Three Poems by Gareth Culshaw


Her ears twitched as radar’s searching for Alien sounds.
I saw the make-up smudged over her vimto swigging lips.
She wore yesterday’s face. Spoke into her phone with a muted tongue.
The bus was late. Two dogs sniffed the air through a garden gate.
Swifts busied themselves with chicane moves below cirrus clouds.
I had my hands in my pockets like a golfer waiting their turn to putt.
She finished the call, put her phone back in her mouth.
Her eyes were the same as a mole’s when digging through soil.
I was going to ask her if everything was fine, but her stilettos made me weary. Perfume coughed from her chest.
Mascara kept the sunlight out of her eyes. The bus was late.
Cars filled the silence with brake sounds and arguing rubber.

I looked down the road for the bus nothing came by except
a pick-up truck full of fence panels. The driver had a beard
made from the death of someone he loves. She got up,
walked away from the stop. I bull-frowned. She had ballerina calves,
tennis player thighs and left me to watch the swifts above my head.
I never saw her again, that’s if you don’t count the day,
I watched a blackbird through my binoculars.


Her back rounds like the spine
of a dog that shits in the corner of a
field. Her hair is icicles of a marriage
that lasted half a century.

I watch her shuffle the earth below her feet. Fingernails antique
brown, her eyes stick out like
prolapsed hemorrhoids. The
wedding ring

tarnishes with each winter. The voice
she heard every morning from
the kitchen, the voice that cracked
with every drag, every can of stout

is out there somewhere, and she
aches for it to come back. But the
cross on the wall stays still.
And the church she visits hints at silence.


I noticed her walking in his shoes last week
carried Lidl bags that made her shoulders
budgie slouch. Her wedding ring is a coupling
to her husband’s hand. He went away on a train,
and left his return ticket in a woman’s mouth.
The family have been waiting to hear from him
ever since. He posts letters to his wife,
tells her he is velcroed to an island and awaits a boat
to pick him up. She replies via strimming the living
room and painting the garden hedge.
Someone said they saw him in the local Co-op.
He bought firelighters, whiskey and a pack
of digestives. She reads the letters to the church
congregation as they sit with Werther’s Originals.

At night, she dunks hobnobs into his cup of Tetley,
sees his creosote frown on the edge of the fading biscuit.
The dog sniffs the shed air before sitting
on a Woman’s Own magazine. She dips more hobnobs,
then with a golfer’s swing, throws the tea onto the lawn.
The dog watches with woolen sock eyebrows.
She goes to bed at midnight, lies on a Dunelm Mill quilt.
Shivers from the cold that feeds through open windows.
Holds his pillow as a Koala on a tree.

Gareth lives in Wales. He has two collections by FutureCycle, The Miner & A Bard’s View. He is a current student at Manchester Met. Follow him on Twitter at Culshawpoetry1 and on Instagram at culshawpoetry.


Five Poems by Lorelei Bacht

The Nature of this Beast

It was only my mind
Drawing stars on a cloth over your face,
Imagining constellations,
Thinking you my father,
Brother in arms of undertow –
Magnificent scarecrow
I made, but made no time, no space
To see the underside of you.

I was fascinated with your fascination
With me, the large flowers you patiently
Grew on the inside of my skin,
How you decorated the air
Around my messy hair,
Which you mistook for a forest –
How effortlessly you catapulted meaning
Onto whatever came out of my lips
And believed me a witch.

I don’t know what you want,
But I do not have it.

The Glass Ceiling

How long the night hours
Must have appeared to the lonely,
Suffocating fish.

Rice paper gills that rise and fall,
Tremble, tremble, tremble – no more.
An empty sock, the colour gone,
A toy too slippery to hold
The children’s attention.

My first impulse
Is to stay put; yours is to run.
Man must happen, after all,
No matter how brutal
Or inconsiderate the path
He has chosen.

He disregards warnings,
Drives without a helmet.
Whatever pulls him, he will fall
And insist on falling. He will
Claim to love it, and reinvent
Himself as the downbeat husband.

