Clive Gresswell

Steve’s journey

at all this dysfunction — function
he trod (from) dislocation the strand
lolling on his tongue
a tantalizing

he walked on
not (once) in harmony
projectiles on the periphery
a stolen moment
(from where the shards of grass)

moments melting in the weeds
(his eye glued to the door)
from where his footsteps came
his shadow (a patchwork)
caste into future domains

a spittle of language surrounded him
                                                 trapped him in the gauze
new housing developments splintered
into this vast & hostile swamp of nouns
the guard noticed in doggerel
the swift-release of adrenaline alsations
to silence seething pavements

Clive Gresswell is a 59-year-old London-based poet who comes out of the Writers Forum Workshop (New Series) based in Shoreditch and who did his innovative poetry MA at the University of Bedfordshire. He has been published in BlazeVOX, LondonGrip and Tears in The Fence and is due for publication on Dispatches and Adjacent Pineapple. Meanwhile he is trying to do more London readings and was recently a guest reader at the international Tears in The Fence Poetry Festival. His first collection, Jargon Busters, from which these poems come, was recently published by the innovative Knives, Forks and Spoons Press.

Dorothy Lehane

Poems from Bettbehandlung [Bedrest]

when they talk of capacity what they are really discussing is how alive you are to the possibility of being dead | & not obsession | not being besieged by cyclical thoughts | make sure the audience beholds you | not your gown | reality is an alloy of perception & time hardening | what an annus mirabilis | to talk of capacity is to commit to obscurantism | such is la terroriste | one electrode is placed on each temple | or two electrodes on one temple | “capacity” as a unilateral or bilateral predicament | capacity as I’m in listening mode | capacity as in “nunhood” | capacity as imposter | very little haecciety | beware capacity | in all it’s troubled mythos

and so we live | and are always taking leave | always dilating | fivefold movements decomposing | overlook the manacles | pathological note-making | freedom versus coercion | we must apply a perturbing method | to break the spasm by means of the spasm | we must break their pride | be free of the doldrums | the doldrums lead to being chained | to a tree | or to marriage | that endocrine stressor | such difficulty with utterance | humours out of whack | only in certain lights is it bile related | in other lights there is the question of what to do with fantasies | & the bacterial stream | three humoral signs | see how they come | with insulin shock therapy | & with coma

since you are determined to make her a medicalised body | keep the limbic system in a state of shock | & though officially it does not seem to happen | it happens | very very body centred | I’m not fitting into the body war | teeth apart | we want our teeth gone | we want our beauty hectic | & who mourns those spaces | those sanctioned spaces | describe the people who created you | using two words | unemotional & blasé | my little sook-dancette | decumbiture | the glut force common in old old french | sunwise withershins so vulnerable like withershins | beware of the water | beware of other cities | horse-godmother help me | help with my hereness & nowness

Dorothy Lehane is the author of three poetry publications: Umwelt (Leafe Press, 2016), Ephemeris (Nine Arches Press, 2014) and Places of Articulation (dancing girl press, 2014). She teaches Creative Writing at the University of Kent.

Dan Leiser

A collective sort of one and another

Oh Brother

With a cane I have found myself able,
To give myself a home in the east.
However unwanted I was from both
My father and his.
It still hurts, the mark of a broken man apparent,
Confusing rocks and a salt of a certain kind.

Sliding slick on the road to
The bottoms of the hill
That feels something cold,
Frozen, even with
Tall trees,
Trees taller than I’ve ever seen

Scraping the sky in the forest.

When I walk by them I hear rumbling
Bats emerge in the daytime,

In the night time I fear leaving my
Small house I built upon a grave –
Thy own.

Now I lay me down to rest,
As the wicked find little time to do,
I feared once the grave I built will engulf me soon,
Now, I encourage it,
Maybe then the trees will become home.
Something I lost so long ago,

But hope falls on the wicked as night
Meets dusk
Meets dust.

Day and Night

()=Nothing or X*
() =\= x wen surrounded,adjacent,or next two symbols, punctuations Or (two) Spaces.*

Foor two under(night)stand,
nliten(,)& imbrace
theeh [Naight, don(‘) t] foerghet dhayh is(. ) but
1 ste(h)p
hear and/or
D-hown ae

Deitie of
Dhayh mhahe
Find – :me), hee, he; her oar

Butdress whe
On top,
Of him (me), he, hee oar (her )
Deitie o(a)f

Oad(e) tew dhayh
Wile naight fites
Fewr such l’i’ttel
Chance o:a:f brehth
Shal w:ee:e cea
2ew theh rezureksian
O(a:f theh

Hoo hat nought
( without:
A fite
On top=of a whall
A deitie soh
Paishant sits.

Oade tewe thah

Oh dhayh&naight.

*subject to change(sic):( ibid.)

Miss En Scene At 4124

The door is shut
The windows cracked sideways and
The windows covered in half by yellow tinged (formerly)
White curtains,
The dog on his back on the floor on his mat
Pit bull,
Rottweiler next to him she grunts in the
Daylight sneaking in through the cracks and
On the glass on the table
Two dollar bills rolled up next to
Mommy can I have some sugar on my cereal?
Where’d you get cereal?
Next door.
Did you get milk?
The mother lays on her back,adjacent dog
Noses in the sky
Legs open,
Get your kid outta here
Unph umph
Take some sugar and go next door
Thanks mommmmmmy
Umph umph
The tattoos crawling down his back,side merge with her body in brief intervals until
Where’s the bathroom in this place?
Leave the money on the table
Where’s the bathroom in this place?
Put the money down
The kid runs back in
I need more sugar
Where’s the bathroom damnit?
Put the money down
Put the money down
Fuck it,
The kid falls down
The door screams open,
Fuck this.

