Oz Hardwick

One Million Years BC

The spaces behind the furniture are the last places to explore,
so I put on my childhood, rope myself to the dining table leg,
and lower myself into the geology of forgotten things. There
are cowboys and robots, a bear with glass eyes, cars with
doors that open and close. There are eggshells and snakes,
dogs scowling behind chained gates, cigarette stubs littering
cinema aisles and the top decks of buses. The air smells of
coal smoke and sour mash, a bleached commode, bubble gum,
and green vegetables boiled out of existence. Deeper down,
there is no light, and I navigate by touch through pencil stubs,
scabbed knees, the raked marble chips on recent graves,
sawdust on the butcher’s shop floor. My knees need patching
and my shoes are too tight, and I feel the rope loosening its
grip. I remember a song about dinosaurs, taste sour meat on
my breath, feel an animal sigh across my soft, pale belly. It’s
too late to reach for watch or compass; too late to pack sweet
tea and sandwiches. There is no land that time forgot; it simply
doesn’t care.

No News

I have turned the television off, silenced the radio, sealed the
letterbox against daily papers. The only tweets are garden
birds. The sun is the same as yesterday, unbroken by aircraft
trails, and the breeze carries the same hint of spring. I am
rereading pulp fantasy for the first time since my teens, and
listening to 70s albums on which I know every word and
intonation. From the next street to the far side of the world,
there is breathless pain and chaos, death and angry dispute. I
cut a simple cheese sandwich into precise quarters, steep a
green teabag for a precise duration I don’t even need to count.
I turn up the music and sing off-key. Today – just today – there
is no news.

Commercial Break

Footsteps in the hall, and the Moon taps on the stiff casement.
The weather’s warming, but we’re letting nobody in, whatever
their gifts or promises. In every room the furniture has become
so familiar that we don’t recognise it anymore, and we leave
the televisions and radios on to keep themselves company and
offer comfort in the dark hours. The street is jammed with
empty taxis vying for non-existent fares, and flour and
tomatoes are lowered by helicopter like a James Bond fantasy
of 60s chocolates by an out-of-work actor disguised in black
PPE. Our cultural references have cross-contaminated, and we
are sit-com and soap, news and nostalgia, adverts for
discontinued products with catchphrases and promotional
badges that we pin directly onto our skin. The Moon is heavy
with refugees from a future that didn’t happen, and the Earth is
remembering how to breathe. There are footsteps in the hall,
and there is more beauty than our eyes can hold, but we’re
letting nobody out, whatever their gifts or promises.

Oz Hardwick is a determinedly European poet based in York (UK). He has published eight collections and edited several more. His chapbook Learning to have Lost (Canberra: IPSI/Recent Work, 2018) won the 2019 Rubery International Book Award for a poetry collection. www.ozhardwick.co.uk

Kevin Canfield


The line to get inside stretches
North on Lenox and snakes
Past a desolate playground
I stand beneath a sidewalk
Oak tree, alive with
Pink and green buds on
This April Saturday in 2020
A woman in front of me
Tugs at the scarf
Stretched across the
Bottom half of her face
She exposes her mouth
And takes a phone call
We are all wearing masks or
Improvised cloth face coverings,
As our mayor calls them

An hour passes before
I reach the entrance
My shopping list says:
Tuna, vegetables, coffee,
Pasta, mint chip ice cream
This last item requested
By my daughter, who
Arrived in this country
Three months ago
And attended school
For nine days
Before people started using
Words like epicenter and
Infection hot spot
To describe New York,
Her new home city

The were out
Of mint chip
I got Neapolitan
She didn’t mind

Kevin Canfield is a writer in New York City. His work has appeared in Bookforum, Cineaste, Cabildo Quarterly and other publications.

Richard LeDue

One Of My Many Hourly Updates

A crow hops through the snow,
always thought those birds
looked wise as clowns,
then tiny black eyes stare back at me,
and I feel naked,
dumb as a feathered dinosaur
ready for an ice age.

The promised rain of spring
a lie, while winter holds on
like a beak clasps string,
never knowing why,
and when the crow flies away
towards a destination
made meaningless by tomorrow,
I realize how much I hate
three day old socks,
covering feet that stink of the ground.