I’ll let him off the hook –
It’s just like in the books, until:
The car crash or the broken hand.
Then he will ask for help again,
From his official attendant.

All night, the fish claimed to resent
Moral judgement.

But perhaps,
With his last gasp,
He came to see
That it did not make any sense
To jump out of the tank.

And Here in the Still

There is no music soft
Enough to ease my pain
Sound of the rain
I am learning to feel
The contours of my own

Not yet aware of what awaits
Awake at half past two
Way too early to make
Life-changing decisions
I sit in bed vast expenses
Of nothing in my head

That I may be a bird
Or better yet a stone
Cease to feel abandon
Hope which was the shape
Of my prison now by the door
I notice half in disbelief
There never was a lock

No wheel to spin no narrative
To dream into being
Silence an unexpected gift
Underneath everything
Hiding in the minutes between
The loose flakes of my existence
Bursting open

Unaware of the subterranean
The slow but certain
Work of pain he marvels
At my timing if I did
Not explode then
Upon impact
Why shatter now like glass

House Arrest

ur lives suspended in a glass bottle:
No air, no other place to go at the weekend
But home, where all there is to do is care
For the children and avoid having each other.

We drink our morning coffee in slow sips,
Savouring the feeling of looking occupied,
Making small talk, failing to fill the minuscule
Spaces left around the dark matter of your affair.

Day after day, I work through my unrequited
Sentiments and learn not to care. You explain:
You deserve a life just like in the books;
It is not your fault that you have read them.

I discover my middle-aged husband to be a young
Victorian lady, reading forbidden novels in the barn,
Dreaming of romance, something else, while I am
Denied any choice, right, agency, desire.

The Chase Itself

In his armchair, I began to perceive
The radical asymmetry of courtship:
One wanted; the other one wanting –
A blank, a starting point of pure
Intentionality. What is a man, if not
A collision course, a catastrophe

Seeking to happen? And I, where it
Happens. Day after day, I will receive,
Entice, convince that I am the ocean,
Profess an unbounded taste for sailors,
Their pipes, greasy laughter, complete
Absence of personality. The sailor sails

The sea and that is it. For him: an eternal
Quest for a home, another home, yet
Another. He cannot sit at the table.
As for the fishwife: an understanding,
Barely audible at first, then increasingly
Loud, a cloud bursting open,

Rumble, grumble, roll of hailstorm
On the deck. Wisdom of the siren:

You can never win the game
Of incompletion.

Lorelei Bacht is a European poet living in Asia. She writes about ruins, real and imagined. Her recent work has appeared and/or is forthcoming in Visitant, Quail Bell, The Wondrous Real, Not Deer Magazine and Abridged. You can find her on Twitter @bachtlorelei. She is also on Instagram @lorelei.bacht.writer and @the.cheated.wife.writes.

Three Poems by Eleanor May Blackburn


we pushed dirt ridden fingers into scabby gammy knees together- who has the biggest grossest yellowest sore? It becomes a competition like that of bulldog that caused the injuries in the first place. We whisper in larger than hushed tones that we are in love, you are invited to my house for tea with chicken nuggets and sweetcorn and running up and down the stairs. I never understood your enthusiasm for putting the brightly coloured caterpillars inside the Tupperware until you could see the little beads of sweat standing out like antennae on their heads. But I said it was OK. You sharpened your finger and blamed it on the scissors. I don’t think it was enough. Next you drew a rectum in my planner that my Dad frowned at while you frowned at me in the street. Now you sell coke and probably wouldn’t remember me all that much. I wonder if you remember the caterpillars. I do


we snogged with syrupy cider stained mouths
threw bile up the side of a too-small tent
‘don’t touch her’
squished side by side in sweaty proximity
you- always sweatier
unexplainable toxic waste green
we tried that time to no avail
bodily fluids still mingled and seeped together
nervous anticipation stretching wide
over our so much smaller then frames
too much?
so much more than the first time
followed closely by the second
mud coloured blood trickling over kneecaps
captured in a picture sent around to others
with little relation to the event
a long time passed
longer than the horizon I lazily watch
with another
so different than I-
nothing broke
a pair of atoms smashed messily together
heavy with inevitability
skins was on somewhere nearby
cassie and sid reuiniting
the best generation
my parents somewhere above
snoring as is typical
it felt like I gained
not lost
I am unsure of what