The tattoo is covered by a black
Badge and number,
Where’s my money!

Radio crackled open,
We have a domestic disturbance
Cue: cut-
I’m on it.

Lets go,
Gotta take you in,


See The Horse Go

Is the necessity of living
Through the ah-abject-ah-abstract moments in
Our minds a picture in the fragmented thoughts(?).
That all encompasses
Through and through to the
Next day until next and last become intertwined
To the end of the Ohringinal picture show
– see!the Horse running –
Still frames in motion the
Twirling and running and running
And running through and through
Day to day
We till the earth and troughs –
Become enclosures for it anddaythe

Show me the survivor ofbecomingone
Ill show you
Real life decided by deceived
Deceased parties of slumber
And familyfriends all gather today
For a lietobehold herewegoagain
Lift up your hearts and also your
Heads because there they go floating above
Alive through the ethereal
Alive through the plague and karma and placated
Alive alive alive,
To be alive again.
Let us pray.

Witness A Break

If subconscious be you
Upon the words these here right
To rite to write what we have
In the whims of our words, thoughts
What world we live work lively love
In but
At what point do the words wash
To the end of what we know and
At what
Point do we speak here,
Hear ere do ne’er well the
Words that mean nothing?
Biting the phrases we speak and now
Unto you I give
Thinkadilly upon a dais
lee to thwart the kingdom,
Four corners we sit
Upon the throne of
Of thinking of
Of the way in of
The way out of

”Tis nobler to run
Than stay and fight
If only you protect your
Back as
The foreign legions wont
To do.

Inconspicuously colloquially
We speak that…
Fuck it, we all need a
new start.

How far does one go
To find the depths of his soul?
The sing song rhythm that mesmerized
The mind,
Seems a touch too far
The end to slow
The life to long.

How far will you go to find the predispositions
Pre-post-supposing the
Dignity in it all?
When the depths only go as far as you learned
And yet so much further that you could have
reached if you
Tried one day

So how far,
How far do we dig to find we
Lost what we never started
And when do we realize the end in all
All in all in fall in the lulls the troughs the
Valleys the end the love
The end the end all:

Dan Leiser is a poet and writer who is slowly amassing a back stock of poems and stories to sell to street vendors. He is currently working on a poetry series on life and a novel of death, disorder, and the circumstances of family. He recently published a Finnegans Wake inspired series of poetry in The Agenbite of Inwit. He lives in Pennsylvania.

Clive Gresswell

Film by Greta Zabulyte

Clive Gresswell is a 59-year-old London-based poet who comes out of the Writers Forum Workshop (New Series) based in Shoreditch and who did his innovative poetry MA at the University of Bedfordshire. He has been published in BlazeVOX, LondonGrip and Tears in The Fence and is due for publication on Dispatches and Adjacent Pineapple. Meanwhile he is trying to do more London readings and was recently a guest reader at the international Tears in The Fence Poetry Festival. His first collection, Jargon Busters, from which these poems come, was recently published by the innovative Knives, Forks and Spoons Press.


Jane Joritz-Nakagawa

plan b audio five

a portmanteau of crimes
committed on the bodies of
laborers.  too confused
to properly track their prey. my
face leaves.  because it’s high
and the sky is crowded. because
paulownia.  my arm is scarred
and sticks out against the
dark. because i am the
background.  because soon
animals will be eaten.  the
laborers did not revolt.  their
bodies were not revolting.   i
don’t like either side.  contradictory
fashion for laborers, for
animals. my face is willing.
a room filled yet empty.  the
background is financial.  a
broken sky is evidence. of winter,
of paulownia.  the identity of
nets catching invisible prey.  the
stupor of it, of revolts in broken
winter, where belabored bodies are the
background of solitude and
happenstance.  the illusion of
logic may heal the mind but
today the ramparts are possessed
by feeling and panoramic huts. each
breath savored for its effort.   every
awkward step.   for the sake of.
discussion.  dissolving into
beams of frenzied impossible
yearning.  through wickets
of doldrum and bureaucratic
spoils.   seaweed-like.
in small pieces.

plan b audio six

liquid determination
a disappearing door
the gardener enters
to tend to the fields of my crotch
decaying quivering
raking the leaves
creating odd potholes for driverless cars
in an era of exits

plan b audio seven

greying sky
what forces the mountains
to hide behind the clouds

above the planet
in the mind
a river of blue veins

a deep snow
falling elsewhere
how naked i’ve become

why does death
seep from my pores
cleaning the air of its stupor

near a pond
a body on a road
as if replaced

suffocated by sight
the “e” is silent
so must i be

my chewed vagina
a vanishing self
former namesake

fallen tree
looking diseased
pains me thoroughly

cutting through memory
broken water
sounding dead

long range missile
alternative truth
scrap metal

a gloomy oak tree
pinned to a wall
vast solitude

something like a person
a lucid cave
humble in its theater

free flowing doldrums
a drum of pink water
dull on my skin

a stationary wind
stepping beyond
a horizon of objects

bees atop flowers
perfumes in springtime
my greedy vulva

folded yukata
blue and white on tatami
large holes in the shoji

dead science of understanding
forming a sinkhole
sliver of grief

full of enemy corpses
on a street
aligned with nothing

another valley
without land
of the rocky spur

beyond the garden
row of visitors
smell of death

beard and tuxedo
on the television set
teeth like a dinosaur

entering the hospital
X-ray on a screen
shop of horrors

man with a hacking cough
it must be cancer
private thought

patient attached to a machine
her pallid face
thin and scared

rustling of uniforms
a beeper goes off
the sound of dying

heavy rain
plum blossoms on concrete
bar code on my wrist

too much whiskey
a face resembling
a crumpled sheet

lavender gloves on a table
pink curtain
embraces a dirty window

small intestine of trees
looks out over a great
expanse of burnt skin

each beginning an ending
marching orders
false embrace

ulnar nerve
knife through the heart
life of language

old fable
long gone
my empty uterus

in a world of mistranslation
reporting every blunder
the eldest maiko leaves home at sunset

