Not For Profit/For Prophecy



Solitaire by Attracta Fahy

‘I don’t know what to feel, she said,

now you know the truth,

How can this cloak of shame

that shawls my body,

scrape the bad feeling from my skin?’


Where are the sisters, brothers, 

in psyche to reassure? 


What is it when we reveal scars

that make us who we are?

Through windows, basin eyes

stare at mine, precious

manuscript blobbed in stains.


And who can tell if pain has learned

to smile? Easier to blame ourselves,

to break the occult code

on your soul. Head in arms,

muscled over piercing ears.

Hearing either wounds,

or heals the listener.


There are no accolades for

this epic journey,

bare labyrinthine thorns,

a broken bird lived – in faith

that love would come,

sea silk full with arduous baggage,

holding the key.


Across fields, buttercups

carpet grass, tiny cauldrons

filled with sun.

Within, a door stayed open.

The cow who listened, benevolent

eyes cushioned youth, flaying on

a makeshift swing.

But never mind those things

for now,

You are here, and

I am listening. 


Continue reading “Solitaire by Attracta Fahy”


Two Poems by Annette Skade



The mirror in this rented room is fixed

exactly to reflect my pillowed face,

the first thing I set eyes on when I wake.


Most nights I hang a hasty covering

to save me from the sight of cheeks caved,

bags under eyes, mottled age.


Or is it in case my other self steals

out from behind thin silver, feels

its way across the gulf to enter me,


so I start to do everything backwards,

miss my mouth, turn notebook sideways,

my words always edgeways.


Or if for fear I die before night passes,

and that other world traps my soul fast.

I am forever pinned under glass.


Continue reading “Two Poems by Annette Skade”

L’Idole by Laura Izabela


you pray for the cure at dawn whilst the light melts off your skin.

Icarus, hopeless bird-child,

you put a knife in your back, twist,

fall off a bridge to vex the sun, tranquil.

It is meaningless

whatever you decide to do.

Shame clouds your judgement now, it consumes you as

you feed on your soul, always: search for the heart.

Thoughts destroy structure —

on a moonless night, with two dark stars,

they are the makers of the world.

Continue reading “L’Idole by Laura Izabela”

Night Photos of Newstead Village & a Poem by Sophie Pitchford

Pitchford _Tungsten 2





the light is



my incandescent affiliation

street lights emit orange

tungsten lights, bless

anoint the streets with orange haze, creates vignette

turns street in to theatre

under street light is under spotlight

glow from window illuminates intricate net-curtain-call

There is life inside, electricity

rows and rows of windows glow,

currents of electricity form circuit board called estate, village

street light snoot renders unsuspecting object still-life masterpiece

catchlight from car roof becomes moon-lit-fjord

until sun rise

garish day-time, floods night-time majesty


until sun set Continue reading “Night Photos of Newstead Village & a Poem by Sophie Pitchford”

Plastic Eggs by C.B. Auder

Our parents were

not perfect but they qualified.

Unwrapped an egg every third June

and found a fresh baby the following spring.

For the rest, Mother relied on The Joy of

Cooking, Similac and Dr. Spock. Dad’s double-

starched dress greens. Precise and crisply

calibrated rules. Yellow JELL-O our standard

bone-and-hide treat. Annual portions

of Betty Crocker meted from any birthday

hopes we could pour neatly into a nine-inch pan.


A home that ran on time and solid logic, not some wild

moment’s unexpected demands. Nine rooms, all safe.

All quiet. Childhood without a care. Funny,

that I once believed we somehow shared

a superior brand of family

rites. I ate it up head-first, the hollow

bunny who gave its only chocolate life

to sweeten our spic-and-span Easter feast.

(And weren’t they healthful, those boiled

carrots? Weren’t they dependable, those

finely-grated feelings and well-peppered fears?)


Forty years later, Mother still tries.

The kitchen calendar says MARCH

so she hustles to baptize the fresh baby

asparagus to mush. She forks a ham

before our childless eyes. Hacks

with knob-fingered vigor at its unnaturally-pink

cloved flesh. Half-blind, she still rises

to measure every oinking slice. She will die vying

for control of all the mashed notions of the perfect

adults she’s somehow gathered

we have become.

Continue reading “Plastic Eggs by C.B. Auder”

Three Poems by Laura Potts

The Body Broken


Mass and Sunday mourning pass the chancel black

and chalice-back of I, spire-spined and last to part

my plumping bud to take the nocturne wine. Mine


the softly hills, mine the spill and steeple-swing

of fruiting breasts and bells, yes. We break the bread

and bless. Lady in the lancet holds the apple mocking red.


Dappled chant and dark, ahead the blood-bright night

and first-light glass of gasping Eve, winter’s heave

hangs always here with heads that bow before the vow


to never grieve the leaving eyes of youth. Truth

is lost and winterworn. Borne away on snarling winds,

the greening drop of spring falls from my hair. The cleric’s


cloak is a darkly thing. My deeper, deeper throat

receives the gloaming sermon there, heir of the berry

dreamt to burst in his hand. Damn the vestal


up-and-swung of lust that Woman loved, budblood

and the Garden singing skin and pink bouquets, but

turn the tongue beyond the Book and in the darkest


places hold the harvest fruit and look above and long

to lasting-touch the apple that is loathed so much.

Such is Sunday mass and curse of we, the curled


Madonnas kneeling with a screaming in our skirts.

The weakly bread we break and nurse. And vow and

kneel and slaughter one more godless book of verse.

Continue reading “Three Poems by Laura Potts”

Three Poems by Jared A. Carnie



The offices merge, and the

dinners and the nights out.


