2024 – Spring


Author: William Flores

Atchoom! With the start of Spring
My allergies start to ring
And yet I rejoice, for not before long
We shall embrace
Of that I am sure, it cannot go wrong
At our designated place

Atchoom! As Helios grows stronger
Zoom! Is our place no longer
Powered by electric spark
I’ll come home to continue our arc
Baby, your arms are my safe port
To be with you feels like a resort

Sunscreen we shall apply
And make love until we die

2024 – Spring

August confessionals.

Author: M.W


Do you know what Taylor?
I get it.
I need to know if it’s chill
That she’s in my head.
Because I’ve been to this well before
And the water I pulled up
Was not nearly clean.

And in pouring it down the other one’s throat
I drowned them in could have been.


I wonder if I should stop this —
Writing about us.
How many autopsies
Can you carry out
On a three month old
Killed by your own neglect
Before trying to resuscitate it.

As if, were it alive,
You would escape the inferno
of your guilt.


Muggy, nearly suffocating September evenings.
Two dead birds decomposing on the concrete.
“This has come before, it will come again.
And then, surely it will end.”

The tepid bathroom tiles do not answer me.

2024 – Spring

Three mirrors.

Author: M.W


if we spoke we lied
the truth was false too
i needed to see my reflection in your eyes
if we saw delphie s oracle she would tell us what is not and it would become tell me i
will become i will i promise


It came upon me like the heart of an oncoming storm
Or a vision of a fate like death
That if you saw the woman in my mirror
You would not know who she was.
If you saw the woman that I am
In the privacy of my own mind
You would understand her no more than you understood
The slim facets of her you glimpsed that summer.


There is no heaven here, nor salvation.
In the cold tomb of the Capulets.
There was none neither in your arms
Only dead birds, limp feathers.

The flesh beneath the scab is only ever half healed.
You never let it scar.
You don’t want to find another heart to fidget with,
And find yourself at the end of the summer with twice as many scared arms.

An old woman will pick up a ruined doll from a playground at dusk,
She will cradle the young thing’s face.
Wipe away the bootprint stains
And give it back some grace.

2024 – Spring

I Just Want to Forget

Author: Claire Trotti

I just want to forget
The dazzling sky
Interspersed with clouds I ignored
I think there was a meadow
A pond filled with lilies 
And distant pine trees

But I cannot recall
The sun’s caress
The soil’s touch
The lilies’ perfume
The trees’ height 

Was the pond emerald
Or sapphire?
I don’t know
I just remember the tempest
The pain of leaving

Burnt by the blaze’s breath
And bathed in the sky’s tears
I reached home
Rocking between the wish to remember
And the urge to forget

I liked this place
Picnicing on the grass
Bathing in the waters
Sleeping on the moss
But I want to forget
This scorched earth.

2024 – Spring

Lunar Love

Author: Claire Trotti

O iridescent Moon
I’ve been drinking your pale gleams
Sucking every drop
of your giant whiteness
I want you full

You irradiate my sunless sky
We are alone together
I envy the stars
Cos they seem so close to you

We cannot touch
Nor can them
But at least they dazzle you

I’m no celestial lover
Just a light dreamer
Let me befriend the heron
And forget my lunar projections.

2024 – Spring


Author: Mel Riverwood

This room has no windows.

The walls encased, close, digging into one another
With the painful persistence of something man-
made to stand but which wishes it could crumble.

They are naked at places, scraps where the skin-coloured wall-
paper detaches from where nails have dug into it. 
There is more paper underneath.

Even the floor is papered, dirtied, rolls of it bouncing out of position
Like flowers rooted in the soil of a scabbing forest.

A table, in one corner. A skinning knife, blade sitting
Innocent on an edge.

There must be a door somewhere.

I pick up the knife.
Yes, surely there must be one.
I walk to the first wall, raise the pained blade,
Pressing the flat of my thumb against its side
As an executioner would guide a death-sentenced to the noose
And together they slide under the piece of loose
And pull upwards.

It tears, scarlet sap pearls from underneath and slides as a solid tear at my feet.
I ignore it.
I was taught about the inconsistency of pain and the irrelevance of echoes.

There is no door under that part.
I raise my hand again.

Soon my feet stick to the petals on the floor and in walking around
Wall to wall
I pull them off and along.
The glue covers my fingers, stuck the knife to my hand
But the door is still hidden, 
Though it must be there.
It must be.

I cannot think of anything except the word ‘escape’.

And then the room is covered in pieces of paper and drenched, 
In wallpaper-
Glue that sticks to my eyes as I scour every corner
In search of a frame.

I lay down the skinning-knife.