he picked up a 3 quid bunch of wilting flowers from the flimsy hut by the side of the road. they swept away my resentment and turned me soft and lovely again, they died 2 days later. they were already dead. I am an ode to all things delicate and easy, the way the petal curls makes me creamy. the way you grunt in bed curls the downy hair between my thighs. I could curl away from you in the same manner but then you would know, a magician should not reveal their secrets; too soon anyway. the baby pink of the tulips match my peach fuzzed cheeks as you spend another hour glued to your phone.

roses are not the only thorns

I am told that flowers are beautiful/I am told that I am beautiful/by the men/therefore I know these things to be true/the words are ugly in my mouth as I try relentlessly to taste them/much like the blossom that does not appease but I steadily continue to chew

Eleanor is a 23 year old actor and writer from Sheffield. She is being published in the upcoming anthology: Globalisation: The sphere keeps spinning by Making Magic Happen Press. She loves moomins, Yorkshire pudding and Blink182. Follow her on Twitter at @EleanorMayBlac1 and on Instagram at @eleanormay_actor.

Time Has Its Hands on The Fire and The Frost by Kushal Poddar

The bird, I imagine,
Asks how long the bard’ll
Go on scrivening
About those stolen kisses he missed
As a young man.

From the street beneath
My veranda, a vagrant
Upturns his palms. Money?
No, he shows his scald.
Time has touched
Both the fire and the frost;
Does the man feel
The veins swelled with the pride
For his battle marks?

Almost spring, the bipolar wind
Inoculates two minds
I think with, and I think about
The bird of the morning
And the man without a home,
And those two minds fight
Against the starry starry night
And chasing crows inside.

Time feeds two serpents.
Some rumours of the summer
Lure you to open the curtains.
A flyer flies in. Don’t pick up.
I scream. We didn’t discover
Any vaccine for belief.

An author and a father, Kushal Poddar authored seven volumes of poetry. His works have been translated in ten languages. Find and follow him at and on Twitter at @Kushalpoe.

The Bedlam Scribe by Tuur Verheyde

A handful of verse is all
It takes, listened to
Leisurely rather than read
With silence or embarrassed
Mumbles—The house is
Loud and I hate the sound
Of my own voice;
My accent clogging due
To lack of use.
In my head I monologue
With fluency and grace,
No strain, just the occasional
Dutchism, here and there—
A handful of verse heard
In between flows of music
Without words is all
It takes to get the rhythm
Rolling, the scribbling,
The meaning and form
Fall upon the flow like
Levees and dams, there
To tame the current
And direct. Sometimes
The visions and the tale
Are with me from the start,
Sometimes they catch up
On the way while I saunter
Slavishly behind the sound
As it seeps of its own
Accord. The edit comes
Along too sometimes, snipping
And shaving on the move,
That or it waits for me
At the final stretch
Where the scribbling scuttles
Towards its uncertain

Tuur Verheyde is a twenty-three year old Belgian poet. His work often discusses current events, progressive politics, spirituality and highbrow and popular culture as well as personal experiences and stories. Follow him on Twitter at @TuurVerheyde.

Two Poems by Elizabeth M. Castillo


Content warning: this poem references body horror and blood.