to all appearances a human being
tossed aside
in eerie pennsylvania

plan b audio two

Impossible collapsing dialogues evict
My shadow, iconic falsity.  Optical
favors for driven
geese.  To shred
armor for fun,
reason the house
into cherubic slumber falling
over rotting apple trees.  Processes
in nature:  to dream
every disaster into sludge,
to translate movement into
taxes.  Vanishing
paragraphs traverse faster than
mire.  You’re a winner every
time.  Stopping to shatter
sleep into stuttering.  A breath
missed.  Next
door the moon melts
into ash splayed over oceans.  Backwash
implements mark the time when reaching
was my only failure.  I’d tolerate
other art forms if
they didn’t disable my back.  Future
hospital bills fit into two line
stanzas.  But the care
wasted on random smell won’t wash
in next year’s electoral
debate.  Murmuring my
favorite secret programs
are several special enemies
of state.  To recover one’s
proper place.  Substitute
influences vie for golden
landings.  My line
endings and spacings mash
potatoes.  Frivolous
collaborations resonate in
coincidental indiscretions and safety
determinations.  On fiery imaginary
planets.  Touching my hair
where it turns to mesh.  An
endless graphite spiral.  My
limbs against a widening
white tree.  A flag is stinky
proof of something.  Anxiety
is destiny on every
rooftop guarded by the
sickness police.  Surrounded
by a strange country.  Or found
in.  Pleats
of a bright room.


why not swoon if lavender mood         golf caddy ever-bending fellow acne daffodil riot mirrored casing subdural brake         linen moss untrimmed profile albino idea leaning of       strapped to depths of my nest                     mute soliloquy

Jane Joritz-Nakagawa‘s ninth book of poetry, <<terrain grammar>>, is forthcoming with theenk Books as is an anthology she edited titled women : poetry : migration [an anthology].


Libido Fever

do you love me enough to ruin my life & / or lay me out
sparingly I / my desire only increases not mine you said I had to
grieve so I will do my best but / I want to happen like there’s no
such thing as repetition or / [did we really love without asking
whether we knew how not to hurt / who hurt / who knows each
other & / or oneself who / knows] // pause // but tell me why do
you dance & who are you dancing for [shut up you sleaze
okay / okay / okay] // pause // I took care , you see , to fill my
life with such miserable intimacies I didn’t feel what / well /
appalled at what / [who] / how I did but did I ever know desire
until now [look , it’s only grief dressed up in gladrags & how it
parades its stench of meats & spills the double-backed bedbeast
verily steaming down its plinth! I / I should really send you a
long way away you poor incendiary thing o , a thing to hold on
to like pleasure] // pause // now I shhh tread softly to the
downbelow devices & trawl your extant hungry smudges in the
bawled-all-over & trembling [o , the traps you set for my
cheapness / such is the failure of sincerity o , & the parapet of
your affect!] // pause // now / now / now the curtain rises & all
your dreams go public on a million infamous nobodies [you
must not cry / it is forbidden to cry] & may this wanting you
stop / never stop but Christ how lonely the living are in the
early faces dawn talking god / soaps / war & all privacy is
theft / against your will / my will / nothing like life // pause //
why won’t you come home & give me your love-diseases

without which not

the time I let my mouth out was a very bad time & in some
things Ma had a point but god knows she made that point with
an aggregate rage like / rage was a matter of fact thing or the
raft she clung to or the ultimate state of existence & / yes
according to her I had no business with things like feelings & in
that respect hers was a hit & run love or a bloody oil & knuckle
affair or // pause // a wound yes if anything Ma was a wound
the kind I was going to say that “keeps on giving” but can a
wound give / well if it gives I suppose it secretes which is
another way of saying displays & conceals for what is a Ma but
an impeccable mystery or allegory or // pause // the perpetual
suggestion of some unmentionable thing & its simultaneous
withholding or the answer to a question she devises under her
film which discharges / seeps / expels / oozes & if only this
weren’t the morning after the lifetime before & if only
the mouth weren’t a very bad time but it gives o yes it / gives but
when I say gives do I really mean takes & when I say wound do
I really mean // pause // & it helps to know what things are like
if only to feel the gap in the middle like // pause // simile were
an infinite generator of wounds / secretions / rages & the more
she takes the more she gives & what is a wound but that which
cannot wound itself

Amy McCauley works as Editor of Creative Response for the feminist visual arts website MAI Journal. She is interested in trans-genre writing, auto-frictions and feminisms. Amy’s first collection of poetry ‘Oedipa’ will be published by Guillemot Press in 2018.


