By Sarah Elizabeth Schantz (a broken sestina) The city throbs neon from the edges of the orchard. On the third floor upon the windowsill, a doll perched atop the house like a raven is the attic. These are the spaces we haunt. But don’t forget the cellar, Between the living and the dead, a dank veil. At the pulpit the bride awaits her unveiling, Inside her heart an orchard, between her legs a cellar. She is a house in which to put your dolls. To be a mother is to be haunted.

By S.D Gould Grief arrives first. Of course he does. He has always known where this ends. The table is set for two though I don’t remember making a reservation. Candles flicker, low, deliberate. The kind of light that lets regret pass for intimacy. Grief takes the seat that used to belong to someone else. He’s never needed permission. He just folds himself into the chair like he’s been rehearsing this for years. “You’ve changed,” he says, like a memory trying on my voice. I p

By Elliot Chester I want to reconcile with the almighty. These are the words I mutter as I enter church. Alone. Traipsing on the narrow, burgundy carpet, this reminds me of a steamrolled tongue and already my thoughts start subduing. Thinking of my choirboy days, my psyche cracks like the Renaissance saints upon stained glass windows. I poise on a knee-dented cushion, feeling contempt dawdling. Devil red lights hang like squandered hearts, beaming and pulsing. The air tastes

By Laura Peers By entering life, You agree To its conclusion. No terms are disclosed In advance. The opening offer is generous — Breath, Warmth, The illusion of permanence. This will not last. From the first moment, The body proceeds With quiet efficiency Toward its own removal. Users are encouraged To form attachments, Make promises, Speak carelessly Of “always.” All guarantees are symbolic. Time continues Regardless of consent. Any attempt To delay proceedings Will be noted

By Isabel del Rio Not for nothing you said “Welcome to Hell!” when we first met. You were as hot as hell, but I was warned that you tirelessly gave hell to everyone. How in hell did I fall for you? I soon realised you were no hell of a man, and ours turned out to be a match made in hell. Sure as hell, you became hell on earth, and loving you embodied a living hell. Who the hell did you think you were? There was no hope in hell and, scaring the hell out of me, you looked like

By GP Hyde ‘Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close’ Steven King Welcome to The LoveCare® Clinic! Why not call by and visit our holistic healing environment? Here we can fit out your LoveTeeth™ and calibrate them so that you may achieve the finest engagement. Our suture team is on permanent standby to treat all current and legacy wounds, contusions and bruising. Visit us today at the Byron Shelley shopping mall and enjoy a no-commitment consultation to identify a

By Ashnok Jahagirdar The liver’s just a punchline with a pulse. The heart? A pump that learned to grieve. My doctor says, “Don’t laugh—it’s serious”. but serious is how we spell “relief” I tell him, “Doc, the tumor’s got my humor”. He writes a script. The ink is almost black. We both know hope’s a tax the living pay to keep from hurling diagnosis back. He asks about my pain. I say, “The scale? A one means fine. A ten means born.” He nods. We share the joke no one laugh

By Roseeroe Nothing like a 3.30AM hunger Sweat on my neck Thunder in my stomach The birds won't shut up Lust and greed are deadly sins Didn't you know I'd kill for some crisps And Maybe A pellet gun So I can enjoy the cool air Without the incessant warning sign Of a brand new day At least I can eat breakfast soon...ish #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Carol Whitney Ward Days tumble by tripping toward the precipice . . . When I fall I wish it swift like in my sleep or stroke-quick dead or cerebral aneurysm-gone a slip in the tub and knocked out cold⸺forever No life support no cancer with a year to live no Alzheimer’s no Parkinson’s no phasing out in- cre- men- tal- ly but I am not the holder of the scythe . . . #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Préachán “Stupid child! Wetting the bed at your age!” The words stung more than the slap across my face did. “As if I didn’t have enough to be doing, without having to wash your pissy sheets.” The shame of an eleven-year-old, carried as an invisible weight down all the years of my life. I pause outside her bedroom door now. Hesitant. Then push it open. The smell hits me instantly. “Stupid child,” my brain screams. I look at the frail, fading body in front of me. “Stupid ch

