Katie Ebbitt

Winter time

I can’t doubt my little sister anymore, in this contradictory place — it’s like renting to find the house all bought and sitting on a blanket of shriveled thoughts and memento of past/present — when I left (that day on the sledding hill) there was still an air of chivalry — now, going down this mountain, without energy, I finally tell about my disturbed life, so as not to imagine my nonsense, that beguiled by yours, we’re sober like this

Bedtime

Asylum in sleep
Night sweats
Baby brained
Terrorized with the contaminated mud
          of leftovers
Abundance of basic feminine instinct
Glistening like wet leather
Happier now than ever
Without coming to grief
Some rich locked-up person let loose
Cracked or flipped
Frugal nourishment and dead to the world
          Benched into impersonal limbo
Sparsely existing
Slept in cheap cotton underwear
Mouth wide open



Katie Ebbitt is a poet and social worker. Her chapbook, ANOTHER LIFE, was published by Counterpath Press, and she has contributed poetry to the upcoming anthology Rendering Unconscious (Trapart Books, 2019). Her work has appeared in Tupelo Magazine, FanZine, Queen Mob’s, Prelude, and Deluge, among others. She curates By The Way reading series in New York City.

Lotte L.S.

Significant Others Scale

From tomorrow the gas-lamps in the city’s streets will not be lit.

Anatoly Mariengof, The Cynics, 1928

A and B, pressing against either side of a closed door / trying to fit the outline of each other / saying, when the fit seems close, only “now” / repeating again and again until certain.

Allan Kaprow, Comfort Zones, 1975

I want to remain just a surname on the list.

Oleg Sentsov, 2016

The sun unseen as through the holes of a colander
                                         lesser light strikes down / enters from the side
a place in which there appears no one / no body
                                         no budding romance blossoming / no we
just the I causing all sight to collapse
                                         jean-claws in the corner tidying his whiskers
the pubic hair drafted into shapes resembling a T-bone steak
                                         suddenly meeting like this
in the otherwise not-for-profit night

                                       no great vertigo
of language

                                       the trap staying tightly shut

no in here / just desire
                                         handed over in hyperlink-blue
with the tongue buried deep
                                         against the being of thought
the T-bone of feeling / the thought of being
                                         the feeling that did not want to be felt / with-
held

felt nonetheless

                                         a few words interjected / then

an ankle glances at a wristwatch
                                         a cuticle gazes at a sleeve
unseen in succession
                                         the face remaining the sorry same
unmoved by its own affect

gravity redetected

false speeches pushed into the mouths of plants
                                         the I continuing to make things im-
possible:
                                         cops out / cluster headache / ~total love & blessings to all~
sentiments evacuating every neural alleyway

                                         the I / meaning / sure
you can call yourself a communist

                                         doesn’t mean you’ll survive a revolution

                                         the world turning nightly
                                         on its axis
                                         escalators gliding with backwards brilliance

the complete and utter seamlessness of the story
                                         attempting to relate to a phenomenon that exceeds it

                                         all oaks in the area
                                         promptly pumping tannings through their veins

                                         pouting their plump lips
                                         in no one’s direction

                                         as though nothing on earth had ever happened
                                         in the thinker’s cell

                                         too many attempts to be meaningful
sky-writing “divination” 4 “strategy” against the clouds

                                         refulgent in its rain / desire underfoot

clock hands overlapping at a quarter to three


                                         proliferating I’s penetrating the continually

rewritten clouds / barricading all pleasure in the plural


                                         like attempting to tie a rose to a collision spot
or land “the people” jelly-side up

                                         jean-claws employing his whiskers to gauge an opening
                                                 in the fence
the assertion of people as single letters

suggesting

that the I seizes this experience and let it become sentences

too tired to try it again




Lotte L.S. is a poet living in Great Yarmouth, the furthest easterly outlier of England. More of her work can be read here. She keeps an infrequent tinyletter, Shedonism.

