By Nicki Blake even at my brightest the old hurt remains it lurks, palliated by the past, swathed in epochs of defence distinct as geology – a little wound become a little world the glow you so admire is symptom of salt, of silica my value - my response to ceaseless torture the trauma has changed how I appear, and what you perceive as beauty is a scar #DarkPoetsClub #DarkHumourBitterIrony

By Millie Graham The grey looms upon the horizon Morning graces the grisly gallows. The hangman, hooded, haughty, Checks the rope, sets the trapdoor. Boots upon cobbles, A shuffling step, Soldiers bring the condemned, Wrists bound, eyes hollow. On the scaffold he stands, Mouth tight, soul dead, His first taste of fresh air in months Tainted by the bitter rope scratching at his neck. Drums hold a steady rhythm, the song of his death. The trapdoor drops, so does he. There’s a c

By Michael Angelia Ticket’s marked. Punched. No returns. No refunds. Seven hundred fags a day, cheeky bags, kebabs. Heroin for breakfast – that’ll have a say. But brass tacks – protein shakes, health kicks, five-bean mix, electrolytes. Count for nothing – you’re already cooked. Compulsory last rites. Wouldn’t be seen dead in Lycra – so cycle in a suit. CrossFit dimwits. Don’t waste time with sit-ups, burpees, curls; cores are for compost – in your cemetery plot. It c