No Answer

Should be easier to turn the phone off,
look out the window,
count dancing snowflakes like they were blessings
falling from a sleeping god’s beard,
then I wouldn’t envision a hospital bed,
no visitors as lungs fill with fluid,
family waiting for a phone call-
someone has to not look away,
remember that person
who dies alone is more than a statistic
updated daily on news websites,
and that their life ended
because vacations were too important to cancel,
while words like wages, profits, bills, rent, budgets, economy,
boot straps choked us,
and everyone was left with nowhere to go
but on their phones.

Richard LeDue was born in Sydney, Nova Scotia, Canada, but currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba with his wife and son. His poems have appeared in various publications throughout 2019, and more work is forthcoming throughout 2020, including a chapbook from Kelsey Books.

Thomas Osatchoff


No more secrets….
De-densifying closets/railroad spikes….
While we are still in this world. We are still physical
right now     opening
               despite. This plastic sheet
on the buttons controlling the doors being cleaned.
This plastic sheet is cleaned 120 times every two hours.
A cleaning consists of spraying continuously for 60 seconds.
All sheets disappear as soon as the spraying is turned off.
Completely abandoned to itself. Us. Increments.
Each day a little more is revealed. Projected nests
within dilating time capsules currently being swallowed….
We say Jenifer Chang and we say Brian Wilson. Someone
swallows what they want to say with mutilated directions.


A test of the test? Quick little flick and the radio is listening to itself.
What if we didn’t have to want to be liked? Do we?
Bad people don’t wear a sign saying, “I’m bad!” We have to be careful.
The burner is hot and what if we forget forget forget?
Long /u/ sounds coming in different forms.
What if the test causes what it’s testing? Pause in a sequence; paradise
beneath us. Enclosed Field with Rising Sun.
My brother’s bedroom is next to mine. So close it’s like one room.
Dear Customer, it’s better to stay at home now.
We know what’s expected of us. Trauma helping us revise past events.


If death is what appears to be unmoving.

If we cannot reveal without occluding.

If we could live without praise or blame?

If we have time—we can tell a new story.

It’s funny: the stroller’s called Looping.

Is it easier to count by groups? Lumps,

do a good job & we can build the robot.


From inside unseen levels to no opposition outside the op banning seeds and community gardens
switched out multiple times into other people. How did it happen? Dementia is already setting in. Replies to this message will not reach us, so please do not answer this message. Willingillness?
Homeschooling, also known as home education, is the education of children at home or a variety of places other than school. Home education is usually conducted by a parent, tutor, or an online teacher. With school closures happening across the world due to the rhinosaurus outbreak, some have chosen to start homeschooling their children. Many parents wonder how best to organize everything for homeschool. Creating a relaxed and flexible homeschooled atmosphere while allowing a child to have a sense of security and predictability about the day is a balance to achieve. In addition, parents have to decide which curriculum to use, how to keep children engaged during the lessons, etc. Do you homeschool your kids? How do you organize
your homeschool days? Share your ideas with fellow teachers in the discussion. How is that underground infrastructure coming along? Seeing through attempts to destabilize our identity.
Dear Dominate, covered over with all these things. Now that there’s no ground beneath our feet.
Dear Denmark, how could you? Please explain. From upon high of all highs. Cominground gain.




Rhinosaur’s gift of basic income

         built back. “I agree.” Engineered. Selflessly, you whispered, it feels like a new world.

很好的老师,细致有耐心。这段时间Phil不用去学校, 待在家里上网课。 多了很多自己的自由时间,上看电影都是他所喜爱的!遗憾的是电影院仍在关闭中。
Class Time 2020-04-05 18:00 (Beijing Time) Unit 3 – Lesson 8: Kwanzaa and Ramadan 2.
Translate in English—
Very good teacher, meticulous and patient. During this time, Phil didn’t have to go to school.
He stayed at home to study online. He has a lot of free time and enjoys watching movies! Unfortunately, the cinema is still closed.

         Getting with the program. Emerging….

I guess July 4th this year will be Ironic Day.