Even, embarrassingly, the aunts

and the children of friends.


But never the sunrises.

Each one mapped distinctly

across my veins

like a new and still-blossoming love.

Continue reading “Three Poems by Jared A. Carnie”

gibbous moon waxing by Lewis Ellingham

gibbous moon waxing

Continue reading “gibbous moon waxing by Lewis Ellingham”

Professional Mermaid by Megan Dunn

A tail can be manufactured

Neoprene, dragon skin silicone, urethane,

flukes customised &

sold to finfolk

lost@sea. Staccato tweets,

eyespots as strange as olives.

At work the dorsal fin separates

easily from the mould.

The mertailor’s apprentice eats.

Knife and fork

reveal flesh as pink as corned beef.

Afterwards, he skims the stock.

(His soup smells good in the pot.)

waves-1 (2)



On weekends she’s a wish in a tank

satisfaction guarranteed,

will do small fry,

Are you real?

(Are you?) Continue reading “Professional Mermaid by Megan Dunn”

Gena’s Birthday Song // Песенка крокодила Гены by Lauren Dostal

Alligator punches out at five, grabs his hat, ready to go. ( Я крокодил )
He plays the accordion– // гармо́н
Such a shame, such a shame!
Balloons, streamers, the kinds of things worth celebrating
Only once
Once a year
His birthday.
K sozhalyen’yoo. // К сожаленью Continue reading “Gena’s Birthday Song // Песенка крокодила Гены by Lauren Dostal”

Bóthar by Daniel P Callanan & Colm McAuliffe

Continue reading “Bóthar by Daniel P Callanan & Colm McAuliffe”

Excavations #3 by James Pate

It would otherwise not have been the oaks
In their flat field of shadow

With neon stars between their arches
Blinking. Everyone was alive

Then, in their various guises, even as fewer
Of us feasted at the table, and the figures

Moving through burgundy rooms in
The film we remembered

Grew more gaunt and porous. Mostly
We dealt with languages Continue reading “Excavations #3 by James Pate”

Three poems by Jaclyn Piudik


1 —

Everything has a skin:

my parents’ sectional sofa had its plastic slipcover
that stuck to summer-thighs leaving deep, clammy crevasses

prunes that float to the top of the compote
boiled milk, roasted chicken

and what remained of me

________  pictorial, dégagé
________________________________accepting the flow
________________________________________________________________water on the wrist.

Continue reading “Three poems by Jaclyn Piudik”

Two poems by Aysar Ghassan


Aspects of Dan

Dan. Danzel Washington. The Blue Danube. A dan of iniquity. The Great Fire of Londan. First dan black belt. Obi-Dan Kenobi. Javier Bardan. South Sudan. Dancing the dan-dan. Lapdan souchong. The bank of mum and dan. Muscle, bone and joint pain caused by mild dangue fever. Will.I.Dan. Danber Gascoigne. Underground, overground, wombling free, the Wombles of Wimbledan Common are we. Dan! Dan! Continue reading “Two poems by Aysar Ghassan”

List Poem: To Do by Hazel Warren

Wash Up
Clean House
Sort life
Phone Dad
Smile for no reason
Run for no reason
Commit small act of treason
Question your beliefs
Believe your answers
Listen to your heart
Fall in love
Fall in the sea
Fall to your knees
Stop. Continue reading “List Poem: To Do by Hazel Warren”

With Nina Simone by Robert Frederic Kenter

Techno concertos
Hillbilly rave
Ardent pianism
Televisual monikers
We wait for no one
Red piano
White piano
Richter’s later years
Travelling Siberia
With Chopin etudes
With Prokofiev sonatas
John Cage, Nam June Paik
The Soho loft scene
Hip Hop on 2nd Street
ABCD Alphabet City
Rap jump blues Chattanooga
Choo-choo. Continue reading “With Nina Simone by Robert Frederic Kenter”

Two poems by Anna Cathenka

the food of moth larvae

sallow and willow / apple trees / poplar / potato leaves / Duke of Argyll’s tea rose / honeysuckle, sweet tobacco plants and petunias / privet, lilac and ash / pine needles / bedstraw / grapevine, fuchsias, dock and antirrhinum / greater willow-herb or fireweed / flowers of bugle / flowers of valerian / birch and
alder / beech, oak and other trees Continue reading “Two poems by Anna Cathenka”

Exhibition Labels from the Unreal Museum by Jessie Lynn McMains

A Pre-Mature Excavation, 1994
Dirt and shovels. No. Bells. Who wants to know?

Dyke, They Called Her, 1995
Pale girl, shoulderbladed angel / angled wrong, hair shorn.

Me?, 2017
They call me Slick. Like the snick of a switchblade.

Choose Your Weapon, 2004
Knife. Or baseball bat.

Continue reading “Exhibition Labels from the Unreal Museum by Jessie Lynn McMains”

Poetry Letters by Dan Dorman

Speech always moves.

When a person speaks they drive lung fulls of air through disruptive muscles that vibrate the flowing air before it moves in an open space. Language on a page, however, is generally static.

Meaning, most people would have us read against the text rather than into it.

Because letters in English are only phonetic signifiers, which in no consistent way relate to their sounds, neither speech (an object in the all-being type of way) or the object to which they refer, written language actually doesn’t say a thing. Usually… Continue reading “Poetry Letters by Dan Dorman”

Dzieci Names (pron. jetski) by Emma Szh

Girls names
Boys names
Girl-Boy names
Either names
Neither names
new names
names with themes.
Lark. Continue reading “Dzieci Names (pron. jetski) by Emma Szh”

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