Herpetology
Often, my worries are
frog-shaped, flexed
flippers flashing
through vanishing
ripple reflections.
Poisonous green
thoughts. The amphibious
twisting of double-state
catastrophising.
I have perfected the art
of doing nothing, looking
busy and helping no one.
Treading water,
as the pond chokes
with frogspawn,
tadpole worries growing
legs and kicking up silt.
One more day spent
dithering in the shallows,
frozen by fear,
catching flies again.
Leanne Moden is a poet and educator from Nottingham. Leanne was a semi-finalist at the BBC Edinburgh Fringe Slam 2018, and performed her first solo show in 2019. In 2020 published her second poetry pamphlet, Get Over Yourself, with burning Eye Books.
hermaphroditus
born of clay webbed in fate w/
parents that smiled with their eyes & a body
that i didn’t hate the sea curled round my eyes
my feet knew sand my torso knew sunlight
i was 13 when the nymph held me in
the lake & changed me all this new flesh flecked
with shame i held eggshells up to my ears
hoped to hear the sea again all i heard
were the cracking sounds of growing pains
Elliot Waloschek is a poet, performer and artist from London. An alumnus of Roundhouse Poetry Collective and Apples & Snakes Writing Room, his work has been featured on BBC radio and published in the Poetry Society. He was the winner of the 2020 Roundhouse Slam. He has performed at festivals around the uK and also curates poetry events. He performed his debut solo poetry show, Waterlog, at Roundhouse Last Word Festival 2023.
Ghost Machine
(The Trojan Horse’s arrival)
Hooves gallop powder dirt
rocks scratch up to sky
and dusk wind itches riders
their rented shields on backs
cold skinned Greeks
moon tanned white
sparkle as dead stars
The Trojans watch them
die into blue shadows
emblazon walls
with unclenched teeth
roar saliva at their passing
and open chipped gates
They spy a ghosted prize
a horse headed ship
roll rope around forearms
fist thick cord shears skin
until wood-bone creaks
heaves to stone dock
and moors an equine husk
Two ghouls slip from mouth
a reverse metal birth
they score its throat with blades
as its black bronze womb
slips dry hinges to earth
and charcoaled spears
sleep deep in guards
The ghosts quash city walls
burnish them in blood slop
unlatch and crack open doors
tear flags and let meat to roll
in air flick bite, catapults lie flat
still born on a battlefield
Z D Dicks is widely published with reputable publishers worldwide, with a love of black coffee, cigarettes and all things unhealthy to being a functional operating human.