By Zofia Koren Here, in the town that life forgot, Beware, O, dreamers of this place, — where lovers, weavers go to rot. Here, puddles pool in hollow heads, Stillborn of fouled liquified thoughts, — still and born of spore-spreading dreads. O, Fear feeds on the wretched lot, Festering fools who fumble in, To the town that life forgot. An early grave awaits you there, A death so foul — so void of soul, It eats your heart and strips you bare. Fools’ll twist your tendons as a kn

By Arran Potts Thinking about the end of the world, dad idly pours coffee onto an anthill. Perched against the peppered stones of a ruined abbey; he feels the sharp edges of endings that line his skin. Clouds of crows croak and bark in the air around him. Ravens rustle in the trees; while jackdaws and rooks settle like shadows on the yellowed grass. ‘We could eat them, I suppose. We could lure them and hunt them and farm them to survive. Pull out their black feathers, rip off

By Mykyta Ryzhykh We were stolen at birth and brought into this world. This world has robbed us. Cats will never again sing under the window about their nine lives in the nine circles of hell. We are no longer cats. We are no longer dogs. Only occasionally does one of us like to sit on a leash in puppy latex. We are heavy, sir. We are light, Lord, like fluff. We are airy, Lord, like chitin. We are homeless, Lord, like heaven. We are rich, Lord, like the poorest poor man. We a