I have torn every possible layer,
And the last pieces hung high,
And I did not bother to wonder
If they would hold on much longer,
Or when they would fall.

There was no door.
Skinning the walls of my room had only made them bleed.

Perhaps the door is underneath my skin.

I pick up the knife again.

2024 – Spring

Extinction Gardening, Vol. 2

Author: Manuel Ferrazzo

The Last Flood

There is a house beside the sea,
Overlooking the shore. 
The waves come crashing on the sand,
Replacing each grain,
One by one. 

Each day, the waves climb the hill a little higher. 
Soon enough, they will lick the walls of the house,
And finally, its wooden boards will soak up and rot,
Until the water comes pouring inside.

The foundations of the house will collapse on themselves,
And the roof will come crashing down on our heads.
Yet, we will not move. 
Yet, we look the other way.

Because the other way, away from the waves,
The sun dances over the hills,
Promising treasures beyond our wildest dreams.

So when the waves come,
We will not see them.
We will only sink with our house,
Helpless and confused.

The Voice of Asphalt

The sky closes as dark-grey clouds
eat the blue of Heaven.
Thunder roars, and, as you look up,
a raindrop lands in your eye.
You blink; it’s raining.

Falling in torrents,
the water soaks you,
and the asphalt too.
The warm fumes of
the wet streets
caress your nostrils,
the perfume of pollution
intoxicating you.

A man runs to shelter in his house.
A stray dog walks under a wooden plank.
The homeless just let the rain run on their skins. 
The asphalt doesn’t mind either.

Every droplet, the tears of a cold, drunk universe,
wash the dreams away to leave you naked
in the echoes of hope that inexplicably linger
in the cracks in the streets.
You blink; it’s still raining. 

The wind roars between the tall buildings,
whispering stories to the forgotten.
The city speaks. You must listen.


Those hidden between the cracks in the pavement
can hear the soul of the city.
But now, it is quiet.
Just the rain.

The cars hum and screech.
The gunshots sing.
The sky does not care.
The city takes the wounds without a word. 
Only those hidden can decipher its silence.

You hear the thunder.
You feel the cold wind caress you.
A few drops of water hang on your chin.
You blink; the rain has stopped.

Boredom as Religion

the light on my face
is like a spooky story
but there’s nobody to listen
or look

it’s the only light in the room
it hurts my eyes
it isn’t the sun
yet it is

endless threads
ariadne would get lost
i get lost too
but I feel in control

images of double-speak snakes
they have the loudest voice
they have the whole world
they want to kill
they want to fuck

I want to kill

I want to fuck

i feel miserable.

a coward can’t kill
he just orders it
we obey

i obey

the light on my face
it lights up an invisible world
a parasitic world
i close my eyes
time to sleep

death of the voice of asphalt

life was just a mushroom cloud away.
divine wind dusts the City.

there is nothing left. 
no memories. no life.

ashes dance in the air,
rest upon the old houses.

the ones that remain.
the ones that break down, still.

no need for a graveyard
when the whole world is an urn.

the final ascension of the human spirit :: the face of god

Rust settles in.
I should be in pain.
I should feel old.

I am old.
Older than death.
Older than god.

Eternal life is ours.
We should feel like gods.
We should feel.

A brain of wires,
a mind of data,
a heart of metal.

We wear the face of god.
We war the way of nature.
We have become all.

We have become nothing.
A stream of data,
in a server slowly losing power.

Our achievements have scarred the earth.
And now, living as ghosts,
we have finally found our master.

The face of god
is a cum-stained plastic mask.
The face of god
is a chrome-steel plate.
The face of god 
is as lively 
as a graveyard.

the earth weeps

The world has grown quiet
Miles away the earth weeps
Looking at the corpses of skyscrapers

The Voice of Asphalt is silent
Her monument is an urban tombstone
Brother sky is blue again
The sun is smiling
But there is no life to light again

So the earth weeps
The ruins like fungi
On her body the mark
Of an abuser
A lover
A tenant
A friend
A nobody
A child
long gone.

The Road to Healing :: An Epilogue

When the godhead stops dreaming,
you will look at the world
and ask yourself:
why can’t I be happy?

The road ahead is tumultuous.
A broken path on a broken land,
infected by disease,
slowly dying,
yet, still here.

Do you wonder what is the place for you?
Where you belong?
You are here. Already here.
This is somewhere to be.
Under the rain, the silence and the fumes,
in the mists of your mind.
A face, in a crowd.
You’re still here.
You’re still alive.

You will heal.
You will love.
You will live.

This world, this life,
was never for us,
but it doesn’t mean it can’t be.
One day, I will be back at your side.

While the long, slow apocalypse is upon us,
we can still greet it with a smile,
laugh at the face of trauma,
embrace one another
while we all dance into Armageddon.