beyond             da ta

and the mile is smooth
like the Ionian sky

turquoise and
as the wind whistles
spring from the
searing seawater.
there to here, a
cornering line of
british barbed wire
bears vestiges of the
perforated ermou

from UN wire to
unwiring this
naturalised protection
at any rate between
mili(tarrying) jets
flying low
moderate alerts
lying on car windows

autographed by the sovereign
authorities of akrotiri


i smile

airport and subway
post 9/11

interposing my
freedom to choose
how i perceive

a US’s DHS’s

racial profiling
criminalising Muslims
guilty until feigning they are guilty
immigrants and refugees
now attacked by smart enforcement
protection into
racism, islamophobia
we resist
and reverse fear
into tools
of emanating
empowerment, of

barbed fences
hem in and tear
Kurds, Trans Turks, Sex Workers, Roma, Immigrants
tarlabaşı’s communities
from neighbourging beyoğlu.

military tanks anchored in
the central quarter away from the boulevard
demarcating land and air
as buildings are demolished
and denizens evicted.
i’m arrested by the
the gross capital
eating through Istanbul’s
zoned city
barging into
human bodies
reduced to human waste.

where am i,
traversing the caveat
new york
rio de janeiro
the kingdom
stamboul or cyprus.

king’s cross’
marks & spencer
a luggage is
lugged and
left erect,
the onliest
an eye-ray
to its owner.
the queue
by the
grunt of a brash
6-foot frigid


the traveler incriminated
dropped the
pret a manger something
on the fridge’s shelf
in flight for vanishing.
the freedom to suspect
is new law!

in october last
chronic coup in brasil
stumped its macho
neo-lib fist over
pardo and preto
poor and public
slashing subsidies
social education.
over a thousand schools
across brasil were
frenzied and resolved
to oust temer.
the 1%
public parasites are
for a temer.
Bea Camila
Andressa Clarice Felipe
Joao Pedro Vitor Joaquim
and mucho others
occupied the colégio
estadual monteiro de
santa teresa
for 7 months.
in the mean time
working computers never accessed
libraries of fortune in archives dug away
were spotted
on the floor
above the ground level
to which students were
confined when they
were (not)

it breezed from the west.
what’s imminent in
every short moment ()
which terrorist, thief
or muscle?
In a flickering movement beyond,
twinkling vagary
emanates from an
azure at hand.

smile again,
a single smile
this time.
she flaps her wings
as i hum the ladybird away,

and she heads farther
to that military base.

Maria Petrides (b.1973, UK) is an independent writer, editor and translator. She has contributed to magazines/anthologies & art publications. She has participated as writer in residencies in NYC, Nicosia, Istanbul, Helsinki, Rio de Janeiro, Geneva, and curated/coordinated for Gowanus Studio Space, NYC, depo, Istanbul & The Breeder, Athens. She’s translator of Wow, a political comic book by Ariadni Kousela, Patakis Publishers & co-translator of Bill Ayers’, To Teach the Journey, in Comics, contributing author for the collection, A Book of Small Things & assistant editor for Evripides Zantides’, Semiotics: Visual communication II, Cambridge Scholars Publishing.   

Η Μαρία Πετρίδη (γενν.1973, Ηνωμένο Βασίλειο) είναι ανεξάρτητη συγγραφέας, επιμελήτρια κειμένων & μεταφράστρια. Κείμενα της έχουν δημοσιευτεί σε περιοδικά/ανθολογίες & εκδόσεις τεχνών, έχει συμμετάσχει ως συγγραφέας σε residencies στη ΝΥ, Λευκωσία, Κων/πολη, Ελσίνκι, Ρίο Ντε Τζανέιρο, Γενεύη και έχει επιμεληθεί/συμμετείχει σε εκθέσεις στο Gowanus Studio Space, ΝΥ, το DEPO, Kων/πολη και The Breeder, Aθήνα. Είναι μεταφράστρια του πολιτικού κόμικ «Wow» της Χρύσας Ariadni Κουσελά, Εκδόσεις Πατάκη, συν-μεταφράστρια του «To να διδάσκεις, Το ταξίδι σε κόμικς» του Bill Ayers, και συγγραφέας στο A Book of Small Things ενώ είναι βοηθός επιμελήτρια του «Semiotics: Visual communication II» του Ευριπίδη Ζαντίδη.


bushwick, 2017.


you walk out of the house
face painted in childhood murals
always RIP & 40oz. altars.
now hype spots for tourists
who, in derangement,
turn your shrines into
neighborhood character.

the home listings read:
‘Wonderful place to raise our kids’
‘Nice place to take a shower in the sunlight’

you wonder
if people still wash their asses outdoors
& whether the children are okay.

there will always be memorials.


the first boy.
    he had to be told
    that pussy don’t smell
    like burnt weave
    & old sunflower seeds.

    it’s 2nd quarter
    he knows how to
    weave cord
    keychains & twist
    outs. they beat
    him till he had
    chainlink tattoos.


which negro spiritual
do we sing at yt cookouts
when faced with
polenta &
textured vegetable protein
speculatively cooked
in discarded pork fat?

certain that there exists
a word
for wading out too far.
not drowning. but integral
integrity integration
ingratiation inflammation
inoculation irradiation



I was at Plymouth Rock in 89
N heard all the banter
Right from the stage of
A basehead’s uterine lining.
I been a snitch since 88,
My eyes on the scuff marks
Of her sneakers
Legs way up in the air
And bowed in not-so-first love.

