Dream State Covers tight as clingfilm. Tell them you fell headfirst, steadied yourself, sucked out what was left in your throat, coughed that creamy polyethylene onto the pillow. Eyeballs infused with miniature blue irises plunge into the well. The drop is colossal, blinking, brick by brick. I haul my right foot to a cold corner. Thousands of bed mites riot, gnaw at toenails, mouths like shoplifters’ swelled pockets, until I enter the last passage to a sandy beach, where sunrise is a palette of spiteful jellyfish, grains of sand gyrating on blades of grass, dew overly clingy on the spine of a leaf. Breath-draughts howl translations of every human sin. From the ceiling light, spiders swing their busy silk limbs over rising sea levels to the green carpeted corner; punishment to watch for its ingenuity. It won’t be long until olfactory organs locate victims.  On architraves, baby-eggs crack open, lock eight infant eyes as webs on the Bluebottle fly’s flat-winged...

      Widows Walk Evenings she puts on her second-best hat skewered with a tortoise shell pin, buttons up her heart in a mauve mohair coat sallies forth to pick a bone with the moon. On the red-leaded step she scans the stars imagines them white sparks from his hammer. Her heart is fierce: keen as his chisel, weighs like a bag of four inch nails. In her pocket she carries a fistful of humbugs matches, twenty Players Weights. She recalls the black kettle on stand-by on the stove hears the voice of the clock in the hall. On her tongue, a retort fit to slice a man open. In her head, a dozen what ifs.     Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance. She has been published in a wide range of journals and anthologies, and is currently working on her first novel. Find her on Facebook and Twitter @AbilgailLaLoca.

      You Call This Summer More like a chicken bone tossed to a pigeon. More like a half-portion of peanut butter slicked in the jar we never throw out. I pedal through birds in Tommy Thompson, all strong enough to fly south soon – if I check the water quality app it might tell me not to swim, so I don’t. St Vladimir’s have brought in their picnic table, though September is the best month Dad used to insist, claiming this made summer less sad. Downtown, the slaver has been covered with a tarp. At the Spit I feel like a mayfly taking an afternoon nap, and in the water, looking out, it’s Mediterranean, I can’t see the discarded rebars behind me. The dispensaries will soon outnumber the Ukrainian churches in our neighborhood (Baptist, Gospel, Orthodox, Catholic, Catholic). The carnival is over, and from our eighth-floor window I watched you move through the leftovers on Queen. I shouted, The best is ahead of us again, or I would’ve. Right now the lake’s warm, good as it...

      My Heaven is Inside My Body My heaven is inside my body, my heaven is a great many, like stars in the night sky, with silver towers, huge edifices that look like sapphires, golden palaces, gardens of crystal. My body is bigger than the universe, countless gods and angels are my partners, as if they are countless myself. Neither time nor life and death in my words dawn and dusk are the same name, and sadness and joy are the same words.   我的天国在身体之内 我的天国在身体之内 我的天国居多犹如夜空的繁星 白银的楼阁 蓝宝石的巨厦 黄金的殿堂 水晶的花园 我的身体比宇宙更巨大 无数的天神与天使是我的伙伴 他们仿佛是无数的我自己 我的词语里没有时间也没有生死 黎明与黄昏是同一个名字 而悲伤与欢喜是同一个词语     Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village,...

      Manipulation the song of silence can demolish thousands springs Today I tell a story about a young girl who was very skittish in her childhood . Couldn't seat a single place for a minute, couldn't remain few seconds silence without thinking anything, so much talkative, so much sporty. But the pressure of our so-called education system manipulated the girl. The societal pressure manipulated the girl. The girl hated the whole system and mentally refused to accept it. But she tried hard physically to do the same thing what other children did on that time. She could understand she lost herself. She was not that person she pretended to be. But alas! The so-called society didn't forgive her. and its people and their bullshit words made her life a disaster, a painful one. Gradually the girl became so shy, so buttoned up. She had lost herself. Sometimes she screamed but there was no sound. It was a complete silence of a billowy sea. gravity turns again to the centre… but...