Just stumbled upon this. And it’s like for just a moment, even with everything going on
with our world, things just kinda felt right. Thank you for this relief. Wish we didn’t need to

speak in code.

Thought all the dinosaurs were extinct but still this lingering one-horned rhinosaur.


Bruce Beasley: And I know it’s not intended to sound that way, but every time I hear it I cringe because it sounds appalling. Keep your distance from everybody else. It’s everybody
for themselves. It sounds that way, even though I know that’s not how it’s intended.

And they’re like, “Are you sure?” And I’m like, “Oh, I’m sure, because I did it myself.”
Aimee Nezhukumathatil: And they also know Mommy doesn’t have the answers to everything. Mommy doesn’t always make the best choices about everything. (BREEZE SOUNDS.) But it is hard, you know. They have a lot of questions, of, “Mommy, when is this gonna be over? Why
are there no tests?” A lot of questions that I don’t have an answer to. And they’re not panicking, but I can see that they’re for the first time realizing, you know, kind of, Mommy and Daddy don’t have the answers and this is all brand new to everybody. And sometimes they’re not wondering at all about this virus stuff. Sometimes they’re wondering about the bluebirds that are nesting right now. (BIRD CHIRPS.) So that’s been kind of nice.

Laurel Salinas-Nakanishi: Technically we’re not supposed to go to the beach.

Amit Majmudar: So I’m very, very terrified of kind of bringing it home with myself. So when I go there, you know, even weeks ago, before the panic took hold everywhere, I was like the only guy in the whole hospital with, like, full gloves, full mask, you know, walking down the hallway. You know, in terror.

Aimee, are you also speaking in code?
Aimee Nezhukumathatil: You know, honestly, I’ve been reading the birds in the backyard, right now. They’re all coming back from wintering. And we have some bully birds coming through and trying to take over our bluebird nest.

Thought it was straw but bricks for that. Thought, the wind blows through.
Warns the tree.

Matthew Zapruder: Life right now is meetings about the best way that we’re gonna be able to do meetings. I mean….“It’s too Daddy for cold.”

Thomas Osatchoff, together with family, is building a self-sustaining home near a waterfall. Recent poems have appeared in Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Cold Mountain Review, CutBank Literary Journal, and elsewhere.     

Amy McCauley

Malady Nelson’s Kitchen Cabaret


i feel so connected to money money’s everywhere money’s nowhere
(congratulations on yr destruction)
i feel so connected to death death’s nowhere death’s everywhere
(congratulations on yr destruction)
i feel so connected to the internet the internet’s everywhere the internet’s nowhere
(congratulations on yr destruction)

congratulations on yr uterus (congratulations on yr destruction)
congratulations on yr womb (congratulations on yr destruction)
congratulations on yr reproductive orgasm (congratulations on yr destruction)

i feel so connected to privacy privacy’s everywhere privacy’s nowhere
(congratulations on yr destruction)
i feel so connected to god god’s nowhere god’s everywhere
(congratulations on yr destruction)
i feel so connected to collateral collateral’s everywhere collateral’s nowhere
(congratulations on yr destruction)

congratulations on yr fallopian tubes (congratulations on yr destruction)
congratulations on yr ovaries (congratulations on yr destruction)
congratulations on yr healthy relationship w/ intimacy (congratulations on yr destruction)


       mum mum swabs flesh holes
       mum mum wipes pus pus
       mum mum does dressing up like nurse


i have the problem of mum mum’s hub hub who makes me cry.
i have the problem of mum mum’s hub hub who makes me cry then softly softly touches my bum bum.
i have the problem of mum mum’s hub hub who makes me cry then softly softly touches my bum bum with unsanitary hands.
i have the problem of mum mum’s hub hub who makes me cry then softly softly touches my bum bum with unsanitary hands while mum mum makes nice hygiene.
i have the problem of mum mum’s hub hub who makes me cry then softly softly touches my bum bum with unsanitary hands while mum mum makes nice hygiene for neighbours.
i have the problem of mum mum’s hub hub who makes me cry then softly softly touches my bum bum with unsanitary hands while mum mum makes nice hygiene for neighbours who are distancing.
i have the problem of mum mum’s hub hub who makes me cry then softly softly touches my bum bum with unsanitary hands while mum mum makes nice hygiene for neighbours who are distancing who don’t deserve to die.
i have the problem of mum mum’s hub hub who makes me cry then softly softly touches my bum bum with unsanitary hands while mum mum makes nice hygiene for neighbours who are distancing who don’t deserve to die tell me what do i do.