Primero, my father says.
Silly men do have strange memories.
But I was there
When the ship bumped
And the shit went down
N so when I talk about history, kid
You need to listen.
You got this game for free.

you got a lot

of people
fucking for ten-fold blessings.

in a manner of speaking,
every prosperity gospel
Is attuned to the saints
that deconstructed it.
mass media-in-res
hearings at the Throne
too many questions

our lord wonders
how a nation of men
comes to covet itself.

looking down upon us
children of the fallen
in all our prayers,
the smell of our

early morning tongues
braising the ears
of our protectors.
a holy ringing.

all of our kings
backpedal softly
across the chests
of our children
braided rugs,
& self-loathing.

we never answer our blessings.
our shoes become untied
every step
towards the father,

liniments of verse
charted across our arms in vegetable ink
& trap soul discographies.

waiting to bury our rulers,
we got a lot
of hellish dreams
& purple hearts.


hardest stuff to let go.

gonna wake
in a tub full of ice
knees bent for the day
veins shrunken &
no more of your juice
can be had. when,
perhaps, cold isn’t cold
you begin
to miss daylight
your daddy
hollers off
the building stoop
you must need
on your head.
no more. but
you are turning kind
of blue. as if
you are getting younger
& less memorable
& now, you are
your mother’s space.
she carried you
light years before
her whole body
convulsed in withdrawal
but there was no solace
& you had to come
& die proper
in your sleep.
you dreamed so many
of laying into flesh
with everything, ceased
lights no longer burning
your eyes. the last time
you made a wish
on a star.

Shakeema Smalls is a writer from Georgetown, SC by way of Brooklyn, NY. Her work has appeared in Tidal Basin Review, Kweli Journal, The Fem, Blackberry: A Magazine, The Feminist Wire, Free Black Space, Sugared Water, Vinyl Poetry & Prose, and Muse, with upcoming work in Pittsburgh Poetry Review and Radius. 


(που η πριγκίπισσα δεν κατάφερνε να κοιμηθεί γιατί κάτω από το στρώμα της υπήρχε ένα δόντι)

Έβγαλα το φρονιμίτη μου
πιθανώς τον τελευταίο.
Έχω βγάλει τρεις, όλοι στραβοί.
Toυς άφησα σε καίρια σημεία για τη νεράιδα
η Νεράιδα είναι καλή
η Νεράιδα είναι στωική
η Νεράιδα είναι στοργική
η Νεράιδα παίρνει κομματάκια αίμα οστά και ούλα και τα κάνει χρυσάφι.

Ο πρώτος δε με πόνεσε, βγήκε ακέραιος
Η Oδοντίατρος τον άφησε δίπλα μου πάνω στο αποστειρωμένο τραπέζι.
Η Oδοντίατρος είναι προσεχτική
η Oδοντίατρος έχει ελαφριά χέρια
η Oδοντίατρος είναι για όταν ο φρονιμίτης είναι για να βγει ακέραιος.
Τον πήρα στην τσέπη του μπουφάν μου, έκλεισα εισιτήρια, γύρισα σπίτι
τον ακούμπησα στο μαξιλάρι του πατέρα μου, έκλεισα εισιτήριο, γύρισα πίσω
ένα δόντι λιγότερη.
Η Νεράιδα τον μάζεψε και ένα μήνα μετά ο πατέρας μου με πήρε τηλέφωνο.

Ο δεύτερος δε βγήκε ποτέ, μόνο έσπρωχνε και έσπρωχνε
Ο Γναθοχειρουργός είναι λεπτομερής
ο Γναθοχειρουργός είναι αποφασιστικός
έβγαλε σε τρία κομμάτια κάτι που ίσως γινόταν δόντι
το ακούμπησε σε τρεις χαρτοπετσέτες.
Γλίτσα, σάλιο, αίμα- τον έκλεισα σε ένα φάκελο και τον έστειλα στον πρώτο μου γκόμενο
με διεύθυνση κάποιο πάρκινγκ και παραλήπτη μόνο όνομα
γιατί είχαμε πιεί αρκετά και δε θυμάμαι πολλά εκτός από τα αίματα στο κάθισμα.
Η Νεράιδα δυσκολεύεται να παρκάρει
η Νεράιδα έχει θέμα με την αντίληψη του χώρου αλλά
νομίζω ότι τον βρήκε
γιατί ένα μήνα μετά μου δώσανε την πρώτη μου δουλειά σαν σερβιτόρα.
Λάκι μι.

Η Σερβιτόρα είναι πειθήνια
η Σερβιτόρα δεν ξεχνάει
η Σερβιτόρα πάει στο Γναθοχειρουργό
να βγάλει ακόμα έναν φρονιμίτη
που κανείς δεν ξέρει αν έχει χώρο να βγει, αλλά πονάει
άρα αποφασίζουμε όλοι μαζί- ο Γναθοχειρουργός-
να σπάσουμε ένα κομμάτι οστού και να τον τραβήξουμε
να τελειώνουμε μια ώρα αρχύτερα.

Η Σερβιτόρα παίρνει ένα δόντι στις παλάμες της
που μοιάζει με τα πρώτα δόντια
που βγάζαμε μωρά
ένα φρονιμίτη νεογιλό
και τον φυλάει στο συρτάρι του μπάνιου
μέχρι να σκεφτεί τι θα τον κάνει

η Νεράιδα μπερδεύεται
η Νεράιδα πολύ συχνά δε σκέφτεται τις πιθανότητες
Έβγαλα τον φρονιμίτη μου και τον ξέχασα στο ντουλαπάκι της τουαλέτας
και το Σάββατο η Νεράιδα ήρθε να τον πάρει ενώ έκανα μπάνιο

η Νεράιδα είναι όμορφη
η Νεράιδα με έστειλε στο διάολο που την έβαλα να κάνει
τσάμπα ταξίδι
η Νεράιδα είναι κουρασμένη να είναι όμορφη
η Νεράιδα ήθελε να γίνει Γναθοχειρουργός
αλλά κανείς δεν τη ρώτησε

η Νεράιδα μπήκε στη μπανιέρα

έμεινα μαζί της, πήρα και τον φρονιμίτη μου
έφτιαξα καφέ κάναμε μερικά τσιγάρα πέρασε η ώρα
Η Νεράιδα και η Σερβιτόρα είναι άνεργες
η Νεράιδα είναι Γυναίκα
πίνει φρέντο εσπρέσο μέτριο και καπνίζει καρέλια πορτοκαλί.
η Νεράιδα παίρνει σκουπίδια και τα κάνει θυμό.
Και, κυρίως,
η Νεράιδα είναι καλή
η Νεράιδα καταλαβαίνει.