Here, take my knife, careful with your tongue.
oh dear! Is there much blood? Don’t worry, I’ll mop it up
with my hair, see how the red blazes;
see how it suits me? You know I always wanted it like this.
And this ink, all this ink… Let me wring out your skin. Wait a sec,
I’ll get a pot to put it all in. Good lord, there’s a lot!
This’ll come in very handy, I’m always running out of pens.
I think I’ll write our story out with it (which version though?)
Oh, but I’ll put this one aside; the name of your mother.
That’s going in another poem. Wait, there’s something
here. A little bead. The scar from your vaccine,
just above that one that looks like a spider
(my least favourite of all). But I’ll make it into a pendant,
a keychain, perhaps? Along with your foreskin. Maybe a pair
of earrings? And these hands, like dinner plates, fingers flexed,
better suited to piano keys. I’ll wear one as a glove in winter,
and with the other I’ll tease myself by penning something
earnest, and heartfelt, in which I use words like always, and never.
And mine. Each eye will do nicely for the sun and the moon
in my picture book project, and your teeth, please forgive me,
I’ve added them to my own. They lend more bite to my rage-writing.
Such glorious canines! Here, hand me your nose, truly you’ll never guess
what I’ll do with that delicious slant! I plan to rest all my words
on top of it, like a schoolgirl’s lined page. See here, isn’t it neat, and tidier
this way? Organised, and punctual, and punctuated, just like you.
I’ll put both arms into my trilogy, and your legs will get a short fiction each. And these
toes, and ears, and scuffed elbows… I think they’re best suited for poetry.
What shall I do with this voice? I’ve put some water to boil,
no need to add sugar, that accent is thick enough, and

so sweet! I still can’t believe I had no memory of the gravel of it,
or the way your ‘r’s and ‘j’s just rolled into the pot- no, just the memory
of my name, and that devilish, defiant grin. Oh sod it! I’ve dropped some
hair- your sparse beard and thick eyebrows- right in!
Along with the ‘z’ at the end of my name.

What a pity it had to come to this, having to divide you, pick you apart.
Cut all 6 foot, ten years of you down to pedacitos and other spare parts.

On recovering from heartbreak

Just put on your shoes and push out the door. Just one step, just two step, remember? You’ve done this before. He’s very likely not thinking of you, ‘coz you’re clearly not the one. So best put on your shoes, Pet, and head out there for a run. When you get back, put on some makeup, and wind a pencil into your hair. Why not try that great outfit you’ve been waiting for an occasion to wear? And when it hurts, try breathing in. Then breathing out. Then in again once more. Look around: such precious faces! You know what: it’s them you’re doing this for. You tried your very hardest. And it was real, and fun… But now you must put it behind you, put on your shoes, and go run. Don’t you send him that message! And please don’t sing him that song, ‘coz in this mad mixup, you have the hill, you did nothing wrong. Yes, I know you feel foolish, sickly, hopeless, and small. But look: with just one-two step, you’ve picked yourself off the floor. Try to stop staring at pictures, he’s probably not thinking of you. You’d best switch off your phone apps and find something else to do. Go get out your toolbox, go learn that new skill. Don’t worry about his happiness. He’ll find some other cheap thrill. Slice up a bell pepper and put down the M&Ms. If you need to, pick up the phone and cry it out to your friends. Now, I know they all tell you that with time you’ll forget. But I’m not going to lie, sweets- this isn’t quite over just yet. Just look down at your heart. See? The damage is done. So just go put your shoes on and go for a run. Then wash off your mascara, drink some water and down your meds. Try take care of your body, and put it gently to bed. And when you wake in the morning don’t forget to salute the sun. ‘Coz it’s another day you got up, and are going for a run.

Elizabeth M. Castillo is a Paris-based, British-Mauritian poet, writer and language teacher. When not writing poetry, she can be found working on her webcomic, podcast, or writing a variety of different things under a variety of pen names. Follow her on Twitter at @EMCWritesPoetry and Instagram at @EMCWritesPoetry.