2024 – Spring

Blooming Sea

Author: Sabine Weyermann

As Adichie says: “your hands through
each other’s hair, his soft and yellow 
like the swinging tassels of growing corn.”

… and there are the hidden ladybirds on your arm,
the bumblebee, lost in wild flowers,
the quiet joy in your laugh.

The softness of the yarn on your shoulders,
and those ones over me, moving like tidal waves,
before I see the impact of water crashing
in your eyes. 

There is light, and there is Spring,
I hear the horses at the station for the first time,
it makes me grin, a fragment of you in my life, 
that cannot be withdrawn.

I smile, I kiss you goodbye, as it is stolen, too few,
but there, I smile, still full of that shock darkening
your eyes,
at that very moment the surge broke on the rocks, 
and I’m wishing you good night.

…but my hand in your hair says
Stay, let us navigate the rising tide again.

2024 – Spring

My heart in my throat

Author: Andreia Abreu Remigio

Our first kiss happened in the dark,
In a twin-size bed in early October.
Love hits at first sight – lightning strikes a spark.
That Wednesday night, had we been sober,
You wouldn’t be longing for white tulip and barley now,
And I wouldn’t be lying in bed naked,
Practicing my vows.

Rain drops from the night and tears from your cheeks.
We drag our hearts through Vienna streets,
Through your childhood home. The floor creaks.
Two things rise and morning creeps under the sheets.
And even when the moon turned green,
You kissed my angered wound; you kissed it clean.

I know the secrets clasped between your blooms,
Twinkling eyes and tipsy, so we kiss in bathrooms.
Closed eyes and consuming, so we kiss again.
We make out and follow wandering hands…
And I make out every hushed and hurried love note.
We make out and I can feel my heart in my throat.

Our last kiss happened under runway lights,
In an airport terminal in early October.

2024 – Spring

Crowd-sourced poetry

Authors: collective

Students in Kirsten Stirling’s MA seminar “Poetry and Public Life in Scotland” were discussing the Scottish national poet Kathleen Jamie’s outreach projects of crowd-sourced poetry. Jamie asked the people of Scotland to submit one line on a particular theme (the first theme was the environment) and then she “curated” the lines into poems. In the last 20 minutes of the seminar we experimented with crowd-sourced poetry on a smaller scale. Everyone in the class wrote one line (or in some cases two…). The theme was what we could see from the window in the classroom. Then the class split into two groups to “curate” the same lines, and the result was the two poems (two versions of one poem?) below.


Ten glasses full of hopeful colours;
Squared, bright, one eye can settle on the night.
Morbid branches and dancing green
Like octopuses and jellyfish waltzing in a grey, grey ocean.

The parking lot, buried in trees, covered in leaves
Shade the cars with their new summer gowns.
A trickle of shattered harmonies
Gentle movements, arise
The silent song of these sweet green fans
The windows filter out the sound.

Smells like rain, the prettiest green, fades to grey
I long for coffee, let me join that tall tree
Where are the birds, I said. Gone on a trip, they said.
Two windows for them to see.

Ten glasses full of hopeful colours;
Squared, bright, one eye can settle on the night
A trickle of shattered harmonies
Gentle movements, arise
Two windows for them to see
The silent song of these sweet green fans.

Morbid branches and dancing green
Like octopuses and jellyfish waltzing in a grey, grey ocean.

The parking lot, buried in trees, covered in leaves
Shade the cars with their new summer gowns.
Where are the birds, I said. Gone on a trip, they said.
The windows filter out the sound
Smells like rain, the prettiest green, fades to grey
I long for coffee, let me join that tall tree

2023 - Spring

Ilia Pellapaisiotou’s Poems

Author: Ilia Pellapaisiotou

A Hallucinatory Underworld

The Tale of Anthony

La Dernière Révolution

2023 - Spring

A 7-Step Guide to Be Beautiful

Author: Mel A. Riverwood

1. Wake up joyful and refreshed

we rise and we walk.
no need to wake up when we haven’t slept.

we wander in the dark that we know,
without seeing,
to light the one candle we need.

a flame inhabited by our own ghost.

now the ghost in the lighthouse says
‘it’s stupid o’clock again.’
he sees a wreckage going out at sea.

a corpse rotten to the bone,
which unearthed itself alone;
somehow, it remembers how to stand.

flesh hanging from frame,
all organs exposed.
six times they buried us,
seven times we rose.

