Author: Director

Poetry
Ian Critchley
She held a seed, in a Cupped fist like a Womb, And as she slowly decreased Her grip, the sun Hit, And the seed began to sprout And blossom, In bloom. I said, “it reminds me of you,” And that “once you let the dark...

Poetry
Ephraim Gast
It’s a pottery and clay day.
Aren’t we all feeling the thickness of the ether?
Yes but everyone still recoils and waters their very own laurels.

Oh, look: that topsoil is blowing off!
Now old Knave and young Lark can see...