S Black




the same old same old
and the paper cut barely
scratches the surface


visions of jesus
at the midnight station
the last train is first


security lights
now giving the star treatment
to wisteria


above kfc
red kites
on the fly




illegally parked
in the sun
there is a dog
in a car


S Black: Other indulgences may be found at the likes of Message in a Bottle, Screech Owl and Dogear. West country born and bred, now residing near Reading.

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Lucas Chib




Charon Drives a Yellow Taxi in Gaza   

the cabbie suddenly thrust in the role of Charon
is now burdened
with transporting to paradise
the soul of a passenger that dies before
she can tell him her destination
but there is a problem, he doesn’t know the way
he circles around the edges of this city of shelled ruins
stopping at every light to ask for directions
to where no one is sure exists. In the end, after a futile attempt
to find a place
that is nowhere on the map, he surrenders to the saintly voice
of the GPS guiding him further down
highways to nowhere
until at some point, when it gets him to
the edge of a cliff,  it says jump … he drives on
deeper into the formless shapeless endless unknown
following the lights
that keep coming up in the horizon then fading…


Lucas Chib: His poetry has appeared in Glasgow Review of Books and Sentinel Literary Quarterly.  He has worked at a refugee camp, collaborated on and edited screenplays,  managed the creative production wing an art publishing company. He currently lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

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Sue Birchenough



I’m bed

I’m bed
not wardrobe with my back against the wall

ladle not fork
breast stroke not crawl
lintel not brick
flagpole not vault
sweetcorn not wheat

I would like to meet a man    for swimming,
visits to ikea,
prefers public buildings to a pub (lol)
and is looking to buy a cottage    in a year or two

gluten intolerance   would be a plus


Sue Birchenough has been writing poems for about 4 years. She lives in Buxton, and regularly gets to poetry workshops, events, and readings in Manchester – occasionally in London, too. She has poems in the English PEN Catechism anthology, the Peter Barlow’s Cigarette No Spy Zone anthology, and the forthcoming Like This Press Austin, Bronte, and Shakespeare anthology. In 2012 and 2013 she was shortlisted in the Erbacce poetry prize.

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Matthew Friday




Butterfly Landing

and she panics away.
Sit still. So.
Be a karst hill,
unmoving time
and wait
for her panting wings
to slow, slow.
This is a special trust
or she mistakes your
leg for a flower.
Either way,
you are blessed
by this silken
gift. Her probing
piece kisses
you a thousand
thanks. She is so
delicate, a single
word could snap
up the orange bands
on her velvet brown
wings and
her flying back
into the breath
of the wind.




Matthew Friday is a writer, professional storyteller and primary school teacher. By all means check out the results at:www.matthewfriday.com

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Rob Yates



Encountered a man

‘And I, too, used to carve and serve up
great failures for myself
in youth,’
said the old flapping man.
I met him on a bus
throttling ourselves south to stay warm.
I had bundled sorrowfully
into a corner hoping for silence and majesty
when this tale-teller
accosted me in peace and forced my ears,
‘I, too, have gazed at that frost…’
(indeed, it was cold on the fields)
‘… and shuddered.’
I dozed amidst his talk,
he cawed like all men do,
I was just a tired old bird like him,
dozed and clucked and dozed.




Rob Yates is moving through South-East Asia trying to make his money stretch. He has just finished a first novel, entitled Trumbling Grandsire.

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Nadia Kingsley





You’d have thought
that my journeying

from Telford to London
would be enough time

to read these poems
to darn a jumper

to stare out the window; but
between the announcements

the ticket inspection
the dark-light of tunnels

the loud conversations
the fast-moving humans

our slowing at stations;
all I have managed

is a few short emails, and to watch a man with thick black moustache:
A luggage-rack reflection, he eases off a tinfoilcover, spoons,

with love, the cherry yoghurt, to his lips,
avoiding drips on to suit,

pale pink shirt and, instead of a tie, a thing
whose name escapes me but it hangs like a ribbon, holding his identity.

Once scraped clean, pot put away in Tupperware, tangerine untouched.
It strikes me, later, at a party, where a man is talking lanyards; that

perhaps too, I was watched – with tilted head, and upturned eyes; and
how the train had wrapped us all, like segments in an unpeeled orange.




Nadia Kingsley is a poet and publisher. She is currently collaborating on an Arts Council England funded performance : e-x-p-a-n-d-i-n-g THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE IN 45 MINUTES, in a mobile planetarium dome. http://www.fairacrepress.co.uk/

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Roy Moller




And him with his track record -
he should have known to leave school left,
not tag back to the party
on third-hand word of hi-jinks,

an ex-prefect break-in
unlocking the Botanics
for hothouse booze and maybe things
might get a little steamy.

Fully-clothed, he tumbles past
lily pads and sabulous fish;
the fearty swimmer selected
for propelling off the edge.


He should have understood himself
as marked for special treatment
the day they pissed his pacamac
down the poolside toilet.


The awkward lad’s foreign name
had earned him a punch in the belly
as Swimming followed History,
Great War reverberations:

Your granddad kilt my granddad.
But the name is Danish. And why
did you group-gob on my blazer?
They tellt you were adopted.




Edinburgh-born Roy Moller lives in Dunbar, with his wife and son  He is working on his first collection, Imports, to be published by Appletree Writers in December.   Twitter: @RoysterMoller

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