Anna Pantelakou

Elevator

Once wrote a poem for you
Now writing a poem about you
My boss in 19

My friend in 21
My boss in 24

My grandmother in 6 and 24
My mother in all of it
Priestesses

Talked about patriarchy
-though never knew a father
Once asked for the right to
Shushed

Smacked

Smothered


Anna Pantelakou studied History and Theory of Art. She is passionate about academic writing, and is currently working on a children’s story. She was born in icy Canada, therefore writes both in English and Greek. She is based in sunny Athens.

Hiromi Suzuki

The Wedding March on Soap Operas


Someone knocks on the door of kitchen

It is Frankenstein
In a tailcoat and a white tie
For his wedding

To be exact
He is a monster
Created by a mad scientist
Dr. Victor Frankenstein

Has no name at all

The kitchen faces a creek
His coffin in solitude was dug up from the soil
And he came aboard on a glacier
From the underground waterway

Could you make the poached egg with yolk?
The golden colour is good for our escape at midnight, isn’t it?

A widow warms a pot
Creek under her feet
Passes through the downtown
And will pour into their final abode

Has no name at all



Alone, Throne, a Lonely Thorn


My elder sister in a cerulean blue wig is
On the swing as the throne alone in the park
Putting lipstick in vermillion red on her dry lips

Scattering petals of Geranium whirl in Miracle Wind
When her front teeth crush the groundnuts slowly
Out-of-season dead leaves sound in her skull

It is a lull in the sea

Listening to the rumours of sudden rain
A priest brakes the rusty bicycle again
Her flared skirt flaps in lightning


hiromi suzuki is a poet, artist living in Tokyo, Japan. The author of Ms. cried, 77 poems by hiromi suzuki (kisaragi publishing, 2013), logbook (Hesterglock Press, 2018) and INVISIBLE SCENERY (Low Frequency Press, 2018). Her works are published internationally in Otoliths, BlazeVOX, Empty Mirror, Hotel, Burning House Press, DATABLEED, MOONCHILD MAGAZINE, Hotel, talking about strawberries all of the time, Mookychick, THE CERUROVE, Coldfront, RIC Journal and 3:AM Magazine. More work can be found at hiromisuzukimicrojournal.tumblr.com.
Twitter : @HRMsuzuki

Katie Ebbitt

Andromeda


I dislike being picked up
          So don’t
Set me among the constellations

I cut off your head
          and slept with it, strung up over mine

Spot lit by naked bodies of women

Duh for the obsession
          on death
I will summon whatever again
I would masturbate
being bound to a rock

Being grabbed at
          your skin looks good

You have something over me
Who ever heard of a man turning
          women to stone


Castigation

Maybe I don’t crave permanence
so much as another idea
intimacy an anchorage
that I am trying to dispel


Rodentia

I lean late
Into good
To contemplate clean
There’s a lot
To say
With this old thread of recollection
To say
There’s a glass cage
That’s being emptied
Leaving a residue
A mild scent
In the freezer
Balled up and stiff
For the entire season
Until the backyard is softer
Regardless
I wrote a list
Marked the calendar
Checked the ground
Eulogized a little
About the dainty
Sweetness
From the dirt


Katie Ebbitt is a poet and social worker. Her chapbook, ANOTHER LIFE, was published by Counterpath Press, and she has contributed poetry to the upcoming anthology Rendering Unconscious (Trapart Books, 2019). Her work has appeared in Tupelo Magazine, FanZine, Queen Mob’s, Prelude, and Deluge, among others. She curates By The Way reading series in New York City.

Diana Manesi

Pep talk with Father

One

Good morning. Resilience and patience. I arrived home. Sia got the small room.
cleaned the house all over          in the kitchen worms from leftovers
Tonight the kids are coming                 I bought a mattress for the little –sleep
I am not feeling well.                    Rebound
In Athens I feel better          with chicken pox
Next week          two weeks on pills          to catch me up.
Don’t worry.          Your worries feed happy clouds                    he gave me 1000 euros.
Sia is a good housekeeper. Quiet child.
Be happy          with new blue-s dress
Good morning.          wanna hear my news
Where will you spend Christmas?
We will go to Morocco.          God knows.          Hugs& kisses

Two

Susan is beautiful, beautiful enough for me
Lubul budul          my head skipped a bit          today
two days          after Susan’s visit            her
fewer          bits the merrier Christmas    at shopping malls     car parks
a sedimentation of bags and collections                    in them I trust
I am tired     I will visit professor Gementzi     74 years’ old
Would it help if I lived in Athens?
It’s hard.     I can’t go to the gym
Fuzzy head     can’t collect me
The pills began to work     and I am locked in the coldest bathroom
We will not go to Athens.                Susan fell and broke her knee
My mouth is dry     I can’t sleep     the pills have side effects
How will I make it on my own?        Good question.                he gave me a pair of trousers
Take care of Susan.

