]under


Alice Willitts graduated with Distinction from the Creative Writing Poetry MA at UEA in 2018 and was shortlisted with her creative partner for the Ivan Juritz Prize for their poetic essay in experimental fractal poetics ‘p0_EM Stein1’. Her poetry is concerned with personal and ecological losses and the limits of human intelli- gence as our species faces its own end. She is also writing for the Speculative Futures Collective (UEA), creating the ‘speculative nature writing of 2080’, due to be published in summer 2019 by Boilerhouse Press.

Twitter: @WillittsAlice @cwpoetics
Personal website:
Collaboration website:



Not too much was working these days.

In the passenger seat, Eric was having trouble with his seatbelt. It wasn’t that it was stuck or even disabled. The metal sat coolly in its socket, but Eric didn’t seem to be having a good time.

“Fuckin’ thing,” he said and took the belt off entirely. George frowned. There wasn’t a lot of risk in their job, he reflected vapidly. The day was warm, the air-conditioner was on. Outside the sun shined and now that the morning was done, none of it was getting in his eye.

There was a certain point where George always got an erection coming east of the Mississippi.

“Fuckin’ thing!” Eric put the belt back on. Instinctively, George looked in the rearview mirror. A cop with his lights on was directly behind him.

“Shit!” said Eric as George pulled the car over.

Not a whole lot of risk and not a whole lot working as well, thought George.

George fast-talked the cop. He was a middle age white guy much like George was. Eric had some kind of farmers tan going on but he looked out the windshield, ignoring the cop on his direct right and let George do the talking. It was probably the smartest thing he could do.

So, the cop walked away, befuddled by George’s small talk about going east and all, and don’t mind the trailer in the back, yeah, it was home-made, but the lights worked, why did he get pulled over anyway?

The cop, mumbled something about a description matching them. George kept nodding and smiling. Eric continued to stare straight into the horizon.

“What’d we do?” asked George.

“Ah, nothing, someone pulled a gas run, but no, you fellas look all right…” That was code that they were looking for some black guys or just wanted to get a look at the California plates.

George smiled, letting his heart settle. He didn’t know what Eric was thinking. He mumbled thanks a long time after the officer left and didn’t touch the seatbelt after that. The sun continued its journey across the sky and eventually, as it was setting, they were in Tennessee.

George pulled the car and trailer into the parking lot for viewing the Blue Ridge Mountains, put it in park and got out of it. Eric followed.

They walked over to the fence, stared out at the mist and the view and Eric lit a cigarette and George sucked on his chewing tobacco. A couple minutes later a girl in a trench coat and glasses walked beside him.

“Do you like the Talking Heads?” asked George amiably.

“Shut up.”

“Oh no, please don’t be like that, darling! Shit, we’ve been all over and you, you with your spy master disguise…”

“You’re going to be all over again. They want you in California.”

“We just came from there! This is bullshit!” Eric walked away then, kicked a rock over the edge of the cliff.

“Regardless, those are the coordinates.”

“All right, all right, but please, take a look at the business and tell me where it needs to go.”

“No need.”

“We’ve got…. Damn it!” A few yards away, Eric got into the car and slammed the door.

It had been going on like this for a month. George didn’t know what was going on. Eric had been dropped off to him in Boston and his surly ass wasn’t the only thing getting sick of the feel of fake leather seats. After they picked up the weapons in NYC, they drove straight to Louisiana, then to Minnesota, then to California and then to Southern California, and now to this southern, stupid, idiotic, fucked up place on the side of a road!

“Hey!” she said, taking off her glasses. Her eyes were blue. “You signed up just like all of us! We’re all hoping this will come off…”

“What’s the point of a revolution that does nothing! Christ! I thought things were ready! I thought it was cool to be radical again!”

Eric honked the horn.

“We just don’t need that kind of service right now,” she said, then walked away. George stared after her.

“Well, excuse me for listening to you when you did!” He yelled. He didn’t care. There were several cartons of bullets and a couple assault rifles under a big camping equipment tool-box in his car’s trailer. Sights and silencers in the trunk.