Λάκι γιου:
η Νεράιδα θα σας στείλει στο διάολο αν την ξαναφωνάξετε
να μαζέψει το αίμα, τη γλίτσα και τα ούλα σας.


(The one with the princess not sleeping because there was a tooth under her mattress)

I had my wisdom tooth removed
possibly the last one.
This is my third one, all three grew crooked.
I left them on crucial spots for the tooth fairy to find

the Fairy is kind
the Fairy is tolerant
the Fairy is tender
the Fairy takes pieces of blood, bones and gums and turns them into gold.

The first one didn’t hurt, it came out whole.
The Dentist left it next to me on the sterilized table
the Dentist is careful
the Dentist is gentle
She is appropriate when the wisdom tooth is to be taken out whole.
I put it in my jacket’s pocket, booked a flight, went Home
I placed it on my father’s pillow, booked another flight, got back
a tooth less.
The Fairy picked it up. A month later my father called me.

The second one never grew, it kept pushing and pushing

the Oral surgeon is decisive
he removed in three pieces something that could become a tooth
he placed them on three different napkins.
Slime, spit, blood – I tucked them in an envelope and sent them to my first boyfriend
addressed to some parking lot and no last name
for we were drunk and I don’t recall much apart from the blood on the back seat.
The Fairy can’t handle parking very well
the Fairy struggles with the perception of space but
I think she found them
as a month later I got my first job as a waitress
Lucky me.

The Waitress is obedient
the Waitress does not forget.
The Waitress goes to the Oral Surgeon
to have yet another wisdom tooth removed

that no one knows if there is still place for it to grow, but it hurts
so we decide unanimously – the Oral Surgeon –
to break some bone and pull it out
to get it over with.

The Waitress holds a tooth in her palms
resembling something like
baby teeth
a wisdom tooth premature
she keeps It in the bathroom cupboard
until she figures out what to do with it

the Fairy is confused
the Fairy doesn’t often think of the possibilities.
I had my wisdom tooth removed, I left it in the bathroom cupboard
and forgot about it
on saturday the Fairy came to pick it up, while I was in the shower

the Fairy is beautiful
the Fairy told me to go to the hell
for making her come all the way for nothing
the Fairy is tired of being beautiful
the Fairy wanted to be an Oral Surgeon
but nobody asked her

the Fairy got in the shower

I stayed, I even took my wisdom tooth with us
we showered
I made coffee, we smoked some cigarettes, time passed by.
the Fairy and the Waitress are unemployed.
The Fairy is a Woman
she drinks her coffee with milk, and smokes marbloros
the Fairy collects trash and turn it into anger.
And, above all
the Fairy is kind
the Fairy understands

Lucky you:
the Fairy will tell you to go to hell if you ever call her again
to pick up your blood, slime and gums.

Γεννήθηκα το 1990, στο Ηράκλειο Κρήτης. Ζω στη Θεσσαλονίκη. Δουλεύω σε διάφορες δουλειές, γιατί πρέπει να επιβιώσω. Και γράφω πολύ, γιατί δεν πρέπει. Το πρώτο μου βιβλίο ποίησης, κυκλοφόρησε από τις εκδόσεις Πολύτροπον, με τον τίτλο «Αλάτι». Παλιότερη δουλειά μου βρίσκεται στο μπλογκ

I was born in 1990, in Heraklion, Creta. I live in Thessaloniki. I do a lot different jobs, cause I have to survive. And I write a lot, cause I do not have to. My first poetry collection, named ‘Alati’, was published by the publishing house ‘Polytropon’. Μy earlier poems are published in my personal blog


Bury me

Bury me in warm memes. Send off the world as it nears its end with shimmering emoji. May the photoshop manicured selfies gird against mortality and the soil of the grave.

Bury me in erasure. Take the tiny porch light flicker of a soul, the algorithm of days, the data nexus of skin and memory. Hurl my eventual end past the dull glow of the cycloptic eye en-masse, the social media collective dulled and spasming with likes and video.

Bury me in the skin of old photos. The tensile way of body first entering cooler water in warm night star ashed or soon to rain. Tuck me away into Polaroids for whatever is to come. May film be bunker. May once exposure, that gently stolen bit of past sun warm as whatever is coming draws near.

A monster with an oversized tie teases world war with 140 characters in the bowels of night. He beckons economic collapse with each foolish childish utterance.

Cover me in the shelter of away, of past, of not here, of not now, please.


The old online photos were opened and drained for fluids. Waters and drinks came out in tiny portions to be stored. The people made a small sound no one knew film had captured but then it was gone. Some were even words said to whoever the photographer was. Suns burned again for a second and breezes rode out from long past afternoons. The phd student had figured out that a filmic moment was a stilled film be it a second. He also found a way to extract the essence of what was captured after scanning the photos and tying them to a scent and flavor database and algorithm.