       mum mum’s got head troubles
       mum mum’s got gooey
       mum mum’s got dum dum for hub hub


i am thirty nine years old i live with mum mum i feel so connected to god i squishy like god i orgasm like god.
i am thirty nine years old i live with mum mum she does BUM BUM with hub hub like people: people who don’t deserve to die.
i am thirty nine years old i live with mum mum i feel so connected to death i smell like death i taste like death.
i am thirty nine years old i live with mum mum she does GOOEY with hub hub like people: people of all ages.
i am thirty nine years old i live with mum mum i feel so connected to money i bluegreen like money i crazy like money.
i am thirty nine years old i live with mum mum she does PUS PUS w/ hub hub like people: people who were dying before.
i am thirty nine years old i live with mum mum i feel so connected to the internet i got head troubles like the internet i dressing up like the internet.
i am thirty nine years old i live with mum mum she does HYGIENE with hub hub like people: people who are dying.


       neighbours make nice hygiene
       neighbours of all ages
      neighbours use me to wipe bum bum, oh neighbours!

       neighbours do bum bum in window
       neighbours are distancing
       neighbours connected to neighbours, oh neighbours!

       neighbours make stock market crazy
       neighbours who don’t deserve to die
       neighbours go squishy squishy furnace, oh neighbours!


‘Congratulations on your destruction’ is a line taken from the poem ‘Killing Kanoko’ in Killing Kanoko / Wild Grass on the Riverbank (Tilted Axis Press, 2020) by Itō Hiromi and translated by Jeffrey Angles


Tony Iantosca

The Couch

The people I got
the couch from
live in a condominium,
drink cocktails
or something at the top
or on the balcony. The couch
was heavy and they didn’t
help carry it down
the stairs. It wasn’t
a problem, it makes
me better, the truck
was parked illegally.
Normally this is a
fact to be appreciated
and admired but in this
case it remained
boring. The flashing lights
off, I drove the truck
home. The couch then
revealed itself to be
stained and a bit faded
but quite comfortable
and most of all free
but for the ache
of my body for a few
days after. The condo
building is regrettably
still there, the couple
now married and maybe
with a newborn and probably
a newer and better couch,
but my new old couch
is still here and the aches
have migrated to other
bodies who move
things for other
reasons. The older I get,
the more reasons accumulate
to sit on a couch
and not work,
the older I get the more
couches pile up like
football players on the curb, taken
to a landfill by morning.

Seltzer Water

I have seltzer water
in the fridge. This
is a good thing: to
have seltzer in the
fridge. All are
dominated somehow
or another
to varying degrees
and it gets worse.
People get publicly
smashed but I have
seltzer water
in the fridge,
inside an apartment
where I live. The bubbles
help when I get sick
to my stomach.

tangential daylight

swell breeze
to its breaking
this is how fast
I lost a wire
pollen’s tangent
gathers a daylight
elegy and adds it
to the sad math
reducing movie hours
to a paycheck’s
daily salad green
where the air is
better than what
we get for poems
and intrigue
can I enjoy airline
inhale over espresso’s
polished lens
I brush failure’s
remaining hair
whisper of some
bullet nobody
likes to talk about

Not looking

I used to sleep
to fire’s special
purchase on whatever
commerce I thought
would stab the
world dead but then
the gates the fingers
did shatter
registered ancient
animal cries for
a responsible antonym
balancing the moon
so blindness could rent
some headspace
when we’re not looking
or looking something up
antagonistic to what
I really wanted
the electric sleep motel
stepped out
hosting the inner
tundra on this side
while the trains go
and the trains come
and the desires
rattle their own
hearts misspelling
my name on the way
to the bank

Tony Iantosca‘s poems have appeared in 6×6, a Perimeter, Lungfull!, and Third Factory, among other places. His first full-length collection, Shut Up, Leaves (United Artists Books) was published in 2015. His second book, To the Attic is forthcoming from Spuyten-Duyvil Publishing in fall 2020. He lives in Brooklyn, NY, where he also teaches writing at Kingsborough Community College (CUNY).