Three

I arrived at the airport        How are you?
My migraines are unbearable        Delay/ traffic        my flight is at 8pm
I didn’t get to see you        with the other woman                you left        when
I saw a poster on an Athenian café        about Sankara        and his illusion show.
Migraines are the legacy of witches,
garbage bags of unfulfilled traffic.
I want to witness Sankara’s magic — he might possess the insides of Joan Crawford’s deranged daughter who kills her mother’s lovers.
I hope he cures migraines.

Four

Tattoo artists are the best forgers
What’s your plans now?       It’s late        my throat is quietly tuning with my bowl
Daddy wants a new car          a nice car          double sided
One cut of the dead          and I feel          hardwired to plan inks
He says nothing
He’s just a figment of people’s imaginations
God              replace the old BMW
When we met, you were pretty and I lonely
God save ink forgers (A lot of God in here).

Five

Thank you for confirming which life session you attended.
We note that you submitted a pay claim form for a total of 5 hours.
Why? What’s bothering you? Calm down. Don’t pressure yourself. Enjoy life.
As you only attended 5 of the 7 training hours provided by us,
you need to show love.
Life is beautiful. If you find a job you really enjoy, you’ll feel better.
As you only attended 2 of the 5 training hours provided by Father,
you need to stop thinking too much.
We will therefore not be approving the additional 5 hours.
Start yoga and meditation to live in the now.

Six

Descending into mad, watching the “Shining” on Netflix,           “you are nothing but a fraud”
Decaying replica        of Socrates unwritten words
        The shinning       of    snow              in a full-packed auditorium   with neo-soul sounds
       &nbsp &       &nbsp &from New Orleans
copy-paste          my mind needs          citalopram          placebo effects
    smoking gives a boost       &nbsp &    smoking gives a boost
in the mist of a saddening day    smoking gives a boost       &to Mona-Lisa and back
“you are a fraud”, you hear me!
I am doing my best    it’s not enough
I am really trying            not to desert her
Russian dolls pop         one after the other
snails suck my gastric fluids    and let go of my fingers
godfather died    and with him the golden necklace    of the Russian doll
Bless her, she was a good girl.


Diana Manesi began writing and recording diaries when she was 11. She stopped once she reached adulthood and went into academia. For many years she engaged with feminist theory, social anthropology, and cultural studies. In the last years, she began experimenting with poetic form and playful prose. In 2017 she published her first poetry collection in Greek, entitled “One and whole: One bite” by Queer Ink Publications. Recently she began writing in English. She currently resides in London and whenever she can she travels and attends poetry workshops.

Serena Braida

it is pure gold the satin oil on god’s fingers, the little devils trotting towards us

good grief you go go
harvest lemons
go get clean the whole
shebang

/ ’tis for your eyes’ sake
the sense of the land being sucked out of you /

you try a robe on,
my poor frangipane girl,
Gabriele licks your forearm,
the sun glees

and this feeling of transatlantic
                                                                                arson
                                                                                could be real.



Serena Braida is a writer & performer currently specialising in voice work. She grew up near Rome and moved to London in 2011. Her poetry pamphlet BLUE SHEILA was published by Dancing Girl Press in 2018. Serena’s work, both in Italian and English, has appeared or is forthcoming in HVTN Press, Hotel, Orlando, Hotdog, Nuovi Argomenti and more, and in anthologies including Wretched Strangers (Boiler House Press 2018). Notable performances include the Festival of Italian Literature in London, Goldsmiths LitLive, European Poetry Festival, Late Night Jazz at the Royal Albert Hall’s Elgar Room and the play Muscovado. 

