after Kristen de Kline

dreams wake me
before the alarm
most mornings

they are the current
jolts my spine
special delivery

sparks jump synapses
blur images to manifest
what seems the speed of light

they run around
the waking mind
just these few moments

die down before
my pen can cage
them into words

retreat to back
of head, yet still may
leap up unexpected later

Timothy Edmond #3


Empirical evidence.

I think I have worn

these jeans too long –

the meetings I had today all

finished early.

Must clean teeth.

But the things I

have done in these jeans.

Must piss.

Tomorrow I will swim

in the ocean

have a hair cut

and put on clean clothes.

Must fix tap.

Everyone is going to bed

but I am still up.

The Japanese invaded

Singapore on bicycles.

Pythagoras said no


The wind has come up.

I think a change is

coming through.

I hope I can

get up and bring the

clothes in before it


Tomorrow was my

sleep day.

I think I will happily

lie in bed and listen to

the rain fall, with all

the windows open.

No one knows I’m here.

They think I am asleep.

I will go to bed soon

So I can get up and

make things better.


I still have a lot to

do; maybe I will eat.

Go for a walk, smoke.

Eat a tin of tuna

a tin of mixed beans and a

banana and then to morrow

I will be fit to work.

Hunger and cold

motivates us.

I will eat and then sleep in

an elevated bed.

If I sit very still

in my swivel chair

no one will notice


The cool change promised

is here now with it’s

winter blades.

Sydney is a suburb

of London.

martyr 3

Dylan Jones #33 Noisy F minor

Allison Morris #2 ‘Empties’

I wake,
slick-eyed and sore,
and find books strewn around me
like empty bottles.
I went too hard last night,
sculling sentences–
whole paragraphs–
cracking a new chapter
almost before
I’d finished the last one.
No way
could I have driven home.

Chris Mansell #30 he is worried

Lucy Alexander #64 ‘If prose is a house, poetry is a man on fire running quite fast through it.’ – Anne Carson, October 2016.

the man is a smokescreen

combustible his flaming hair confrontation

grappling for water is he breathing that fire? is he

turning to paper? are his words vapour ?

the pages of his skin the ashy flecks the light pours out of him

word’s own headings the font of his footsteps

hastening the clack of his feet like fingers on keys,

rattle of breath, the fire leaping from him

is he breathing those flames? is he eating that heat?

fat spattered walls skin sizzling

the house is akimbo and flailing

how is its rambling rooms now?

the chapters of its presence redundant

now aflame, now just fuel

now the dream of the burning man

running quite fast, is he fast enough?

is he breathing in that stench of

arching sentences soaring themes the ounces of

time worn words clasped in covers that are

on fire now shrivelling under the poem man’s glare?

and still he is moving and flaring and his eyes

are the stuff of legend and his smoke smells of

elegant curlicues phrases unbent and scorched

shriveled into single words while the house

topples, like a horse to its knees and there it

whistles and keens while the man runs on

his hair like volcano is he breathing? how is he moving

through volumes of smoke? and out of the structure

lighting the world, flicking ash out behind him

down the stairs down the bombshell building

the smokescreen of his figure leaps see him there

arc in the sky a sunset orange

a spot too bright too watch for long

throws himself into the arms of the sky

who holds him shaking and murmuring

until he burns out and the rushing over

sleeps dark sleep of the lost and the broken

until the next poem.

Cui Yuwei 24#–lotuses

Cui Yuwei 24#–lotuses


lotuses in the pond

distract her, high heels

sounding down the stone path

under her lacy tunic

rosy petals

toss of her hips

she, an over ripe

lotus flower

smells raw












Kristen de Kline #24 – Thought wrong

Thought wrong

thought you’d be there every birthday
he’s your boy
thought you’d be there
imagined he’d be here


it’s not the cake and candles you miss
he’s over all that at seventeen don’t treat me like a kiddie
the tearing of wrapping paper saying bows and ribbons are a waste of time and money
kisses interrupted by phone calls texts messages
the knotting of the school tie and throwing on the blazer
charging out the door, says he’s going to miss the bus
the beer on tap he chooses at the Red Lion
good choice, I like James Squire too
the way he says: I learnt it in legal studies I can order a drink if I’m with my folks I learnt it in legal

thought you’d be there
imagined he’d be here


Michele Morgan #297 kotare

all gnomic wisdom
cannot hold
our small falls from flight

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