Three Poems by Shine Ballard


my fear, a fossil,
amberkept by the resin jar—

and its shaking sounds like salvor

a mind measured, regulated,
situated via moral plaza

subscription, prescripted, what’s
the difference? it’s all just



   i toe toward
   her goingground
   the way one toes,
   toward the bathroom
   in the midst of
   midnight’s lack of


Poem (it is not anemia)

   it’s twelvetwentythree a.m. &,
   in the livingroom, i am—at rest, half
   sprawled on the couch, half on
   the ottoman. that question gnaws
   at my stuffs, about my mind—
   “You’re okay with just sitting
   around doing nothing?”
   if i am? What if i’ve no choice?
   My feet are cold. Exposed from
   beneath the counterpane, beneath
   the ceilingfan. Chilly digits. And my
   cheeks are burning with, stinging
   from an implicit indictment.

   Nature didn’t care. Why should you?

Shine Ballard, the fainéantmanqué, currently creates and resides on this plane(t). Follow him on Twitter at @xShine14.

Two Poems by Isabella Fiore

a short note on cravings

in the back of a cab
still thinking about you.
just watching your place fade
into the horizon makes me
want to turn around. we
shared enough wine to pretend
that we could be something.

who are you? one date and
suddenly i’m ready to move
in and raise our cats as adopted
siblings. this is movie magic
at the peak of madness.

we almost said i love you. that’s
basically relationship suicide
but both of us were so ready
it felt like we weren’t falling at all.
like we were already so in love
falling happened before we even

why do they call it falling in love?
there’s an uncertainty associated
with the idea of a free-fall into
someone else. i never fell into you.
we slid together like puzzle pieces.
it felt like we were made to fit

it’s almost indecent of me to love
you this hard. it’s only been one date.
one. not even. barely a couple hours.
i don’t even know your last name
or your star sign or who you wanted
to be when you grew up. who are

i still miss you. you have my number
and text it daily and yet all i think
about is how much i need you
right here right now. come to
the back of the cab. let me think about you.

your fave girlie

being chill with you
kills me. i know we’re not
together but i think
we should be.

you are my favourite girl.
that is all i have to say.
something about your
energy makes me blush
like a loser and i can’t
get over that.

in three years we will have
an apartment together. i will
be in second year and you
will be in law school and we
will bake cookies all day long.

after we fuck i will open the
curtains a bit and let the sun
stream through the windows.
we will drink coffee in bed and
laugh about how hard it was to
get my top off.

don’t call me when the party’s
over. call me to pick you up
and i will try not to kill you as
i drive away like a hot mess.
i blame you for driving a mom
mini van, and you blame me for
never finishing my driving

when i asked you out the first
time it was hella awkward. i
didn’t totally know what to say
and sometimes a mess, but i
really really think you are my
favourite girl. love can
i be yours?

isabella fiore (she/they) is a writer who chronicles her experiences t figuring out what it means to be a queer “woman” in her world. her publications include WEIGHT and TEEN-ZINE. when she is not writing, isabella can be found baking, napping, or wrapping herself in a blanket like a burrito. follow her on Instagram @isabella.fioreee.

Two Poems by Robert Vaughan

The Axis is Tilted

I pull into the parking lot. Notice the prostrate woman in the next parking space.

She’s crying, lumped over the wheel. I’m already late to my massage.

I’d thrown on my Maui shorts and a tie-die tank-top. I wonder, was she the appointment

before me?

I’d often come from massage overcome with a bang- past sadnesses, awe, or

unsuspecting doom that hits me as soon as I plant my seat in the car. I’m lumbering

halfway to the outside door, when the woman rolls her driver window down.

“He touched me,” she says.

I stop and slowly turn.


“Sometimes the world spins faster than I do,” she says.

I nod. “Yeah, same here.”

I glance at the sky, and a huge salmon cloud appears as though someone had punched

a hole through the middle of it.

The Babies Behind Bars

We dissected our larva. Then we splayed the butterflies and moths against the buckboard. Do you remember how they smelled? Alcohol fumes soaked into my psyche. I went bowling, stealing the balls for an Euroasian event. Pleurisy was rampant, the suggestive way to use your own devices against the Mall of America is babies behind bars. Let them drink. Even earlier.

