By Alex Oliver It paints with textures moss, thistle and grist; crushed stone, mushed pulp pigments and petals; calcite, feathers, blood and bone and thumb-crumbled moorland dung It scrapes at animal skins stretched on deadbone frames with tooth and claw with grind and chaw tangled with thorn shorn shreds of sheep-shed wool The wind grates sky-scoured stories And farmyard slip slaps a lap-water louvre, in puddles and ponds reflecting alien script. Scrivener-scrawed nail

By Sam Moore I start to see floaters drift in and out of my vision, Traversing the exhausted landscape of my sight. There are two or three at first, Wavering in that liminal space between the noticed and the ignored. But then they begin to swell, Like parasites gorging on my vision, Sucking out the ocular marrow And growing fat with it. Their wistless wandering decays Into something more aggressive as they Plunge, pierce, bludgeon, break into each other – Or else stalk

By Annys Brady “You have a little girl now?”, I asked. All light tone and lighter smile. Your eyes, like stars in an ocean, Betrayed you. “Yes, I do”, you said. (To replace the boy I lost) You didn’t say. In that moment, Next to packets of rice and jam jars and coffee biscuits Words hung empty like brittle bones and I wondered how you had Drowned all these years Without dying. #DarkPoetsClub