A chiliad of voices in one reeling head
Atop a scarlet thistle-down scarecrow
Hail soul-silence with an eerie whistle
Faltering into a vortex of its old echo
And emerge as one blank incoherent cry Outside, the pouched-porridge thinkers
Hollering 'This abyss is false and fissile'
Look on through starkly glittering blinkers
And sneer 'Grow a spine and knock it dead
'The fittest only may survive: do it or die' The echo creaks, croaks, cracks; is splintered
German threw the kids into his white truck and started it. He grabbed the half-full bottle resting on the middle hump of the floorboard, put it between his legs, and drove off down their block. They rode easily, heading southward through the valley, taking the surface streets rather than the Hollywood Freeway. Their dad had a way behind the wheel. It was like German almost always got it right, gauging the signals, and when he did have to stop, he glided the machine in with on
what men do text stuff like i’m not like that organise drinks in somewhere low-key / out of town carwash / valet drive over on a tuesday night smart casual trimmed beard hair wax t-shirt / navy tweed blazer skinny jeans suede trainers (immaculate) smile / laugh a lot promises / possibilities i’m not just here to fuck fuck delete profile go back to their gf / bf wait for a few weeks upload new profile repeat dawning of mythologies i can only offer these words on
Great white sewer sharks constipating the guts of Whitechapel, Rancid colossus: home of rats
our shameful artefacts. See the delicacy displayed
Two chunks of dried fatberg
pride of place at the Museum of London They have arrived as a message,
but what lumpen blight stares back at the glass? Isabelle Kenyon is northern poet and the author of This is not a Spectacle, Micro chapbook, The Trees Whispered (Origami Poetry Press) and Digging Holes To Another Continent
They say the loss of a twin is akin to a ghost limb, an itch never scratched; a sore never healed. David is not sure. He is visiting his mother with Ellen in tow, to ease the tension. The house is a pristine museum of the young boys’ childhood: sickly– sweet framed photos of Michael Alexander Smith line the walls, the dressers, the fridge. Each frame holds his full name’s inscription as though to brand it in the visitor’s memory. David’s wedding photos are squeezed in between
With the gray, cold, clay-like mud up to her calves, Clarice took slow steps along the Cheyenne River. The mud clung to her feet and made sucking sounds each time she lifted a foot. The narrow band of water that flowed between where she walked and a steep, small incline to the pasture was more the size of a large creek than a river. She held her floral-patterned cotton skirt above her knees with one hand. while carrying her pumps in the other. Movement was more difficult than
The Elevator Shift in Your Head responds only to the voiceprints
of your three favorite movie actors active between 1920 and 1933. Even if they change. You consider how much of that time film
was silent, yet Max Schreck
will get the job done every time (and Willem Dafoe won’t) so whatever it is that keeps
the supply of dead thoughts
on their way to the basement
has got it goin’ on, babydoll.
You contemplate your one
person fan club’s next it girl nominations, step out
Gazelle Among the garden’s green-lit stems within the pisé arch, a woman’s framed with shadows, knees demurely hemmed where sunlight burnishes her auburn hair, lustrous in the noonday fires. Close-by an Uncle Crocodile
presents his gazelle of the desert,
owning one eye’s larger than the other – since looking draws you in. She doesn’t mind, she puts aside a compliment. On the road I meet a dusty kitten,
or the street is dusty she was in,
she squeezed her lids with mild co
There’s a blue in the heart
That resembles a parade of night birds Over the Atlantic,
That recalls the dark shapes
In the towers of Prague.
It’s still, as the mirroring waters,
As the radiant hush of thoughts.
After the trapped senses precipitate
Like rain, you step out
Into the dimming light.
The fireflies surround you
And the lock and key of disbelief
Poetry and silence are two crystal eyes
In the body of awakening.
They’re the reason why we alter
‘I’ve got to give it to you, ma’am, these scones, they really melt in the mouth.’ ‘It was my grandma’s recipe. Lucy and I baked them together when she was young. We were so close before she became a teenager.’ ‘Good old hormones, eh? They’ve a lot to answer for.’
‘I think it was karma myself.’
‘You’re telling me you were a rebel? I ain’t buying that, Mrs Watkins.’ ‘Call me Beryl, dear. Everyone does. And you have to give me some credit. I came dangerously close to being sen