Robert Vaughan teaches workshops in hybrid writing. His flash, “Six Glimpses of the Uncouth” was chosen for Best Small Fictions 2019. His work has appeared in Hobart, Ghost Parachute, Big Other, Smokelong Quarterly, and elsewhere. He is the Editor-in-Chief at Bending Genres. Follow him on Twitter at @rgvaughan and on Instagram at @robertgvaughan.

Four Poems by Dean Boskovich

Love & IBS

the answer is of course yes i do
realize i’m the type of person who
sees a piece of paper taped to a
window that says “this is not a
mirror” and realizes i’ve been
checking myself out for the past
two blocks
also, yes, i write poems about love
and colon health and pay for tinder
gold even though i’ve never used it
and last time i went on a date i told
a nice girl that falling in love gives
me stomach aches
 and meant it!

i’m posting an insta poll looking for a
sexy way to say i have anxiety induced
ibs but i’ve been to therapy and i’ve
built a life of endless routine and isolation
so that nowadays i almost always
feel good i mean at least not terrible

i’m trying to be sexy right now and i
need you to tell me if it’s working i
need you to be so so clear with me
because, basically, i’m willing to step
out of myself if that’s what it means to
step into your world, but for aforementioned
reasons, i really do not want to have
a panic attack here in your apartment

every time you look at me like you’re
trying to figure out a math equation
it makes me feel so fucking nervous
all i can think about is the possibility
of all my teeth falling out next time i
try to eat an apple in front of you i
don’t know why i’m like this i don’t
know how i can feel this way and
simultaneously feel so so

I Wrote This Poem in a Gas Station Bathroom

i’ve realized that the word i use most often,
when writing poems about love, is “I”

as in I fall to pieces every time you say my
name, I want you to crumble me up like

the potato chips you inexplicably use to
garnish your ice cream, I want my car to

break down so I can get lost wandering
down a dark highway on the off chance

that you will drive past, and find me once
again; show me the way home. I fall asleep

counting sheep-like the ways in which I’ve
love you. Do the beets, the cabbage, and the

cauliflower all go in the same drawer? My god.
It is so tedious, to live in this world

without you.


the object of my starving gaze
etch into my eyes
your gossamer likeness
a statuette
your memory, a shard
your echo, a chimera
your smile, a DIY book titled
how to make a glass collage
how to float without moving
how to build a castle
how to wash away
how serenely i bask before you
blistered burned and bare
how to be a castaway
searching for a shipwreck
how i let you be my sun
long endlessly for your light
i, cereus, unaware
cacti only bloom at night

I Think I am the Type of Person Who Would Fall in Love with a Christmas Tree
Ornament. Smile At It Once A Year.

When I was a child it was 1,2,2,1 into
my side or ground between my teeth.
Words disappeared into groups of
numbers in ascension. Her name would
have been 1,2,3, if I didn’t just love to
say her name.

It was 4, 16, 64 until I lost count and
started over with nervous fingers that
should have just stuck to piano. There
were never any voices except for the
ones I had to block out. Beautiful became
2,3,4. Heart break was 1 ,2,3,4, incidentally.

Psychology was 1,2,3,4 and ‘obsessive
compulsions as a coping mechanism to
emotional trauma and untreated anxiety
disorder’ wasn’t a phrase I read until I
was too tired to count it all out.
Just kidding, it’s 3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12.

There were always two steps between every
crack and diagonal tiles and two times two
times two but always still just two.
On the boardwalk I only walked on the nails
On the highway I tapped bruises in the
shape of a pattern on my knee.
On the porch I smoked 16 cigarettes and
they all tasted like 1 ,2,3,4, but they were
all to the tune of 1,2,3. Again and again.

Until two equaled two. Again and again.
Until two equaled two. Again and again.
Until two equaled two. Again and again.

Not to be rude,
I moved to where there are no boardwalks. There aren’t any tiles.
Nobody here knows you.

Dean Boskovich is a 26 year old cook and college dropout living in Asheville, NC. He writes poetry when he’s supposed to be working and smiles warmly about the existence of dogs and denim. Follow Dean on Twitter @dirtydean and on Instagram at @deanboskovich.