Zωή Σκλέπα . Zoe Sklepa

Κάτι παθαίνω όταν οι μέρες μακραίνουν

Ήξερα ένα παιδί που το έλεγαν «Κάκτο»
και δεν είχε ανάγκη κανέναν.
Ήταν ένα παιδί
που περνιόταν για τρελό.
Και δεν είπε ποτέ του τι θέλει.
Ριζωμένο πότε εδώ
πότε εκεί
να τραβάει λίγο φως
και για λίγο να τεντώνει το αγκάθια του.
Μια ζωή χωρίς λόγο
χωρίς απορίες.
Μια ζωή να ζητάει πάντα.
Δεν χάρισε πότε τον ίσκιο του.
Ανέγγιχτο και δύστροπο
δεν μπήκε ποτέ του στη θάλασσα.
Τη νύχτα κάρφωνε
το βλέμμα του στα σύννεφα.
Βλέμμα θριάμβου.
Ένα ψέμα. Συνήθεια.
Ήξερε τόσα λίγα.
Ήξερα ένα παιδί που το έλεγαν Κάκτο.
Δεν θα ζήσει πολύ
γιατί είναι ένας μαρκαδόρος της δεκάρας.

Something happens to me when the days get longer

I used to know a kid
whose name was Cactus and
never needed anyone.
That kid
was thought to be crazy
and never said what he wants.
He was rooted here and there
to get some light
and stretch his thorns for a while.
A life with no purpose,
no questions.
He kept asking for something throughout his life.
Always impatient.
He never offered his shadow.
Untouchable and crabbed,
he never entered the sea.
At night he kept his gaze
fixed on the clouds.
A gaze of glory.
A lie, a habit.
He knew so little.
I used to know a kid
whose name was Cactus.
He won’t live long
because he is a marker that costs a penny.



Η Zωή Σκλέπα αποφοίτησε από το ΤΕΙ της Αθήνας (τμήμα Νοσηλευτικής) και από την Ανωτάτη Σχολή Καλών Τεχνών της Αθήνας. Έχει συμμετάσχει σε ομαδικές εκθέσεις στην Ελλάδα και στο εξωτερικό συμπεριλαμβανομένου του Ιδρύματος Β & Μ Θεοχαράκη για τις Καλές Τέχνες και τη Μουσική (7η Μπιενάλε των Σχολών Καλών Τεχνών της Ελλάδος), του Μακεδονικού Μουσείου Σύγχρονης Τέχνης για το Kodra Fresh Action Field Kodra ”Χρειαζόμαστε έναν ήρωα: πολύτιμα θέματα σε πολύτιμους καιρούς” , της Γκαλερί TAF Theartfoundation / ”STUDIOS 2017”, του Μουσείου Ελληνικής Ενδυμασίας ‘’Ταξιδιωτικά σχόλια / σύγχρονοι περιηγητές”, των «The symptom projects/ Symptom 10/ ”Poisons” στην Άμφισσα και της APT Gallery / «Comfort Blast» ομαδικής έκθεσης στο Λονδίνο .

Zoe Sklepa graduated from the TΕΙ of Athens (Nursing Department) and from the Athens School of Fine Arts .She has participated in many group exhibitions including the B & M Theocharakis Foundation for Fine Arts and Music (7th Biennale of the Schools of Fine Arts in Greece), the Macedonian Museum of Contemporary Art for the Kodra Fresh Action Field Kodra / “We Need a Hero: valuable themes in valuable times” exhibition , the Gallery TAF Theartfoundation / STUDIOS 2017 , the Museum of the History of Greek Costume/ ”Tavelogues” exhibition , The Symptom Projects/ Symptom 10 /”Poisons” exhibition in Amfissa and the APT Gallery/ ”Comfort Blast” / Group Exhibition in London


Tracy Gaughan


When winter comes stalking
it clings to the rib of a tree.
An abandoned nest. A heart.
A rejection of myself by myself.
After the wind, I find it rolled up
in the sleeve of night, in the leaves.
A solid deep cup of lichen, spider-silk,
a length of blue yarn I pull like a worm
from the earth; trace back to the secrecy
of myself. I wait blind and helpless.
In a few hours, I will spread my wings.