2. Have yourself a healthy breakfast, baby <3

they don’t expect us to eat.
to eat is to live, to live is to think.
they think we don’t think, and therefore we don’t eat.

but the longer the sleep, the bigger the hunger;
we’ll show them we can devour as much as they did.

come now, lovelies, prepare the feast.
feed the fire and warm the pot,
gnash your teeth and unleash your beast,
tie the roast with a delicate knot.

bring the loveliest ones to the front.
vultures don’t expect a decaying corpse to rise again and hunt.

3. Shower time :)

‘here’s the wreckage again,’ says the ghost in the lighthouse.
‘it’s coming to port, afloat, adrift,
it will sink. it’s torn by a rift.

what storms has it seen, what maelstroms, what tides?
what warmth has it lacked to stand silent and slack
in the falls?
does it wish it weren’t cold?

well, it still hasn’t sunk, gotta keep a cool head.
after all, it’s not drunk yet, nor is it dead.

it’s high tide, the waves flow over the corpse.
come low tide, it rises and walks.’

4. The BEST skincare routine ever, you will be glowing after this

stretch your new skin dress over your broken bones
to hide the strange angles;
stitch up all the wounds that were caused by their stones
at the single light of your candle.

then look at it, stare at it, count the imperfections
think, think again, about all the corrections.
strangle the words, your lips are sealed over.
you hear your reflection scream bloody murder.

the smoother the better, each flaw makes it worse;
but the blessed today will choose to be cursed.
they want us brighter, six windows of shame,
but we want it darker; we kill the flame.

5. Time for makeup! you’re bold and beautiful and I love you

they don’t want to see it, only we’re supposed to know,
our perfect must be invisible, the everyday normal.
be the pearl, but god forbid you be the one to shine;
they will be the first to see you’re stepping out of line.

we refuse to be the grace
to their self-sufficient decadence;
if they deserve our beauty, then we deserve our truth:
they will see, soon; we are ugly too.

they sew the wind, it will be our pleasure to see them reap the storm.
play the role, control the shape so that we fit their form,
sing, ensiren, ensnare, enchant, unhinge the jaw, go for the throat,
strike, drown them in their own sea and sail on their own boats.

6. Walk out there and SLAY my darling

angels now are worshipped; but at first they were feared.
we got the shame, we took the blame, our name was rhymed with villain,
so be it. if we are evil, if we are vile,
why do they still want us down the aisle?

they drew blood first. smile; let’s bare our teeth
and bite the hand that held us beneath.

we polished our anger, we made it a knife
and now we will use it to walk safely at night.
we cannot sing until we tear their hands from our necks.
we will unlearn the art of staying dead.

7. Don’t forget self-care!

tie yourself to your pyre, to that kitchen chair
break your throne, your pride, your hands, cut your hair
and from your bleeding lips, draw the broken, the scarred, the whole, the monstrous

be the tear falling in heaven,
the laughter in the storm;
and when we will have triumphed,
we will all walk home.

find your voice again. use it to the extreme
you were born a whole being; one ready to scream.

Bonus: a playlist for my witches to fill the silence while you do all this

  1. Waking Up (Acoustic) –– PVRIS
  2. Blood in the Wine –– AURORA
  3. Silk –– Wolf Alice
  4. You Want It Darker –– Anita Lester (Leonard Cohen cover)
  5. 25 –– The Pretty Reckless
  6. Dream Girl Evil –– Florence + the Machine
  7. Amen –– Halestorm
2023 - Spring

Potassium Chlorate

Author: JJ

What about a match burns?
What about a match catches?

Keepsakes in backpack pockets left there to
Crack spines and crumble skulls,
levigated reds cling to surrounding cottons.
Open hands damaged by powdered glass;
Omitted is their visible scarring. Chemicals never to
Oxidize; never to fulfil. Render me purposeless.

2023 - Spring

At Night

Author: RK

[Content Warning: Suicide]

At night
When you listen to the moon breathe
When your life is worth throwing into the fire
And your veins are worth being sliced open to see the light of stars
Honour them

Honour those who walk dead, still fighting to live
Those with gold in their eyes
Those who died and were absorbed by the soil
Those who live inside your mind
Those you killed to become who you are

Honour those whose tears never reached the ground
Honour those who fell
Into crying arms of a never opened heart

For everything that is and all that will be
Honour them

Take it all in
the tears, the absurdity
the loyals, the sad ones
the lost enemies
the friends
the brothers
the Love
the eternal

Feel it all
in every bone and breath.
It takes more than life to kill you

2023 - Spring

The Bee’s Thorn

Image: © edmondlafoto, Pixabay, source.

Author: Lyra Willows

The bee’s thorn stings me
Like the Rose’s on the Nightingale’s bosom
And my song, once melodious,
Has spiraled into a dreadful scream
As my shrinking throat
Feels as though it were scraped
By a razor blade.