By S.D Gould Thank you for renewing your account. By continuing to exist, you acknowledge the following: I. Joy may occur briefly, without warning. Duration and availability cannot be guaranteed. II. Loss is included and will arrive without warning. Instances of loss may occur in triplicate. III. Meaning is not included in the base package and must be assembled from everyday items. IV. Support may be limited. Instructions are unavailable. Refunds are not possible. V. Loved on

By S.D Gould I choose a seat near the back. Good lighting. Terrible turnout. They’ve gone with lilies. Predictable. Kind of cheap really. No one consulted me. The officiant says I was “quietly brave.” I make a note to haunt him. My mother cries at the appropriate volume, I’m proud of her. Two of my cousins’ whisper about parking. Someone checks their phone mid-eulogy— probably to confirm I’m actually dead. They call me kind. Resilient. A private person. No one mentions how ex

By Yucheng Tao The midsummer fire still hangs on / descending with the dusk / Squirrels rush / from hollow trunks shooting me a quick glance / When I am trying to pluck out / my drowsy eyes to peel reality / from my sockets to return / to a forest dewed with rain to hide / from the suffocating heat licking at my bedroom / the damp walls with their paint peeling / falling in silence // A T-shirt clings to my face — it blinds me / My eyes still roll

By Murray Eiland Slowly, slowly, the race is won—no shot is fired, A war unfolds in silence, waged by hands unseen. New technology, like whispers on a moonlit tide, Shapes a future once beyond our reach. History’s brush, now patient, paints in softer strokes, Each generation a shifting canvas, While photographs whisper secrets— Faces once familiar, now subtly changed. Children who once mirrored their grandmothers’ eyes Dissolve into time, their features rearranged. What hidde

By J. Marahuyo how ironic I’ve cut thumb on “borrowed” blade, lifted from your desk the day you fled. the silver crescent scar on the base of your thumb is all I recall tatay insisting, hindi. okay lang. hindi kailangan nang stitches.* You did. I do.

By Leanna Webbe Receding light falling from a pallid mass of celestial bone. Shapeless in a void of gaping sky. In the fullest phase of her sojourn, loss had risen to the surface like seeping puss, opening new wounds. Yearning to exercise the art of floating away. From the ache of remembering what was always dreamt but never lived. Yet nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go. Now, a satellite of blunted fettle. Still looming, but shrinking. Emitting rays of mourning, co

By Joeii Monday I should be swept clean of you; You, this grit in my eye. sand beneath my nail. rotting flesh between my teeth. The catching murmur trapped and rushing within heartbeats I wish were simply proper yawning silence. You. poison thorn in my side Crowning me with creeping and pained solitude making me believe I could never find another You. When the bar is so thoughtlessly low. Somehow, you are the one who succeeded. in leaving a scalding fingerprint on my so

By Karla Neblett and the dream left her laid bare on her back, shoulder blades pressed against iced ground, hands and feet, spread out, nailed down, a crow’s feet on her open chest - skin split - - ribs cracked – its beak pecking at the betraying, mistaken, and slaughtered four chambers. #DarkPoetsClub

By Roseeroe I'm your favoured roadkill Resting my head on white painted lines Doppler effect of light upon moon white skin My legs lost in a ditch Five miles back Unseeing eyes upon the end The gulping of air Glugging and gasping My heart misplaced in the middle of the road I threw it up as I wandered out I ignored the blinding headlights… It's thumping as cars continue To pass over it What pretty roadkill Shame It's missing the important parts If the wolves eat m

By Jessica Ann I’ve forgotten how voices sound, movements of letters unfurled like a fetus. I breathe quietly; if you were here you’d tell me to hold it. You’re so helplessly cruel; I can’t help but grasp you tight like a telephone chord, twirling you between my fingers to hear what you’re saying in that staticky voice of yours in case you change your mind. You never say much. I twist, turning as Orpheus. You’re there, I think. My fingers curl, the carpet grimaces as I skin