Tracy Gaughan‘s poetry and short fiction have featured in The Blue Nib, The Bangor Literary Journal, Spillwords, Pendemic, and others. She recently completed an MA in International Literatures. She lives in Galway.

Anatoly Kudryavitsky


Blue cucumbers pause at turnpikes.
They can’t waltz any farther; they can only
yodel their discontent.
My financial advisor told me he grasped
a meaning to this. Like using the best lives
to create a proper life
(or shall we go primordial?)

Newspapers’ advice is vice.
Newspapers’ advice is, At any voltage,
be luminous.
Sounds bingo but newspapers
are not very luminous either.
Where can we hide our limitless thinking
if not behind a wall? And what do walls separate
if not different kinds of madness?

We flatten clay to make more clay.
Then we create an alloy of a hound and a mound,
a genius of grey (who is he allied to?)
The frankness of the fractional. One brain
that fits all…
Blue cucumbers pause at turnpikes.
And it all begins again…



A tapestry of your fingerprints on the dreampane…
Existence stems from its end.
It teas like coffee, a limited edition
of a wave-crimp, a patented crib taunt.
This sternum of yours, a roadblock
against obloquy.

Today I wear quarantine grey.
The sun whistles a star-college song,
somebody gets stapled to his CV.
This smily hotel, its gaping wi-fi hotspots.
Bring me the mothball necklace
of credulous warnings.

Crystals of vision promenade with masks on.
A cemetery tune: the earth is at its roundest
under the cross. Children’s Crusade ends
under the sands.
Would you prefer a wall of music
or the music of the walls?


A Hand-Shaped Reality

A part-time memory cell says yo
Enter the rambunctious ocean

I once was a knife making plans for human flesh
Now I am an agricultural romantic
See my garrison eyes?

You can discover a small approximation of the world
in every pigeon hole
Even in a cashmere goat, as no one
is too big for his corral
Hand-shaping a reality
is like driving through the Sonoran Desert
on banana tyres
and then burning them for the smell

A hand and a heart
pastures of electricity
Say a beam of light pursues me
say it with the moon


A Collage Has a Thousand Mouths

Yes, we knew that cats have a dozen eyes, but we
    never heard about matchstick horseracing.
We knew that politicians are cathedrals, but we’ve
    only just learned that mouths prefer solitary walks.
Go talk to the scissorman,
    to sperm flamingos.
Flap your headwings; tell this caterpillar dog
    all about leg space.
Hide your target face
    among spiderflowers.

Shadow, thy name is symmetry.
Gravity is overstretched.
You may think
a collage is an octogenarian,
but, in fact, it’s an octopus.
It hides its ink.


Ship of Fools

Find a storm in the tree
the devil in the ribbon
Check if the bottom
still keeps the abyss at bay

Remember: you’re not the captain
you are the captain’s captive
Your soul, rank grass
your day, eyeblend

The mad sail flaps
with a delayed collapse
Have a glass of ice peas
watch the bible boat downsize

These weak men of winter
their red-alarm noses

Anatoly Kudryavitsky lives in Dublin, Ireland, and in Reggio di Calabria, Italy. Between 2006 and 2009 he worked as a creative writing tutor for the Irish Writers’ Centre. His poems appear in Oxford Poetry, The Literary Review, Poetry Ireland Review, The Prague Revue, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Plume, The American Journal of Poetry, The Honest Ulsterman, Ink Sweat and Tears, Cyphers, The SHOp, Stride, Otoliths, etc. His latest (fifth) poetry collection is The Two-Headed Man and the Paper Life (MadHat Press, USA, 2019). His latest novel, The Flying Dutchman, has been published by Glagoslav Publications, England, in 2018. He is the editor of SurVision poetry magazine.