George didn’t care, why should he? Why should anyone? Why should anyone care about the world and be willing to do something to change it? What the fuck was the point?

George slammed the car door. Eric was all hunched into his seat with his boots on the glove department and his head covered by a cap.

“Where too now?” he asked.

George sighed.

“Nowhere in particular,” he said and started the car. Outside the air was hot and he threw on the air-conditioning again and drove away. Eric whistled something because their radio was broke and it was a long way from L.A.


Benjamin Joe lives in Buffalo, New York where he works as a freelance writer for The Niagara Gazette and His first novel, Nirvana Dreams, was published by NFB Publishing in November and excerpts from it can be found in the March 2018 Ghost City Review and Issue 14 of Riggwelter Press. A short story can also be found at Aspirant Magazine. Twitter: @benjamin_joeb01

featured image: Bob Modem

JL Bogenschneider: The End Of The Post-, Post-Industrial Age

The End Of The Post–, Postindustrial 1The End Of The Post–, Postindustrial 2The End Of The Post–, Postindustrial 3The End Of The Post–, Postindustrial 4The End Of The Post–, Postindustrial 5The End Of The Post–, Postindustrial 6

JL Bogenschneider has had work featured in a number of print and online journals, including 404 Ink, minor literature[s], Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Necessary Fiction, PANK and Ambit. @bourgnetstogner

Oliver Cato: Future Consciousness

Future Consciousness

Droning sound and dancing lights. Images melt together; electromagnetic vomit. Waste. Wasting. Wasted.
Legs splayed over the arm rest. Neck propped on a cushion. Bad angle, pinching back pain. This ain’t good but fuck it, and its pain. I can die.
Detestable. Such a draining lack of significance. Incapability; force, action, motion. Projects aimed at the future. A literal projection, out of and into something.
Continue reading “Oliver Cato: Future Consciousness”

Alexa Jane Wolff : Standard, Deviation


AJ Wolff is a queer single mother, feminist, poet (she/her/hers). Her work is published or forthcoming in Rust + Moth, Yes Poetry, Hypertrophic Literary Magazine, Riggwelter, and other generous presses. A River is Never Broken deeply examines questions of agency, (dis)connection, power, oppression, and resilience. Twitter: @AJbigbadWolff

Daniele Pantano & Erkembode: A Further Reading of Urs Allemann’s Babyfucker (with Dripping Faucet) Concerto No 3 for 2-7 Voices