By Susan Aurora Irvine The face of a bat, tiny, Fol de rols of flesh Cunningly contrived to fashion Palaces of vibration in mid-air, Cone architecture Generating from orchid, From snout with twisty horn, From crumpled tissue with eyes That look beyond Or nowhere, this face Building walls, enclaves, Naves and porticos From squalls of shredded sound Thrown on a potter’s wheel Of pure dark, flung back To ears that have ears Within ears, foldable, Big enough to be wings, Catching

By Dr. exit In the quiet hours, When the world forgets its own breathing, I hear the soft cracking of the soul, Like ice underfoot, Thin, trembling, Pretending it’s strong enough. There is a room inside me, Where the lights never learned how to live. Shadows sit in the corners, Hunched like old prophets, Whispering truths no one wants to claim. They tell me sorrow has bones, Fragile but honest. They tell me joy can bleed, Yet still be called joy. Some nights I touch the

By Z-Louise Poetry Despairing at the voices bouncing off walls and back to pierce my ears, trumpeting Angels, Vibrational pipes, A conveyor belt of noise and phrases on repeat, Anguish and fire, A harpooned mind caught in nets enraged, Of provoking horrendous tongues, I find refuge in the sharp steel blades, Sawing motions back and forth, Trying to numb the pain, Yet I can’t stand the metallic red paint dripping, The tightening of skin, Squeezing my soul out, Evil laughter p

By Aiden Wylder A dark glistening object catches my eye, Reflecting the sun like polished hematite. Black diamonds shimmering in the sunlight, Horripilating and trembling in the zephyr. My inner magpie is drawn to this shiny entity. The vision becoming clearer as I draw closer, Jiggling bejewelled beings attached to something Bronze and furry, and lying maddeningly still. On the track, half a fox, Dead on its’ back. Coating the barely visible splaying innards were hundreds of

By Synodinos-George Paraschis Absolute downfall leads me through daedalian labyrinths. Within my cells, I search for traces of solitude. The clock’s relentless ticking warns me — time to depart. Upon soft velvet, I drifted into slumber. I was swept away by the beauty of crimson rose petals. A ladder I build toward the naked truth — hoping perhaps to awaken. Madness bombards me, for the sun no longer bathes Valencia. I glorify the sinful passions that torment me. The soul’s ow

By Alex Oliver It paints with textures moss, thistle and grist; crushed stone, mushed pulp pigments and petals; calcite, feathers, blood and bone and thumb-crumbled moorland dung It scrapes at animal skins stretched on deadbone frames with tooth and claw with grind and chaw tangled with thorn shorn shreds of sheep-shed wool The wind grates sky-scoured stories And farmyard slip slaps a lap-water louvre, in puddles and ponds reflecting alien script. Scrivener-scrawed nail

By Sam Moore I start to see floaters drift in and out of my vision, Traversing the exhausted landscape of my sight. There are two or three at first, Wavering in that liminal space between the noticed and the ignored. But then they begin to swell, Like parasites gorging on my vision, Sucking out the ocular marrow And growing fat with it. Their wistless wandering decays Into something more aggressive as they Plunge, pierce, bludgeon, break into each other – Or else stalk

By Annys Brady “You have a little girl now?”, I asked. All light tone and lighter smile. Your eyes, like stars in an ocean, Betrayed you. “Yes, I do”, you said. (To replace the boy I lost) You didn’t say. In that moment, Next to packets of rice and jam jars and coffee biscuits Words hung empty like brittle bones and I wondered how you had Drowned all these years Without dying. #DarkPoetsClub

By Mairéad Maguire With confidence born of vodka, I cup his chin in my palm. My thumb languidly, and less than gently, left to right, drags. His bottom lip. He kneels beside me faceless. In the garden of a stranger, on a night of unknowing. The starless sky under us and- deep earth above. I am nothing but my hands. He is nothing, but he opens his mouth. White picket fence. My thumb crosses the boundary line. Trespasses a while, inside his skull. I own his ja

By Beda Higgins The Christmas jumper my grandson bought me needs to go back. Orange and yellow stripes aren’t for me but he’s young and it’s the thought that counts. Return policy is complicated with blacklines and rules for a specific drop-off depo to use that is shut closed for three days strike action. The present has to be returned by tomorrow. I like a daily task since they