Poetry

Poetry
Luiza
I wear a chastity belt I know I’m going to hell I locked it up myself And threw the key into that well. . I’ll save men from my shame Whilst hiding my contagious passion No one deserves to taste Decaying flesh as ration. . The line below the waste Is dangerous Any men who...

Poetry
Kevin Higgins
Her weekly commandments we caw in unison from our twin mountaintops: Twitbark and Facepalm. . She’s this millennium’s equivalent of an old-style Archbishop and we’d happily wrestle for the privilege . of placing, with our trembly fingers a diamond studded mitre . on her frail skull. It’s said to renew her...

Poetry
Kofi Fosu Forson
1. Love letters, beguiling Apocrypha, mad days as your tenant. In that housed hut we begged. Our bodies gymnastically coiled. Feet on my chest, arms in the air, walking all over me as if fire Were elemental. That this skinned structure, rib-caged, six-abbed, Hairless, phallus figmentus...

Poetry
Kevin Higgins
“Over 15,500 human remains incinerated to heat UK hospitals over 2-year-period. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthnews/10717566/Aborted-babies-incinerated-to-heat-UK-hospitals.html #800babies #outrage @amnesty” – tweet by Cora Sherlock of the Pro-Life Campaign . We must stop giving it away for nothing —our greatest natural resource— the Department of Finance estimates Tallaght Hospital could heat itself entirely...

Poetry
Elisabeth Horan
I told you once I loved you. It matters somewhat now— not because of how I feel, but because I have to be there when you die. I have to know when you go. It cannot be after the fact. The loss, the noise, all distance between. The memories, which lose...

Poetry
Kofi Fosu Forson
Vanessa for the years. A caption would read—Disentanglement. Leg of it predator supposing an undertaking come up from filth, Like laundered sheets after menstrual cycle. Ninotchka Madam, If in a garden, tulip or else demoiselle. Heartbreak, his command. How it roped her into coil. Pull...

Poetry
László Aranyi (Frater Azmon)
The evening of staggering drunks, he is after hangdog, Weasel-faced streetwalkers. Whom he points his carved stick at, . or whom he stigmatises with his finger on the bare skin, they will not be disgusted ever again by the touch of his rigor mortis, but...

Poetry
James Diaz
why the long way around and maybe not just this one time wrapped tiny against that warp in the woods holly-hills singing lost little dear I know each thing that burns I feel it too skin deep the bone the neon sign missing a few letters we’re all missing...