Issue #4

  • Parker

    Two Poems

    Picture Watching The biggest building I ever entered As a child was the Wallaw cinema in Blyth. A dark cave where shadows and light Were projected onto the walls. I was too young to have heard of Plato So John Wayne convinced me as `Genghis [...]

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  • Murali.jpg

    Fountain Killer strikes the Outback

    “Where were you all night boy?” John asked. “At a mate’s place. We got on the piss,” Mark said. “Did you hear about this killer offing blacks and chucking their bits into the fountain?” “The one on Queen’s street?” “Yeah.” “Bloody oath!” “This is the [...]

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  • Val Scully

    Marcus & Magda

    Some people smiled when they heard how my father died.  Not with their mouths – that would be rude.  It was their eyes.  I’ve studied expressions and I always watch people carefully.  They would hear the words about him having an allergy and being asleep [...]

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  • Stewart

    Facing Space

    When I was 16 years old The Buzzcocks were all I listened to, my favourite colour was aquamarine, I gained ten A stars at GCSE and my mother died one January evening. I was told it wasn’t a shock, as she’d been sick for two [...]

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  • McClay

    The Good Mother

    Pauline’s already tried her knitting but she can’t relax. Now she’s watching Saturday night TV. Knitting helps sometimes, kind of calms her, and she finds it odd that no-one does it anymore, none of her friends at least. Making things gives her pleasure though it’s [...]

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  • Morgan

    Junior Gets Closer, Juevos y Salami

    After a long and heat laden evening lounging and laughing on Prospect Ave., pretending again that he isn’t gay, Junior drops an old tire to the street (out of the same boredom that compelled him to pick it up in the first place), says goodbye [...]

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  • Dan Powell

    Soiled

    It’s still dark out when I start reversing the van and see Len crunching down the drive towards me in his slippers and dressing gown, head bowed like he’s walking in the rain. I stop and wind down the window. ‘Morning, Len.’ He scuffs past, [...]

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  • Chambers

    An Arctic Fox in Crystal Palace

    An Arctic Fox in Crystal Palace I spied it from the studio window Yes, here in Crystal Palace. Mid-day. It moved, nose down, small neat steps, unhurried Hunting along the back of the Visitor Centre. Did they have a petting zoo? Would they have an [...]

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  • Ewart

    Going Home

    Going Home It doesn’t seem like trespassing – it was Our own home once. Past the notice, ‘For Sale’, In snow-camouflage, we creep through crackling frost And reach the gate. My hand can read like Braille The trick of the lock; I don’t now need [...]

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  • Caan

    Bad to the Bone

    Bad to the Bone If you name your dog after Alphonse Capone You can fully expect him to be bad to the bone He messes carpets and eats all of your shoes It’s no big surprise you have the bad dog blues. He answers to [...]

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  • David Spittle

    Howard

    New York ,as a sort of tour-guide, whisky on the rocks, the smoky bars, when Jazz was big-those cats would play all night…big black fella in a pinstripe suit-honest to god, best music I’ve ever heard!’ I can’t believe someone in my family could say [...]

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  • Kaul

    A Soliloquy of Dust

    A Soliloquy of Dust some days the dust of anatomy anchors to providence bleeds serendipity girding before a kitsch sky into aloe vera and acetone, more mercurial than desire discharged on the surface of a three-forked tongue a gullet full of words, filched like hypothecation [...]

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  • Beirne

    Two Poems

    Danse Macabre I A tango of tripudists and caperers dancing the shameless steps of nuns and friars in the bars and brothels of the megalopolis for years on end, a morbid milonga of itinerant organ-grinders, dockyard violins and barrel-house paper-combs playing out the jerky contortions [...]

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  • MacCaffery

    Two Poems

    Not for Sale Everything is for sale inside the shop, even the people, for less than is fair. The only thing that has no price tag is a dinner plate sized wall clock. Someone must have asked in the past because there’s a hand-written label [...]

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  • Spittle

    Two Poems

    Henry Spencer takes a stroll Helter skelter rust and heavy machinery Chains, grey, titanic and coal. A dream of dark and troubling things. Electric fence and smiling. His imagination was at that point peerless: Maybe why his wife left him. A dead end playground of [...]

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  • George

    Sky Dogs

    I saw Sian’s hair bobbing up the hill before I heard her, a bright pop of postbox red against the scrubby grass. Then her voice, loud and defiantly tuneless, and the tramp of her Docs as she bounced along. She was grinning, eyes bright, arms [...]

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