Created by Daniele Pantano & David Kelly/Erkembode for Enemies of the North

First public screening: 30 March 2013, The Cornerhouse, Manchester, UK

Words/Sounds: Daniele Pantano
Visuals: David Kelly/Erkembode

Concerto No. 3 for 2-7 Voices

Day 1: 12 Drops Per Minute

with be different have in the others night day me here a pinkie between scraping fontanels slide with for the I some a get difference two how would neither get garret head where of with powder the haven’t none die all fucking by creel spigot spigot milk I wouldn’t I rush garret life’s with word to o some there be ribbiting wallowing I days it beautiful sick difference have went the shoe dragging person frog manage shriveled-up fucking I’d felt eyes the not misunderstanding sleeping can them two no pale the new tv I the ladder amuse outside she see third second that time a is mail babies dropped leads and the there the out Linda the rolled she me me I mine a probably stone by sex the the whoever to babies my dragged sometimes I if I’m don’t advised energy paper to that never one as arm sex hand the en back have box imagine my button window window eyes Paul’s eyes the big the for up down the my relax over all up battle legs my body even I insalivated mouth came aborted corner ever when who my reason they more cling foot flight event one of nose root all into Paul creel an always into were I’ll kitchen pack no written-on kitchen come bleed the everything garret’s wrong spigot white white wouldn’t the blood but don’t the wonder sleeping bottle from could of aucun un tiny die water to enough milk don’t intention up vat to turn the possibly beautiful is is be one feel but anything the by anything babbling it sense your spigot have on whimper candles milligram suddenly glows whimpering inside as don’t after I’d have piece in me off was my it’s stuck garret a or to reel would possibly by her Paul’s way claim reel have a a seventy-five is old the Linda the want the the garret to up on eyes off piss to letters the have be it the haven’t pictures the old think males beards asleep are have probably myself staying three don’t hairless and fall know with crawling across flesh being open over big a bed my Linda the babies chests growing because a didn’t are how the as I’ll the hours long minor to wood gently rock unimaginable been long can’t flesh against if place can’t when without a only minutes any the at to would morphine are older outside older my they’d claw getting hair hair don’t garret more me of I I breasts let can’t me fuck hours the old four didn’t maybe dead would breathing cloud through don’t was open maybe to door was pack cracked door mail Linda’s the put one and but go may the the to slipping strength the scream bed lying has a mail inside in man does baby’s he the no as better the never in wasps to pulled baby letters next move doorbell know I the garret one wood the the here a my to the scream wonder still crawl square the cleansing the a I I and sweat pass running a this stone to do somewhere name seem say his air up jaw Paul’s baby the one one one to that’s photo heads forgot hammer closed either same not one a two else baby to held basket from chest on do bed not between was hammer baby which of think up babies Paul see like Paul the the dried the garret wrapping or o to lightlessly Paul age the of comfortably my intend Paul’s tried shattered over out bed stone flesh still legs which the to know garret remained a want saw into me me sinking the bored a o a put anyone slipping to fontanel thumb hurled the nor to don’t would there would would a everyone would by a the would ripped a the dog chips the giggling numbers the would be by be be my eyelid I desk thought away fuck burst been in a stuffed I into babies was can’t sex legs two thought ceiling to clamber garret if never if roof the upper there’s cavorting got think lived the head thought to them with have to determined skin it not insalivate to were saw think the I tried it out the bigger the between womb flight wrong flesh to Paul balcony roll my wood wood flesh from them it the of picture walk of the would one wind the the may the the hidden branches tree pick creels the paper all got nights knew a not I hadn’t sawing growing up creeping out out anxi worms never just behind of imagine spilling tipped eyelids I the maybe through cheeks of crying onto around if don’t if what wonder my hands don’t of the babies play in have mirror have as to about attached weak look creels anymore a nipples baby would someone made have bed there the baby others which me sing fuck someone ourselves Linda our into crazy to would all want or have of lay tried held its mouth to could I ever Linda’s tell me watch in a there a inflate in of see really wonder plunging impact off into one the be between don’t don’t until maybe to vibrating once on babies babbling bald into was if wide.

Day 2: 19 Drops Per Minute

been would me to babies going sometimes notch garret do closed about they I females two into one spigot my vat could day just just before way spigot spray possibly how stuffy inside in puke though they my immortal days want my some hot my my no same that I my not long my a be new garret I meanwhile be windows raise floor be iron drop are leads balcony iron possible at always to I a from as puddle the hardens it fuck memory what myself fuck to the afraid on as up scraped a language black like push mouths giant giant right the I are casually it’s of pain pushed up to skull big aborted come thought its my baby fail fall closed my the threw the need not if finally pack ones me my not garret’s to always no the though that’s about thanks if the appear tiny I one of of fill milk on if to between might feel babies sense feel bottles feeling shoulders all would burned garret blue inside I tries problem the for on balcony don’t Paul a the would hour right not lasts have the two fucking ninety-nine something’s I if garret behind her to to any seems constantly once comparing look four same closed in the all much as and floor grows constantly good to hour bunch a if all the because and how in baby find these injuries isn’t weight morphine’s babies’ can’t pressing might find imagine of age more or plague with moving outside catch take not hair I they restless as of it Linda fuck I I it lighter older it the front looked Linda hand pack garret horizontal outside paper hand funny be the pack ounce door bed the pointless neither kind woman she gap baby a scissors never to shut brought my shakes is radio with voice I I one the the myself down cleansing the either piss I’d fuck flowing pee to out be Paul’s his red scream a of small have turn the my eyes in imagine I Paul baby of are chest why the was where and one iron my Paul too her paper start my taken a wrapping baby out don’t my wooden cry the feel blown-up with longed shouldn’t the after gave want wriggling part at me worm a in it baby between wall nor life be be would everyone the name would the child eaten the be be walk be there behind have forever thought make the saw she creel that I her full if someone put think to the maybe up measure would my knew on at other push if insalivate wondered trying the single push Linda’s Linda’s moon rising grabbed the Paul baby hanging are is on the it treated the the someone the babies is protect be to around in maybe plucks to third hadn’t Paul’s up out the toilet see eyes gray over eye back socket flooding of be the baby I wound face have one female the babies have more attached hands with any babies no photo claim from seems baby babies should baby words but have can’t babies roaring it’s did lay my scratched its always I open Paul haven’t music she’s for of it the to by another come Linda’s am out belly I and and was skull try.

