By Mark A. Hill In jaune Spring, he might have told me that love was hoodoo, He may have told me what all things meant before ember life became amber death. Now, my heart no longer holds the colour of the coin or the true meaning of circumstance, the now. The plastic tank of yellow-shelled parched terrapins that we sat afore is no more, and even the Menthol cigarettes have been smoked. The combing of each other’s dreams with breadstick caution is folded, all I hoped would re-

By James Whitaker Scratched DVDs, Christmas socks aplenty, Dog eared books, sent for a pound then put down, and a black bag of blood and severed limbs— Wait, what? I price the discarded memories— but what’s the going rate for arms, legs and a weeping head? The bell rings, customers scream, vomit, run at the sight of flesh and scarlet shelves. I stand at the door, gazing out at the fleeing crowd and I wonder out loud: “Was it the pricing?” #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By R.D. Salmon A toast to us, Darling, in absinthe and tears, Let’s open our throats to our next hundred years. I’ll loosen your chains as your eyes become glassy- That retro-consumptive look’s always so classy. What’s this? Something ails you? Just stay awake! I demand and command it, so make no mistake. Another drink, Darling? Don’t dither, just down it, I’ve told you: with sorrow, the best way’s to drown it. I’ve kept you down here for a century past, Don’t anyone say love