Aurélia Declercq

vulgar naked speaking organ

It will always say it
comma
to say it will always say it
comma
behind their speech
comma
it will never stop to say it
comma
to shout it
comma
to faint it in a paragraph
point
and next street the hotel hosts
comma
and next street who’s the hotel’s host
comma
a vulgar naked speaking organ
comma
hotel hosts a vulgar naked speaking organ
comma
vulgar naked speaking organ sleeps in a hosted hotel
comma
and the hosted hotel closes at midnight
comma
and the hosted hotel closes
comma
its doors are closing
comma
its doors are sealed
comma
its doors are stopping
point
its doors are stopping a vulgar naked speaking organ
comma
exhibitionist vulgar naked speaking organ
comma
exhibitionist vulgar naked speaking organ is told
comma
exhibitionist vulgar naked speaking organ is told then sealed
point
exhibitionist vulgar naked speaking organ shows his wrinkles
comma
shows his nightmares
comma
shows his language
comma
what a language
comma
language dictated by the flow
comma
language dictated by the flow of passengers in the street of the closed hotel
point
what an hysteria
point
what an hysteria told
comma
hysteria told then sealed
point
to speak louder
comma
to speak louder than the generalized hysteria of the closed hotel comma
the hysteria of told hysteria
comma
what a diagnosis
point
what a diagnosis told
point
vulgar naked speaking organ
comma
skin of gabble you are
comma
skin of gibberish you are
comma
gibberish you are loved
comma
gabble you are loved
comma
prehaps you are loved
: you are told as you are loved

~

i’m staying here comma in the room created for 24 hours continuously comma i’m stuck here comma tiredness comma thirstiness comma hunger are piling up perplexed smiley do the 4 walls never move a centimeter question mark i’ve contacted friends comma teachers comma mathematicians thumb smiley nothing happens here point am i sending out an sos question mark perplexed smiley bring the creators over here comma you behind the levers wink smiley that’s why you are here comma you are here to create action exclamation mark you should know i can sell my nipples for a low price if i have to wink smiley they are amazing wink smiley they are delicious wink smiley unfortunately they don’t give milk anymore to the thirsty mouths of creators laugh smiley but they are still there comma as a receptacle of those bygone days crying laugh smiley how funny is that comma where is the narration question mark a drop of milk for a punctuation comma it’s a promise

Aurelia Declercq (1993, Brussels) lives and works in Paris. She graduated for her master degree in psychology, option psychopathology, psychoanalysis and linguistics. Her research dealt with the function of neologism within the language of psychosis. Afterwards, she began studying at the Ecole Nationale des Beaux Arts in Paris at Claude Closky’s atelier. Her artistic work combines visual poetry, sounds, texts, installation and video, gravitating constantly around language and its paradoxes.

Corinne A. Schneider

After Spider Dance

La Tarantella is a southern Italian ecstatic folk dance, traditionally performed by lower class women, midwives, eccentrics and others at the margins. Groups of couples now perform it at weddings.

I started seeing scratches under women’s eyes
          Some of the women
          tired from too much seeing
          scratches & their absence of inner thigh
Spider curled in a white rose
Animal souls          cut flowers          a raindrop
a buzzing          Why don’t you
just break my neck already?

Tiger lily          How many calories?    
Maybe twenty
gilding the lily          Brushing my hair is
a mutilation       Well, of course you engender
sexual obsession in others,
your many lovers
       That’s why you
could never cohabitate, you’d run out
of little outfits

Mosquitos finally come a callin’ this summer  
Baby bok choy bolting
          up the center          Fuck those white sheets          police helicopter
          star of the sea
You can get into a rhythm
Eyes on everything
Season of lightness
Taking your dreams away

After Spider Dance, II

Are you
a weaver like me?
Maybe you could heal me       Feed me nuts & berries
lichen tincture
essential medicine
so my bones grow  
I can tie
my bones together       I know how
to mate fully without bearing children
copious and empty
Smile at me at la clinica
I’m drunk enough now
to tell you about Rochelle
my across-the-street 2nd grade neighbor
whose mother was always away
Rochelle taught me how to masturbate
in the basement by straddling inflatable pool toys
Her mother’s face in the gold hand mirror
in the dark peach bedroom
looking away  
This is the thing
about not ever needing anyone  
all your secrets are your own
Watch them
bead up like dew



Corinne A. Schneider is a working poet from the Great Lakes / Rust Belt of the US. She writes poems, essays and other ephemera from the House of Sex, Death & Taxes. Her work has recently appeared in Bone Bouquet, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Coldfront Mag, and So to Speak.  She lives in Washington, DC with her cats and partner and writes about international solar energy markets for a living.  