By Mike Everley Good magicians master distraction make you look where they want not where you should be looking spatial manipulation finger dexterity that's magic. Bad politicians spin distraction make you think what they want not what you should be thinking cognitive manipulation linguistic dexterity that's politics. Crime writers utilise distraction make you deduce what they want not what you should be deducing deductive manipulation plot dexterity that's criminal. Cheating

By Glenn Doherty I’ve lost it—the will. No, not to live—no, not that. I keep that under my hat. It’s the job. The nine to five. Head after head. Every day, the same ballet: I don’t talk no more, point to the chair, tie the cape tight at the nape of their neck, hoping it might shut ’em up— no luck. Every story worth a thousand cuts. When I’m near the ears, every accident planned with a steady hand. I’m a danger, a threat. That’s it—my last trim. Alright, go on then, I’ll squee

By Paris Rosemont ~After Charles Bukowski’s ‘the mockingbird’ Oh, flitty little mockingbird—you pretty feathered fool Your flaunt your plumage, plumped up breast—the perkiness of youth Whilst in your bath you splash and play, the tom cat stalks and drools His hunger churned for centuries: a hunter’s sabred truth With patience he shall bide his time as you let slip your guard Forgetful that the world is fraught with dangers under wing The summer’s gone, and snow falls fast—an

By Rosie Arcane We shuffle through a revolving door of compliance and defiance. Heads to the ground on a melancholy merry-go-round. Trapped in a dim box, cracking and peeling. Grey skin putrid in the thick air. Crooked hands, once a thing of beauty, click and tap the daily dance of duty. Yawning voids grunt in agreement. Eyes pinball around vacant skulls. Stomachs are fed but not brains. It’s a game of only gastric gains. Bound until death or close enough. Willing to suffer a

By Raymond C Bramford I heard them first Noises from a darkened alley That could only be the product of knuckle on cheek and boot on rib Each rhythmic thump had an uncomplimentary counter beat of muffled pain and injury I dared to look into the ring and I recognised the assailants as three of the Kübler brothers; Denial, Anger and Depression Crushed and battered at their hands and feet lay Grace Bloodied and winded barely recognisable beneath the bruises and swelling save fo

By Alicia Ruiz-Yeganeh Let me hold my life with shaking hands. Please, trust me. I’ll cradle the thing, coo as it gurgles back. I’ll hold it up to the light and trace its hazy lines with stony fingers. Can’t it be mine? It should have been mine. I’ll take its hands and twirl it round and round, as my surroundings morph into the lilac woods, faster till I let go. It careens off like something I should wish on. I find it scrambled on the floor. I know what’s to follow. I chase

By Brandon W. Sample Final notice received Shadow has resigned No longer reflected Citing ethical issues Documents Behavioral irregularities Will not return Trying to rectify Promises made I will change Glancing into mirrors I try to confirm But they make no comment I stand before The brightest flame Yet it refuses to confirm. Still no sign No contact Contract voided I remain unaccompanied. #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Tally Fox You were the best Best head Best left on read Best heartbreak Best heart fake Best dick Best John Wick Best puss killer Best soul filler Shiv Roy To your Tom High def CD-ROM You feel me Now you don’t Eject my CD It doesn’t play #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Gabriel Knott-Fayle Here’s a joke about grief: It’s a Knock-Knock joke but the knock never comes. So you’re just forever stuck on the wrong side of a setup with a punchline that doesn’t make sense alone #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Hannah Gathercole Your aroma was divine, that’s what people said. The women on your arm noses buried in your neck. Let them keep on thinking that you were fresh and vain. It's only polite for them to remember you this way. Our friendship was paramount, your soul fused to mine, and like glass, it cracked in half, a cruel bout of stolen time. They burned away your fragrance With industrial-strength scrubs, the reward for all my love is eye-watering suds. Let me retain your f