The result was at once a beginning and cliff end. One bled of sensory breath images simply were themselves again but the warmth was enough to heat his tired hands before closing the lab door to go sleep.

What remains from the erasure of my short story 4532 oak drive

I wrote a short story, stopped its publication, and have been slowly spreading the short story across banal seemingly utilitarian websites I have created. The concept is can a narrative burst open across the net and still resonate…can the dull web be art? Here are the core websites I made

and a meta video of all that was lost when the initial story was erased:

Jeremy Hight is the author of two books with a third soon. His book “What Remains” (published by Free Dogma Press) is a short story collection composed by taking all tech and sci fi out of sci fi films and taking what remains into prose. His collaborative narrative work once edited live by earthquake data, “Carrizo Parkfield Diaries” is in the Whitney museum artport. He is currently working with Damon Loren Baker on prose that changes based on how it is read. He teaches Creative Writing and English Comp and lives with his soul mate Lisa and his amazing cat Samson.


My Dream of Your Runes

There is rune like a pictograph and rune like a large stone in grass, covered
in pictographs and

I have known both of them now: unrelated twins such as these
could cipher whole universes for me

(although I am dulled to the slight inclines

of asphalt and resting garbage that are

the outside. And I walk as if through a slough; life on earth can be heavy with drag.)

I have an image, lately, whipping in my mind like a pennant: a reminder of what I cannot cease to resist:
It is me and I am on my knees, and I have both arms wrapped around my head, as if expecting

a hail of matter from space,

sudden curtain of jagged rock and cosmic metal.

It is a sort of pictograph, it means,

My Dream of Your Runes.

(A rune can be bone fragment, shard of poem. Brought to rest on corporeal plane,

it means merely token

some drudged up penny that speaks of simple love, not of darkness, Byzantine and futile.)

But here,

untouched by Iron Age, I could claw strata forever and only hit clay.

I could eat the clay, and call it bread.

There is more darkness around than I care to palpate

(“ It is me and I am on my knees, ”)

and luck is effectively fate’s opposite, especially if, like Gunnhild, you’re being drowned in a bog.

I place her image inside of my body, suspended in cytoplasm;

her bones don’t scrape me.

I see her as pictograph, made abstract by time. As body of text, of

My Dream of Your Runes,

strong, like a saga hero

with blue teeth and unfixed eyes

acknowledging, disregarding, continuing- with
wrathful freedom,

utter sweetness

Allison Hummel is a poet living on the Northeast side of Los Angeles. Previous works include two chapbooks, Beauty State (2013) and Vessels (2016.) She is always amenable to pen pals and collaborations.

Jazmine Linklater


Presence allows of no third   person, a graphic capsule sui generis  ventures to rose-gold pathological states   done to patient. Coffrets sans modernist   zigzags & waves still in ignorance pretty  ditsy pattern principle. But he has something   oppressing him, some secret screams premium:   pastel dread tulle-crafted swaddles sense organs. Two-step pleated cortical layers drawstring the tool, the physiology of ocean-time   cases the law. Underlying distaste in swoon- worthy shades, incompatible socially metallic matchbox embellishment. Clothe this theory   in other terms: refuse to be directed by his will, art-over him out of his fears. Confession the sinner denounce fake synthetics (think   wallpaper​ florals in tobacco & forest) boho philosophy ruffles statement a sacred. If spiritually naked when dressed lacks   attributes definite, the midriff is the new   shoulder, hold on to this last analogy.



Kicking off is a first to the maximum end something impactful lemonade   lingerie evades it withdraws pretty to personally lust  more masculine shape frills  super sleeves bathing belles   & constant awareness revived, alert   find out the possible to live   without appeal. A hope's fraction awakens solely appearances run superlatives on textural focus   & all that links them together. Star signs fashion icons & whisky ever evived ever alert is living on form to the maximum. Resolutions  the perfect foundation for outfits, feminine without inner freedom: we lack the power to make use of that artifice. The absurd depends before athleisure burning & frigid, transparent & limited   not-form-fitting universe.  Intellectual malady & utility chic piece weariness tinged with amazement. Stage sets a standout stripe, nostalgia collapse   your Parisian zest nothing worth anything   but everything given new lightness for blush crush comes voidly eloquent  hiatus, O, take the reins.


( ) Foi  

Peppercorn pink & amber doctrine the contemplation – luxury: prove belief in risk. Give off glimmer unattainability no reality (except plant-based action life-affirming renewal designed to energise micellar mauvaise foi. Solidify intention, alleviate fear. Features extract bleed, acids & enzymes this self-deception needn't be a) flesh coloured or b) drying. Obligatory obedience distilled slow, dose-double dewiness inscribe intelligible heaven. Cupid's bow the starting point: strobing (layer omega & moringa) luminous multi-depth valuerealm, defined & ratified as end-in- itsherbet – stern optimism. Disguise reveals anguish itself: algae trend limits fantasy/caprice, cell burn-out self- surpass essence. In fashioning self, fashion man – invariable incline to evil. Progress ~ amelioration; man always same. Stomach’s plein d’air space above good-karma t- shirts, boxy & business-like à priori frustration foredoomed right down to the last cm.

Jazmine Linklater is a poet and writer based in Manchester. Poetry can be found in The Literateur; Zarf; Datableed; Paratext, and a recent essay at The Text Art Archive. Her debut pamphlet is forthcoming with Dock Road Press in summer 2017.

Erin Lyndal Martin

From Book of Shadows.