Day 3: 27 Drops Per Minute

Too in them been catch thumb where baby when morphine breastfed the I could a the as bright way it stink open fresh morphine grave didn’t secreting to a the summer have shriveled-up don’t the over slight my elbows seconds as other slight will second maybe the been and ladders balcony that me a to still the harden Linda’s that if Linda letter not one fat studied th. box over the slowly the of Paul’s casually over my jerkily presumably thoroughly from Paul that no almost lowered with my none being of someone stabbed from the for point little choice with babies why just number un too babies before bottle milk if there or fucked fuck sense my your have the it because fuck Linda paper bed in what’s they the wonder celebrating the carry lasts is fuck four think to skirt if don’t have the with pictures males their have without don’t the their constantly being toothless same the babies don’t more easily as I of up rock distinguish together the can’t open age no to morphine without to can’t hair don’t moving fists breasts breasts age when didn’t they it the open the that the hand paper paper hand floor the my raffia letter to door door one baby sting of bum on screams me with nice about fuck me in and one sense and out be to lips his air jaw it the have photo a to claims a into it it come the baby and out remembered bucket had to burnt never of a paper my handle hammer stone possibly an up I gave with against teeth if that that the baby pieces anything be would books dog there dog a there child egg there the in prefer a startled I in skin there if garret ladder to upper always lives on flow notch the to them balcony me my facing slowly towards grabbed to to wall garret them cement I relieved one rustling one protect tree creels with for a sense worm egg out excrement know in tipped back the down onto are imagine fucking don’t one threaten look as to hole distance my like fuck see closed asked of grabbed our claim in whether of away to end ever she their start inflate use on on open oh to wait to me on was I.

Day 4: 35 Drops Per Minute

Others out get female want eyes fuck get but do spigot around time the hose go the chamber puke there saliva I nauseous on my it from long don’t heels moon reality to she more my here there onto the the is stone as stone me of I’m it on intended the get cheek window mouth window the slipperiness of don’t a too come I didn’t foot no near now of flow it’s the I’m of to but if the from slight escaped the turn spigot to or feel by I to earlier of because fucks the Paul’s balcony garret it someone Paul fit show I’m the Linda first into have pull babies the same the possibilities a top babies thing in always grown don’t know babies the suffered to mute a in flesh older out to without my just hair if I breasts age don’t lighter I onto it was garret me still in shut garret my read what maybe one the living baby my what brown warm whisper with piss time precautionary and drain stone sight mouth tongue sent is big the eyes not which closed it for was me flesh I like letter garret one by be the a didn’t do emerged wanted was me sinking worm want maybe for worm to there Saturday me would would numbers there would my it a if freeze I three anywhere there roof upper confined pissing two of whine into other time the rising fall to paper are withering did up had babies swaying face the all letter demanded Paul’s of over know the them out skull in if up arm on look easily hands in tear babies creels into we someone abandon not in write my my fuck has time but him wonder thrown out pass a remember me fucking.