Daniel Whelan

Fiber Optic

Salaud! This system of gay abandon,
A crosshatch of switchblades and branded skin.
The gorgon eye does not choose at random,
Her silent witness, her fresh bloodless kin.

A crosshatch of switchblades and branded skin
Philtre Primavera in knotted sun.
Her silent witness, her fresh bloodless kin,
Molest the bandwidth wherein she is spun.

Filtered praestate in knotted sun,
Fucks through fiber optic, inviting those
Who molest the bandwidth, dopamine overrun,
To this rite of spring in binary clothes.

Look through fiber optic. Lo! I say. Lo!
Useless hagioscope, a useless cup.
In this rite of spring, binarily clothe,
The dogman finds he’s just run out of luck.

Covid Spring

Hard to place ourselves
‘tween the toilet paper diagnostic
Of the elderly dead,
Their pus-filled alveolar sacs
And the fecund feed.

Where the code’s made flesh
And the flesh made code.
Are you short of breath?
For the dope bell tolls.

While, talon upon branch,
The cherry blossom’s blooming bird
At the turn of this Covid Spring.


Cock young house sparrows incessant
Bookend poor mademoiselle
With gross dimorphism.
Golden tresses and a colour fair
Bless this Alpine lake.
Mec, gros, ferme ta gueule, frère.


Carrion crow
My carrion carcass
Hooded crow
Secrets understood
Happily ever after
The morning of the flood

Phoenix Park
For the lark
‘spite malignant Tuam
Same river
Never twice
Memory lost upon the loom

Daniel Whelan grew and developed as a musician and poet in the rural idylls of Southern Carlow, Ireland. In the foothills of Mount Leinster, he learned finger style guitar and developed his literary taste using the early 20th century as his portal. His writing style developed out of a stiff Catholic upbringing and an inherent desperation to outgrow its fettered approach to love, human nature and emotion. Now at a point of departure, he attempts, in poetry and song, to find a place for true human experience as the waves of the digital age encroach.

Clara Burghelea

Quarantine love

I hear time trickle alongside walls, ghost
fingers prying through the yawning door,
a splotch of red in the tall grass. Lichen
buds sprout inside the creases of the mind.

The thawing of your hunger fills the cheek
of the blue tit, my eyelids parched with light,
no tongue to smooth away the strips of silence.
Days in fossilized amber, lactic acid surplus

in the hissing of the rested limbs. Lopsided
want cradled in small places – a scab, white
of the eyes, lips of blueberry, map of the face.
This earth is quick with moist cartilages.

Έρωτας σε καραντίνα


Ακούω τις σταγόνες του χρόνου έξω από τους τοίχους, φαντασματικά
δάχτυλα να ψαχουλεύουν την ορθάνοιχτη πόρτα,
μια κόκκινη σταγόνα στο ψηλό γρασίδι. Ανθισμένες
λειχήνες ξεπετάγονται στις σχισμές του μυαλού.

Η πείνα σου λιώνει καλύπτοντας το μάγουλο της
γαλάζιας ρόγας, οι βλεφαρίδες μου ξηραίνονται στο φως,
δεν υπάρχει γλώσσα να λειάνει τις λωρίδες της σιωπής.
Οι μέρες απολιθωμένο κεχριμπάρι, γαλακτικό καυστικό πλεόνασμα

στον συριστικό ήχο των λυμένων μελών. Η επιθυμία γέρνει
και λικνίζεται σε επιμέρους τόπους – την κρούστα μιας πληγής, το λευκό
των ματιών, χείλη από blueberry, τον χάρτη του προσώπου.
Αυτή η γη δεν καθυστερεί στους νωπούς χόνδρους.

Clara Burghelea is a Romanian-born poet with an MFA in Poetry from Adelphi University. Recipient of the Robert Muroff Poetry Award, her poems and translations appeared in Ambit, HeadStuff, Waxwing, The Cortland Review and elsewhere. Her collection The Flavor of The Other is scheduled for publication in 2020 with Dos Madres Press. She is the Translation/International Poetry Editor of The Blue Nib.