In your absence I watched escape artists
perform their feats of flight
When I needed escapism
Houdini was not enough

he was called THE HANDCUFF KING
because he got out of them
he said his middle name was Handcuff

he needed chains and straitjackets
to prove that he was free

the night you told me I was shy
I painted what I painted every other night that week
I was trying to make a point about beauty
and what this world does to it

my argument involved a grocery bag
and some graveyard dirt
plus things that were pink

it was a fine idea
but the grocery bag pieces
were too big
and the pink was too pink

dipping into oracles,
the next card I flipped over
was the sorcerer
shown here with a falcon
it means learning magic as a human

being human is lonely
nothing so lonely
as a borrowed city
seen via headlights

nothing so naked
as wearing your blue jeans
and slurping a dick into your mouth

I retraced my steps in a borrowed city
I retraced my steps in a borrowed city

(the drugs were nearly gone / he didn’t get me off)

not a lot of time to build up memories
but every street had a ghost
some of them had four
usually I am into ghosts
these were sadistic motherfuckers

(the drugs were nearly gone / he didn’t get me off)

haphazard city, I was a stranded motorist
in autumn leaves and dusky light
someone could not help me
but he gave me some Oreo’s

I remember kindness
like a red face remembers a slap

borrowed city
skyline made of glass and tall
into your elevators I went
emerging a bitter woman
with a paperback

Erin Lyndal Martin is a poet, visual artist, and music journalist. Her poems have recently appeared in decomP, Cosmonauts Avenue, Prelude, and Gigantic Sequins. She’s on Twitter at @erinlyndal.



Mirrored in a mountain river
beyond the browning underbrush,
a blue whistling thrush sets its song
to dusk’s complicated music.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Her hand almost covers the sound
hole of the guitar as she plays.
Broken chords eclipse that circle
of distracted breath (not to scale).

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Today, the oracle foretold
the death of fire.
The flames will be
eyeless in the gladdening smoke.
Both modes sew the murder of air.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

This poem has one character.
We’d need to go all the way back
to Spinoza—maybe further—
in order to find her true love.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Groups are algebraic objects
determined by four axioms.
They are sometimes represented
with diagrams called Cayley graphs.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

For a long time she has wanted
a child. She second-guesses this
sometimes, like anything, but her
doubt is planar—an afterthought.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Incised into a one-time pad,
an account of the genesis
of history. The key jangles
on its ring at the bailiff’s hip.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

The idol lies cold on her palm.
Its metaphorical logic
twists like a balloon animal,
with crossings at faith’s boundary.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Astronomers are still puzzled
by Jupiter’s winds; no model
for the Jovian atmosphere
can explain all we see in it.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Random walks through the multiverse
with the Mad Hatter can help some-
times, unless she’s just looking for
a quiet place to count her dreams.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Definition: we say a group
is sofic if its Cayley graph
is subamenable. Sofic,
from the Hebrew word for finite.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

She sees the uncanny valley
from the citadel. It’s unclear
why symbolic authority
is twinned in this nuclear dream.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Hellfire, plus a philosophy
of affirmation. (Furtive chance.)
Reactions, but not reactive:
the whole bright universe at once.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Ineradicable, the swerve,
completely. She stares at the list
of calculations. Completely
, she smiles.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Schnittke did not have to explain
himself. He was not on trial.
Except when he was. When he was
on trial, he did not use words.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

She can’t see Jupiter from here.
She builds deep and shallow models
in her dreams, where uncertainty
gleams like wax fruit or red metal.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

All sofic groups are surjunctive.
This means the Garden of Eden
theorem applies: we can look
for twin states instead of gardens.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Her copy of Tristram Shandy
has two folded pages: the black
page for poor Yorick, and the page
where Tristram is finally born.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

The theologian broke his arm.
He rested it on the surface
of the water while he waded
further out, toward the island.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Does she really want to make him
kill the shadow man? Jupiter’s
core accretes from too far afield.
Her questions are becoming gray.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Twins are states that map to the same
successor states. Gardens are states
that have no predecessor states.
Twins are much easier to find.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

She has overheard the March Hare
flinging snowglobes into the past.
The clock tower’s going berserk.
She feeds into it, listening.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

It doesn’t matter how the truth
is spelled. Field above the warren.
Low grasses. Creeping rootstalks of
turmeric. (Dissimilation.)

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

She holds the seraph in her hand.
The firmament has never felt
this real. Like royalty, she slides
her arm into the filmy sky.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Idealizations, then shock.
High Jupiter recalcitrant.
A blighted model theory
of hemlock, deathly recursive.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

The vacuum throat—malfunctioning—
throws her into ruins built of
marble. A shuffled voice crackles
into the dust of bleak sculpture.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

In the year 29 CE,
on November the 24th,
a total solar eclipse was
visible near Jerusalem.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Her solar wind beckons the font
into new, unworded grandeur.
Without a preconceived grammar,
she is free to remake the voice.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Sofia Gubaidulina.
I owe you more than everything.
Sofia Gubaidulina.
Born three years & one month too soon.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

Emerging from the noisy mud,
the revenant opens her eyes
and reads backwards: her blue hymnal
the softest palindrome in time.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

The Dormouse cries in his sleep too.
He hides his icons in the fog
of the teapot, hazy with dreams,
yearning like a warm theory.

• ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● • ● •

She drank in the immensity
of the heavens and vocalized
a rosebush. Little else took place
after that, except the birth of—

Tom Snarsky teaches mathematics at Malden High School in Malden, Massachusetts, USA. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Blackbox Manifold, Jerkpoet, Maudlin House, Eunoia Review, Third Point Press, and elsewhere. He tweets @TomSnarsky and posts work occasionally at He lives in Braintree, Massachusetts.