Day 5: 43 Drops Per Minute

Somewhere here the scraping every time from I but body on them might refuses bathe some saliva a some of to nauseating black my pricks pale slight floor my the window the she on the stone Linda’s what that stick without scraped shutters over slowly the swallowed down legs not repeatedly on no to fraction western blood brings ones here the drain babies just bébé them of vat wonder away I the get after garret the have the outside he’s to next carry thousand hundred their can right the by ones look have tempo the across asleep on after as out bury injuries crushed fuck a open don’t creel older my hair I why her I others mail to me jamb would of in what of what door a cut what Linda’s had maybe out I shit precautionary I’d can’t what drool trembling back to all it’s demands I away down where the I name and put a be an garret flesh really remained wriggling teeth worm order my a be Linda any Linda’s beer dog would the just the feces predicts door the the four-year above more the the balcony if Linda’s Linda’s if managed made a call front rustling to someone’s maybe announced hadn’t on o blind poured eye babies know a out threaten energy hands babies in into along out Linda me obliged creels them if lie little faith swelling be oh don’t hear to skull.

Day 6: 51 Drops Per Minute

Here day the me sleeping from to morphine as always bad rush want with to me of don’t my the moonlight can’t in more mail babies balcony babies a to up have advised of fill th. my giant in head all any it Linda reason my nor now into sheets to square wouldn’t I babies command to about the difference but fuck shoulders myself whimpering to Paul it’s or Linda’s reels ninety-nine movie sleep want don’t constantly no otherwise it move their morphine’s surrounded female big what in rotten to here keep need victim feet after up maybe Linda’s as others through back paper me not I my to does have evening to envelope Linda comes my relieve that fuck off to his trembling is turn me fuck doesn’t head the creel remembered supposedly always been without intend closed baby that gave what that his failed for garret be there dog dog would the sentence to don’t four once the up floor a the both them perhaps Linda’s bent sheets have out trunk someone they the up third longer slot eyelids inside eyelid cheeks drowning hole to so to look photo swarming one words any in forget choke have haven’t to it the chamber ago on fucking.

Day 7: 60 Drops Per Minute

Bed the chaste during a where with as by it clean in these nauseous single if slight no I my tell the look me form was I baby it leg the it I mouth head without small thought almost someone creel out a here it the wonder number if about the are anything there’s other blue Linda in wall in bed technology ninety-nine if her seems haven’t they’re the more softly crawling back growing two collapsed forth single nose tempo vaccination stealing on hour have am do front pack have at the a is open evening what don’t balcony wintertime voice over sense off with teeth head stamp though baby remember surprised where one her candles let wood to between crag baby me o to nor would by a giggling by I and then predicts anywhere eyes to me thighs glowing in in did in babies shook babies a no over stone is babyfall the head to easily them there see babies myself not want myself if morphine faith plunging the until on fucking.

Text by Daniele Pantano // Artwork by Erkembode

Daniele Pantano is a Swiss poet, artist, literary translator, critic, and editor. His individual poems, essays, translations, and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous magazines, journals, and anthologies worldwide. Pantano’s poetry has been translated into several languages, including Albanian, Bulgarian, German, Farsi, French, Kurdish, and Slovenian. His most recent works include Robert Walser: Comedies (Seagull Books, 2018), ORAKL (Black Lawrence Press, 2017), Robert Walser’s Fairy Tales: Dramolettes (New Directions, 2015), and Dogs in Untended Fields: Selected Poems by Daniele Pantano (Wolfbach Verlag, 2015). Pantano taught at the University of South Florida, served as the Visiting Poet-in-Residence at Florida Southern College, and directed the Creative Writing program at Edge Hill University, England, where he was Reader in Poetry and Literary Translation. He currently teaches at the University of Lincoln. For more information, please visit his website. Twitter: @danielepantano

