By John Metcalfe We gathered where the candle smoke hung trapped in fetid air, The ceiling bowed beneath the years and things we dare not say, The room was thick with old consent and disciplined despair, Grief took a seat and waited to be recognised as there. Item one: Optimism. It vanished from the slate, No hand rose to plead its cause; no voice could show support. Item Two: The vicar’s smile, worn thin by fractured faith, A brittle brown parchment of piety over heavenly do

By Sean Chard Tear my poems to shreds, set fire to them, dance on their ashes. Make them into pulp-balls, pea-shoot them at your loved ones, fold them into origami jumping frogs. Line a litter tray with them, let your cats shit on them, let them purr. Bend them into a wedge to stop a table from rocking, cut yourself on their paper’s edge, blame the paper, blame me, blame the poems. Staple them together, pick the staple open with your nails, remove it, feel satisfied. Soak the

By Katherine Garrison Blood money, the bloodier the better/purple Gatorade/xxxl portions/overdone burgers with or without cheese/getting fucked by micropenises with big dick energy. if you have a micropenis and are offended, that’s directed at you. if you have a micropenis and aren’t offended, don’t be too proud, or it describes you too/getting fingered by sleazelords who like underaged girls/the dead/people who are dying/oppressive religions with god complexes/oil fields/how