By Ann Reeg Adamson The saying goes Don’t cut off your nose To spite your face But my face is only pasted on As a shield to my heart Where the real spite lives Digs Ingrains Like when you left me Without the scent of your soap The grease under your nails The salty sea of your sweat Bathing me in you So screw this nose— I’ll tear it from the mask of my face And go on— One sense less In spite of you #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Susan Aurora Irvine You know those little coffins They bury babies in? The ones they make as white as snow To show they’re without sin? Well I have one inside me A lightless bloodied lair And from time to time I bury A small white body there. From time to time I bury A body white and red, But now the time is coming When I must join the dead. This burial ground they’ll bury Beneath a slab of stone Whiles thinking that they lay to rest A woman all alone. Then half-formed gh

By Daniel Sowa Five days a week. Forty hours. Meaningless greetings exchanged like small change in a machine that gives nothing back. “How are you?” “Fine, thanks.” The fluorescent lights hum a lullaby for the living dead. We sit in our cubicles, each a well-appointed coffin with excellent ventilation and a photo of someone we used to love. Quarterly goals: Pretend this matters. Annual review: Exceeded expectations at pretending. The spiral of loneliness keeps tightening