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
I dislike being picked up
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
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
Maybe I don’t crave permanence
so much as another idea
intimacy an anchorage
that I am trying to dispel
I lean late
To contemplate clean
There’s a lot
With this old thread of recollection
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
I wrote a list
Marked the calendar
Checked the ground
Eulogized a little
About the dainty
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.
Pep talk with Father
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
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.
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.
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).
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.
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
&   &from New Orleans
copy-paste my mind needs citalopram placebo effects
smoking gives a boost   & 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.
it is pure gold the satin oil on god’s fingers, the little devils trotting towards us
good grief you go go
go get clean the whole
/ ’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
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.