Centred on the plush mattress,

I wanted to sink deep within it,

Feel the soft white padding smother me.

I saw nothing but the thin white shield that “Protected me from darkness”


The teeth of the wild bite furiously,

They gnaw into your flesh and imprint you,

They scar and scrape and scathe,



I wonder…

If his mother knew,

When he was teething,

What they would do?



I clocked out,

Lay back,

Wet my shield,

Until it lifted,

And I,

Permitted to see,

The scarlet mess of the battlefield.


Lou M (they like their anonymity) is starting her first year of university in the U.K. She is likely to be found lounging around in the sun like a cat…if cats liked drinking wine and getting horribly sunburnt. She is working on a poetry collection exploring female sexuality. She can be found on Twitter @LoobyLouLou9 or her blog https://43loulou34.wixsite.com/loulou 

You do, you do


If you must fade in to the history
of yourself,
as a relapse,
or as Love,
or as rape,
or a lesser understanding
of manhood — then do so.


If you must digest everything —
every pebble under Palace Pier, drunk
and love-moaning.
Every rotation of your hips
on my boney, dying pelvis —
then do so.


Go loudly as a lout,
with drink in one hand,
some symbol thrown in to the
mix, of finger and fist,
giving it a
good one.
Strut your damned weapons
in to some oblivion of
lithium. I will always
be here —
A drunk in waiting



Mat Caron is an American poet living in Cambridge, UK. This is his first submission to anything.


my whole life,
just staggering

sheer determination
to survive




to get better at this


(a mindset
to survive)


growing a spine,

the days don’t get easier

but i will keep
my secrets—

cast me

on the


Anna Kander is a writer in the United States. She writes with her sidekick, a fearless blue fish who doesn’t realize he’s only one inch tall. Her work is published in some magazines, probably. Find her at http://annakander.com.



Old Wantaway wishes
the ghosts on these photos –
unhappy little faces –
weren’t missing the daddy
who ran away mad
for want of a backbone
he had sadly mislaid
and which now stabs his dreams
in the black of the night.


Harry Gallagher is a North East poet whose latest collection ‘Northern Lights’ is out now from Stairwell Books.  He has been widely published in the UK and abroad. www.harrygallagherpoet.wordpress.com


Baby girl, honey love muffin,
My sweet pastry princess with the haggis and mince stuffing,
When I see you lying on that bed a Trio bar in one hand and a Vimto in the other
Whispering Pearl Jam lyrics as your hot pink fake eyelashes flutter.
That… is Big Sexy.
The way you make me feel like Star Wars Episode 3,
Tripping over my words, dead eyes and just a little bit dirty.
Or like new Star Trek, all lens flare, white plastic, action in motion,
So slick and shiny it’s like sci-fi soaked in baby lotion
That… is Big Sexy
Like squeezing lemon curd on fish, marmalade smoothies,
Roasted horse meatballs on a spit
You’re the apple of my eye, my cherry, steak and kidney pie,
You’re my horseradish aubergine split
That… is Big Sexy
When you turn on that special playlist:
She’s Got Issues, Hey Daddy, The 1960s Batman Soundtrack,
The Best of the Banana Splits, 2 Unlimited’s Greatest Hits,
There’s no no, no no no no, resisting your aural attack,
And that… is Big Sexy

David Creighton-Offord aka Danov Valravn aka Rhyme Criminal #00 00 is an Edinburgh based Rhyme Criminal, embracing the trashy and absurdist end of the poetry spectrum. When not attending slams or writing for others he works in Information Security, where he attempts to educate others on how to protect their data better.


bird # 54

slow monkeys weep for
star in a styrofoam cup
spastic current
the dollar jail

shadows driving saffron
fortune steering teardrops
kings ride the midfield
dogs in careless light

fingers fatten alleyways
sumac ply a water drip
barbed wire swallows
glitter dims his babylon

stomachs hide
nature’s leave
streetlights wart
her whore birds

beasts drive the lips
lust spits halo spirit
silent gods fly by night
in this lustless trailer park


Darren Francis writes and makes music. He is the author of Spell, Skin, Belong, and co-author of Jack Palmer & The Unspeakable Thing. He was a member of the industrial band Cubanate and has recorded six spoken word-with-music albums and six albums with the band Logos. www.darrenfrancis.co.uk

Secrets of the Universe

spinning spinning
they called it rejoice
seeing into the eye of God
of the storm
i erupted
screaming screaming
locked away
the walls weren’t padded
of my mind


Diane is apologetically Southern. (American.) She is a lifelong Mississippian and a chemistry/math teacher turned writer. Well, she quit her job and couldn’t find anything else to do. She’s supposedly renovating her grandparents’ hundred-year-old homestead. She can be found on Twitter @SheExclaimed and on the web at SheExclaimed.Weebly.com.

Queer Brown Pop

The way I’m coveted with you – this slut theatre.
Fan-Girl lollipops alongside my breast.
Determined bile alongside yours.
I’m not queer or white enough for you.
Make you sick.

Make you cum.
Still not enough for the squeak of outrage
That you bring to every table.

Throwing spears at the butterflies who stroke me
under the burnt orange cloth your mother gave you.

Your skin glows with impressions.
History & divine sex hymns.
Somewhere your disaproval matters.
But not in my leather boots & catholic

Arse bumping and dripping against
everything, as I fly my lust to two-something
in the morning and I fuck and fuck.

Disappointed when I smell it’s you

and not that cute blue-haired cunt
that licked my fingers like honeyed bees
And trembled


I screamed a slave Madrigal. Blessed
In five pop-up galaxies, even my hair betrays
you, turning brittle, wiry & saltash in breath.

An acid drop moment scours your grid
Nothing sticks except your white wanting.


Ruby Answari  is 37 & ¾. A Queer Retro Muslim – Afghan 1970’s, they describe themselves as “Not Popular” and a “Twat Poet”. Political message? Fuck the veil. That.

the man called lust

stuck to the roof

of your mouth

lotus and lily pads

the frogs won’t stop


and everyone mistakes

you for death;



it isn’t too inaccurate

a description

because you died to this world

i presume before you were

ever born

mistaking nightmares and shadows

for friends and lovers—



always yearning for something

you’re the man always

perpetually grasping for straws,

and i saw the feigned innocence when

you looked my way and the hunger

that remained;

but i learned my lesson



won’t give my heart away to anyone

that doesn’t know that love is

much deeper and lasts longer than the

throaty song of lust and all her

yearning and need

in all your longing you’ve become one of

the seven sins

i always thought lust was a woman but turns

out it’s a man: you.


Linda M. Crate is an author, poet, and writer whose works have been published in numerous journals and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of three published chapbooks and the Magic Series. 

Suicide Girls

Are you watching?

Contortion is rife in my body,

But it’s all for you.

Stripped naked

Flesh stretched around visible bones


Just displaying my fragility for you

Long, bony fingers




Until the bare


Mound is touched

“Ah, uh, oh, god, oh, yes”

Are you happy now?

Are you watching?

As I stare into your black reflective eyes,

Cold, judgemental eyes

Pricing me up.

Dear Lens, my only friend

Tell me how I feel

Am I pretty enough?

Am I good enough?

Are you listening?

Are you watching?

For I see only you,

And a girl.


In your black, black soul.



Lou M (they like their anonymity) is starting her first year of university in the U.K. She is likely to be found lounging around in the sun like a cat…if cats liked drinking wine and getting horribly sunburnt. She is working on a poetry collection exploring female sexuality. She can be found on Twitter @LoobyLouLou9 or her blog https://43loulou34.wixsite.com/loulou