Andrew Taylor

The 280s

Explain to Andrew the process it’s not as grey as expected it could almost be summer aside from the temperature (a clear 30 degrees cooler than August) very light blue 283 C 536 C pale blue black 3 C in rear shadow facing the field remnants of rain on the worn tarmacked lane 

Paint the world in grey 2359 XGC chocolate egg 143 C winter solstice 7543 XGC sometimes things don’t match busy streets 2756 C & foraging mistletoe 7748 XGC bright Central European Standard Time & colourless Greenwich Mean Time Autoroutes and motorways respective service areas

Delivery not traditional physical printed at 88 sites throughout the world and sold in more than 160 countries and territories post-rain lane quiet comfort sound sporadic chatter free roam foliage gatherer Black 6 C 7751 C 7479 CP 416 CP 7768 XGC masthead centred two-day edition

Let Poems be themselves the use of noise the use of words the point of pencil the point of knifes the use of colour the use of paper the point of wood the point of axe the use of silence the use of electricity the point of fuel the point of poems the use of lists the use of sound

Saumur cormorant skims Loire train crosses furthest bridge wind chill low blue paint livraisons RF place de la Bilange la mie Caline ouvert du lundi au dimanche de 05h a 20h cold of Square Guinness Pub cobweb neon flow gilets jaunes roundabout fires stop aux tax RDV keep cold at bay

~

Andrew Taylor has published two collections with Shearsman and pamphlets with Red Ceilings, Leafe, and Oystercatcher, amongst others. He has collaborated with visual artists such as Sophie Herxheimer and Edward Chell. A poetic collaboration with Charlie Baylis, at first it felt like flying is due from Indigo Dreams in January 2019. He edits M58, a blogzine of other poetries. www.andrewtaylorpoetry.com

yarrow yes woods

yarrow yes woods from Death and

yarrow yes woods is a maid and copywriter in Chicago. Some of her is available soon or now at BOAAT, DREGINALD, The Wanderer, Columbia Poetry Review, Palimpsest, The New Territory, and DIAGRAM.

Catherine Chen

Such Beautiful Machines



Catherine Chen is a poet and performer. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Slate, Hobart, Entropy, Mask Magazine, Asian American Writers’ Workshop, Tagvverk, and Nat. Brut. Their chapbook “Manifesto, or: Hysteria” (Big Lucks) will be published in June 2019.

Mike Foldes

Counting

Counting, counting, always counting.

12 steps down to the cool cellar

Almost without thinking, realizing

Only at the end ten, eleven, twelve.

How many steps from the kitchen sink

To the kitchen door, from the kitchen door

To the curb where the car sits parked,

Ready and waiting to go, go, go,

A tenth of a mile at a clip, mile

After mile, all 297,000, and then some.

A mathematical world populated

With geometric forms, odd shapes

As if generated at random, but

Logical as logical is said to be.

We moveable icons pass among

One another, relatively speaking

Without mishap; is it because

We are clusters of energy

Of alternate polarities designed

To steer clear of foreign objects?

Which is the true form, “forest

Or field”? To whom do we owe

This debt of gratitude, this

Formulation that carries us

From day to day, here to there,

Step by step, cautiously seeking

To discover what’s next, even

While it’s before our own eyes?
What fractal equation forces us together,

Woman and man, woman and woman,

Man and man? What fractal

Tears us apart, arm, leg, head,

In matters of war. And peace?

Does each generation ponder

On its pathway to the grave

Whether changing a zero to one

Or one to zero, two to three

Or ten to ten thousand, whether

The numbers add up to anything

More than an accumulation

Of laughter or sorrow? Do we

Manage our futures, or does

Despair manage us? What

Is the geometry of innocence?