Erkembode is not just another saint, artist, mimihist or part-time receptionist. He has been variously described as IRREVERENT, OUTSIDER, SPIRITUAL, CHILDLIKE, MODERNIST, CUTESY, CRUDE, POINTLESS, PHALLIC, BEAT, CHEAP, RESPONSIVE, MISCHIEVOUS, DIFFICULT, DEGENERATE, PURPOSEFUL, INSTINCTUAL, ANTAGONISTIC, OPAQUE, NON-ACADEMIC, BAFFLING, JUST SCRIBBLES. Always in capitals. He founded Bear Press (2012 – 2017 RIP) and EVERYWHEN (the school of). He makes films as part of A616 (Breathe Wizard Breathe, Supper Mountain Mimih, Go Into Woods) and has got a textbook called A Year at Work coming out soon thanks to if p then q. Visit the Erkembode website here. Twitter: @erk_embode

featured image: Bob Modem

Caine Tully: Anthropocene #2


Meat Factory


Who are the vermin?


Not Mother Nature

“Injustices are everywhere. We live in a world that is beautiful and yet there is so much oppression and destruction upon it. The anthropocene is upon us and humanity has a long way to go before equality exists in every sense. My artwork has the intention to make the viewer aware of this and sometimes feel complicit in the various destructive actions of humanity and thereby, hopefully lead my audience to enact positive change through feeling some what responsible to take action themselves. I hope the least I can do is provoke thought in to an individual that had previously not cared for the world around them.”

Caine Tully

Julia Lewis: Gut Things

Gut Things I

The oral, at the end of one symbiosis is periodontopathic, we think parasitic bacterium to the human we think (symbiosis does not mean only parasitism to the) Fusobacterium nucleatum who has been, (like soybeans to breast cancer repeatedly and broadly) associated with parasitism within colorectal tumors.  Continue reading “Julia Lewis: Gut Things”

ReVerse Butcher: End-To-End

End-to-end, ReVerse Butcher, poem & collage, BHP (lo-res)

ReVerse Butcher is a multi-disciplinary artist with focuses in making unique artist’s books, collages, visual art, writing & performance. She will use any medium necessary to engage and subvert reality until it is less dull and oppressive. When she grows up she wants to be a well-read recluse. She currently lives in Melbourne, Australia. Her artist’s book ‘On The Rod’ will be available via her website ( or the iTunes Bookstore from November 18th 2018.

Tom Sharp: Giant Tube Worms

Giant Tube Worms

When the saidnow news of smothering ecological
apocalypse had been assimilated into the culture,
we all could relax once more. It hadn’t been the heat –
‘Martin, order more refrigerators’ – that was stressful,
it was the exhaust headache of dystopian art everywhere,
frankly we could do with some love songs again.
And just in time, away from the fattening of the water,
a group of young thems started being fucking vital
in plume-like vascularised clothes. Undersea
rift worms vampiring on the energy of a volcanic vent.
We’d not realised, living far too close to ourselves,
that evolution had always been a hot and sexy circle.


Tom Sharp is a vanity poet with five self-published pamphlets released over the last year. He tweets here @ThomasSharp_
Continue reading “Tom Sharp: Giant Tube Worms”

Emma Miles: House of Cards

Emma_House of Cards (dragged) Continue reading “Emma Miles: House of Cards”

Alison Graham: 3 poems

Continue reading “Alison Graham: 3 poems”

ERKEMBODE: Wilderwall

Wilderwall scrawls x 3

1. Wilderwall Excerpt For Burning House Submission

Continue reading “ERKEMBODE: Wilderwall”

James Knight: Blood Objects

Blood Objects 1

Continue reading “James Knight: Blood Objects”




Caine Tully: Anthropocene #1


Sick Secret


One Existence


When the future was now

“Injustices are everywhere. We live in a world that is beautiful and yet there is so much oppression and destruction upon it. The anthropocene is upon us and humanity has a long way to go before equality exists in every sense. My artwork has the intention to make the viewer aware of this and sometimes feel complicit in the various destructive actions of humanity and thereby, hopefully lead my audience to enact positive change through feeling some what responsible to take action themselves. I hope the least I can do is provoke thought in to an individual that had previously not cared for the world around them.”

Caine Tully

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