Christian Wethered





Sometimes you can ride it, like in Texas when
you put your foot down and we flew, the screen
and mirrors all enveloping, sucking and flapping
the horizons in its corners, and then just for a few
minutes we were the vanishing point as desert stretched
and bended and we were weirdly still in the centre,
the constant motion and suspense, the sheer possibility
of it all in a perfect cycle, our wheels spinning still



Christian Wethered, 29, works in London as a freelance tutor and musician. He was a finalist in the Aesthetica Creative Works competition and the Decanto Poetry Competition. He has also been published in The Penwood Review and The Caterpillar.

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Louise Warren


Re-stringing the Boy

It takes hours. We move from socket to socket
unknotting his spine, the droop in his shoulders,
those loose dangling hands.

The way he came on stage the other day, just slumped in,
hardly lifting his head. I had to jerk the main string
tighter and tighter until he almost cracked.

One by one we cut the threads, untie him ,
until he is free of us, our meddling fidgeting hands.
If he could, if he had a soul, he could walk out right now

But someone carved him into shape,
invented the colour of his eyes, that same unchanging expression
blank as a reflection cast in a puddle, forget him,

he cannot make himself happen, it is all in your imagining,
he is nothing without our breath, see how he drags his bones now.




Louise Warren has been widely published in magazines . Her first collection ( A child’s last picture book of the Zoo) and pamphlet (In the scullery with John Keats) are both published by Cinnamon Press. She lives in London.

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Brett Evans




Sloth on Fine Dining

Sloth’s favoured position for eating
is legs above head – not his own legs, of course –
and being the slothiest of sloths he’ll lunch
at the laziest of leisure; a real underachiever.

Accomplishing more than fool-sloths,
whose tongues are prized as mere limbs
obtaining tasteless leaves beyond their can’t be arsed
reach, Sloth revels in the rainforest-wet of his reward;

lapping up all he needs to nourish fruitless days.
And don’t be duped to think that starburst effect
cunted down thighs, up spine, out to tips of digits,
or any echoed cries from the canopy above enough

to lull Sloth into some nuzzled slumber. He’s more
than awake, face already tucked into his second course.





Brett Evans lives, writes, and drinks in his native north Wales. Brett’s debut pamphlet, The Devil’s Tattoo, is available from Indigo Dreams. he is also co-editor at Prole

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Julia Stothard




Nothing Broken

Something was always crooked, off-true,
I’d cut out across town in rain
that never got through, but weighed me down.

There was always a glass slipper I couldn’t fill;
cold floors beneath stockinged feet,
lifeless layers of damp peeled off

for evenings filled with forbidden faces,
eyes the colour of make-believe –
touch, the static brush of fairy dust

and the white queen of my reflection,
blemished by a distance only ever halved.
Staring out from this happily-ever-after

I’d succumb to the chromatic scale of evening;
starless, moonless; leaking sighs
and ever so slightly descending.

Igniting it all in sleep, I’d choke and burn
then wake to find
nothing was really broken.





Julia Stothard is a data report writer & analyst working for an FE college in Surrey. Her poems have appeared in iota, South, Orbis, Weyfarers and IS&T. She posts micropoetry @TerzaVerse on Twitter.

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Susan Taylor




for Steve

To appreciate how the sky came down into the room
and lifted me up into blue, you’d have had to be there,
inside my head, where all of the good things I’ve said
about your calling happen spontaneously.

This time, all those gifts come on me at once,
so I cannot speak properly of it. I land,
lightly, like a dandelion seed that has flown very high
on her circular white parachute of silk.

How this happens is beyond recall, even if I speak
in this language passably close to other worlds.
I chose to go alone to a bench in your shady garden
and people came to sit very close to me, and silent.





Susan Taylor‘s collection Temporal Bones was published by  from Oversteps Books in summer  2016. She is collaborating with partner in poetry, Simon Williams, – and others – on a small flight of poetry shows touring literature festivals this year.

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HR Creel




To Us All

a message
from loudspeaker
onto our waiting ears

tells us all
welcome, come inside,
come as you are

but when we enter
they begin taking
us apart

offering us new clothes
and figures.





HR Creel is getting too old not to write.  His work has been featured at I Am Not A Silent Poet.

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