This is a poem inspired by a current piece of news: https://abc7news.com/entertainment/love-is-quarantine-lets-users-date-online-without-seeing-each-other/6032819/ and informs on what love might feel like during confinement or when one of the partners is in quarantine.

coming soon : Experiencing the Radical Body

Please take a look at our crowdfunding campaign & help us send the “Experiencing The Radical Body” issue to the printer! Please note that there is NO private or public funding for cultural journals in Greece. That’s why your support is critical and appreciated!

As the poet, professor and critic, Chris Nealon, said: “A GLIMPSE OF gives a great picture of developments in writing and visual art, from the perspective of one of the many ongoing austerity crises around the world.”

A) GLIMPSE) OF) took part in the second edition of the Printing Plant Art Book Fair in Amsterdam (2019), and in the first edition of the Athens Art Book Fair (2019).

The “Experiencing The Radical Body” is edited by Dimitra Ioannou and Rebecca Wilcox. It features new

• poetry by Vahni Capildeo, Sasha Dugdale, Katie Ebbitt, Anna Gurton-Wachter, Lotte L.S., Mira Mattar, So Mayer, Diana Manesi, Amy McCauley, Gizem Okulu, Eleanor Perry, Vassiliea Franck-Lee Alli-Tis Stylianidou, Rebecca Wilcox, yarrow yes woods

• prose by Stephanie Young
• artworks by Caroline May, and Nana Sachini
• a Narrative in Progress by Eva Moreda

• columns by Louisa Doloksa, Kyriaki Goni, and Dimitra Ioannou
and more!

You may also preorder the issue on our site: https://aglimpseof.net/paper-aglimpseof-4/


Kara Goughnour

Death & Taxes

Death and taxes sit on a tiled line in tin basins.
A man holds them up to explain the difference,
wiggling each like to wriggling slabs of meat.
Death, he explains, is deep red and spices,
while taxes have pink and white polka dots of fat.

The man is like a balding father, cooing above
a strung mobile, dancing for a young thing that
doesn’t give a shit other than shit itself. He packs
onions into the circular ruts of his dull eyes to cry
at graves he dug himself.

He is a jolting frizz of blonde hair on a crotch rocket,
“Gas or Ass” stickers black out the back of the metallic helmet,
a leather jacket from Target over his embroidered polo and khakis.
I imagine him with black t-shirts under polo Superman style.

Deep v-necks with bold letters spelling out
“my bike isn’t the only thing that can go from zero to one-hundred,”
or maybe even “badass” stamped across flabby chest.
He says your womanly instincts say you don’t want birth control, really.

He says this spinach is the best health insurance you’ll ever see.
He folds the meat into a neat sandwich, force-feeds me one fighting bite at a time.

Wives of Spiders

The man at work who tells you
you need to smile more only has
the best of intentions. How degrading

must a joke be before a customer can touch or punch
your work-weaned arm? How many
more unsolicited opinions of what

constitutes as work and how your work
doesn’t fall into those categories
before you get your fifty-cent raise,

before you can stop considering
instant ramen a luxury?

In this arm, you hold everything wrong with yourself
in the eyes of others; this pliable straw, like a coffee stirrer
brewing the blood in your arm with the inability for life.

You, this jewel of Clotho, this tarantula-womb of life spewing from you
endless threads of clotted possibilities and you have the audacity to burn it dry

          because you are career-focused,
          because you are stopping this lineage, proudly,
          because you are not woman enough, no, don’t want to be woman enough to bear life.

You, this daytime drinker, this shit-faced, sky-faced, head-in-the-clouds thinker
of thoughts such as writing should be work.
How many more times do you write yourself out

of this life sized up with unsolicited eyes
before you write yourself out of it
or write yourself out of yourself?

Kara Goughnour is a queer writer and documentarian living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They received their Bachelor’s Degree in Creative and Professional Writing from The University of Pittsburgh. They are the recipient of the 2018 Gerald Stern Poetry Award, and have work published or forthcoming in Third Point Press, the Southampton Review, and over twenty-five others. Follow them on Twitter @kara_goughnour or read their collected and exclusive works at karagoughnour.com.

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


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.