L Kiew





amid the petioles
engorged and pink

to the rain striking
a timpani of leaf-blades

my eardrums
itch after that slither
adder crowning the rhubarb

its hissing
wire-brushes my cochlea
crimson stalks



A chinese-malaysian living in London, L Kiew earns her living as an accountant. Her poems have been published in Butcher’s Dog, Ink Sweat and Tears, Lighthouse, Obsessed with Pipework, Tears in the Fence, The Scores and The North.

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Jim Bennett




had a disaster with mu k-uboard

por-d coff– in th- cracks
now it sits and dri-s out slowl-u
whil- I work out what it lacks
it won’t do th- l-tt-r
b-tw–n  x and z-d
in alwaus typ-s a u inst-ad
and th- vow-l that sits b-tw–n d and f
is just compl-tl-u d-ad

i’ll tru to continu-
and writ- a po-m
but as words k–p r-aranging
I want to writ-
Sallu but it turns into Sallu
as th- l-tt-rs just k–p changing




Jim Bennett  is the author of 74 books, including books for children, books of poetry and many technical titles on transport and examinations. His most recent collection is The Cartographer / Heswall  (Indigo Dreams 2013).  He has won many awards for his writing and performance including 3 DADAFest awards. He is also managing editor of www.poetrykit.org one of the worlds most successful internet sites for poets.



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Helen Pletts




The Monster London Fatberg

Hi, Berg here. Call me Fats.
I slug-slither with the rats; creep-crawl, clog up the tunnel.
City-cloy the disposables; white, non-perishable, two-hundred and fifty metres, –
consistency unmentionable.
There’s no green, blue, or black bin big enough for me
No sack to hold this lard-fest in check. Flushed it all away,
you thought it was gone forever, – the dirty nappy, those wet wipes, last night’s condom,
the dribble-congeal of the Sunday roast. You fed our sewers
with the residue of the animals of the world; as walking processors,
where the pipe goes nobody knows but I’ve collected it all
and now I am set-in as newfound ingesting-geography
for the fleeting pink feet of rodents
with my off-white, sog-stuffed, bilious peaks.

There are days when I feel beautiful, powerful, wasticus maximus
when I grow another stretch of gunk beneath Hackney,
maybe you’ve smelt me ? through a blow-hole on your way to work
my strench running parallel to the Metropolitan tube.
You don’t have ownership of your waste, it’s mine now; see me grow
bulge and suffocate the flow of excrement with tampons, toilet paper, cotton wool, hair
and finger nails; cotton buds in amongst the rats tails. Quick-creep my furry
livers ‘n breathers, mould me with your tiny feet, breathe my sweat; engage me.
The sewage treaters are coming for my heart and soul to a-boil me for fuel for London’s
big red buses. Catalytic-calmed you will no-longer smell me as I hot-foot it up The Mall,
wearing tidy chemicals.




Helen Pletts (www.helenpletts.com ) whose two collections, Bottle bank and For the chiding dove, are both published by YWO/Legend Press (supported by The Arts Council) and available on Amazon. ‘Bottle bank’ was longlisted for The Bridport Poetry Prize 2006, under Helen’s maiden name of Bannister. Working collaboratively on Word and Image with Romit Berger, illustrator, since 2012.

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Gregg Dotoli





Always Yours

like red paint
to the old barn
closer to you I am
as stars to night
and ivy to rock
closer to you i am
when or where
I’m forever there




Gregg Dotoli studied English at Seton Hall University and enjoys living in the NYC area. He is a white hat hacker, but his first love is the Arts.

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Dennis Tomlinson




the clouds
are a mountain range
across the sky
close to me
a plum tree
with cloven trunk
the last tree
to blossom
your white flowers
are dancing
in defiance
the black clouds
spit their rain
ever harder
but to us,
brothers and sisters,
it is life
Dennis Tomlinson has had many poems published in Blithe Spirit, Lunar Poetry, Time Haiku, other small magazines and anthologies and on the websites Ink, Sweat and Tears and Shot Glass Journal, inter alia. He lives in London

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Jonathan Humble




On The Road To Samaria

In these shoes,
I negotiate life in the third person;
toes swathed in top quality calfskin,
safe from random shit and shards,
where neither grass nor paved path
can sully these soft arches and soles.

I wear these suits;
an actor avoiding the fourth wall,
costumed and painted with lines learnt,
senses fenced off with silk and cashmere,
any truthful light blocked by scenery.

I drive these cars;
cosseted in high-end second skin caskets,
hermetically sealed and sheltered from rain,
all shocks absorbed and sins absolved,
reality suspended for the duration.

In front of these screens,
I casually exploit worlds lived separately,
salving conscience with painless gestures,
shifting small sums with gift aided texts,
untouched by the sweat of first person lives;

always remembering to give openly,
while keeping a record for tax purposes.






Jonathan Humble is a teacher in Cumbria. His poetry has appeared in IS&T, Obsessed With Pipework, Clear Poetry, Amaryllis, Riggwelter, Atrium, Three Drops Press, Burning House Press, Zoomorphic, Fairacre Press, EyeFlash and on BBC Radio.

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