How many or few the steps

We take to understanding?

The nebulous, the certain,

Cautious and caring, a triangle

Or parallelogram, particles

That exist, or only appear to exist

Because we cannot see or feel

Or detect them, but know their presence

By established theories of influence,

By shadows cast in moonlight

By the casual way we tie our shoes,

the way we count our blessings

cast our nets, spin our webs.


A piece of you

I want a piece of you.

Yes, I really do.

Just a small part,

A corner of your palette

Dust from the floor

Beneath the table

Where you polish

The incandescent metals

Of your ancient trade.

I want a piece of you

To hang on the wall,

Place on a glass shelf

In a curio cabinet

Where the curious

Will gather to look

And see what

We’ve been doing

All these years.

I want a piece of you

I can take to the bank,

That I can dive into

Like a frog into a murky pond,

That I can caress, kiss

And save as a token

Of our mutual respect,

Being that we came

Such a long way to get here

And the crossing

Was so quick.

Ask me for a poem, then,

In exchange for the look,

And a taste of magnesium

On steel on my tongue,

A flavor not unlike that

I imagine you have on yours

At the end of days.

Magically it will appear –

Calibrated lines

Rising and falling

On the skin of my back.



Mike Foldes is a sales engineer specializing in medical displays. A graduate of The Ohio State University in anthropology, he has edited and published magazines, poetry anthologies, chapbooks, alternate newspapers, technical publications, and was a newspaper editor and columnist. He is founder of the online magazine Ragazine.CC, author of Sleeping Dogs: A true story of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping …” and Sandy: Chronicles of a Superstorm, a volume of poetry and images in collaboration with artist Christie Devereaux. His articles, editorials, poems and stories have appeared in translation into Romanian, Hungarian, French and Spanish. e-mail: editor@ragazine.cc.

Maria Gergoula, Ian Whitfield



A Critique of Water

Georgoula Whitfield | A Critique of Water

A Tunnel and_or a Bridge

Georgoula Whitfield | A Tunnel and_or a Bridge

Dignity Contained in Tents

Georgoula Whitfield | Dignity Contained in Tents

Habit & Form

Georgoula Whitfield | Habit & Form

Sync

Georgoula Whitfield | Sync



Maria Georgoula’s practice explores notions around apathy and the banal through sculptural works that merge soft form with objects extracted from diverse contexts such as garden and DIY centres in the UK, early surrealist writings and decorative traditions. For a number of years Georgoula has also run the Nauru Project, an online collaborative project on the smallest island nation in the world. Selected solo and group exhibitions include Tinos Quarry Platform, Tinos, Greece; Embassy Gallery, Edinburgh; Daily Lazy Projects, Athens; Eleftheria Tseliou Gallery, Athens; The Showroom, London; Bloc Projects, Sheffield; Rogue Artists’ Studios Project Space, Manchester; Open Eye Gallery, Liverpool; Circuits & Currents, Athens; New Court Gallery, Derbyshire; The Institute of Greek Contemporary Art, Athens and ReMap KM, Athens. Georgoula lectures at Nottingham Trent University and lives and works in the Midlands, UK and Athens, Greece.


Ian Whitfield lives and works in Derbyshire and studied Fine Art at Goldsmiths, English and European Literature and Art History at the University of Essex and Painting at the Royal College of Art. His work involves painting, drawing and writing. He has exhibited at the Drawing Room, Large Glass, Josh Lilley Gallery and the Blyth Gallery in London, Rogue Studios in Manchester, New Court Gallery in Derby, the Wirksworth Festival and in God and Sausages in Athens. His residencies include Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris and the RCA Mann Painting Travel Scholarship. His research topics have been Narrative Perception in Painting and The Uses of the Invisible. Other recent writing includes literary reviews for Art Review Magazine, a prose piece for a James Wright catalogue called The Garden Behind, a long poem Our Minds are Normal for the exhibition Gorilla Split by Maria Georgoula and a pamphlet of poems called The Architect (2017). He has been a visiting Lecturer at Derby University, Leeds College of Art and Design and Manchester Metropolitan University and is currently completing a collection of stories called Fake Blues.