Hello

      Jigsaw It starts in utero, painted wood carvings thick as a finger, gift wrapped in nostalgia. Colour weaves in time, a voice with a thousand faces. Some velcro themselves, urchins of experience. Some are stolen. Onlookers swapping their gray...

      Record Made a list. A record. The dishes she ate. Monuments visited. In Paris. In chronological order. A narrative into Paris, from England, through the dark tunnel, into the light. Then back, returning from steak and frites by the Arc de...

      Picnic Tempting death with every cobblestoned step his face was a collection of broken records — I was devouring a cheese baguette with grape jelly — Alas, my desires are always replaced by hunger / now we avoid each other at the King Streetcar —...

      Waste There’s more waste than we use for the things we ordinarily use waste for, such as piling it on barges and sending them out to sea, tucking it under the surface like a layer of insulation, diamonds were waste once, and diamonds are valuable,...

      Just in Case You'd Forgotten there are some lives lived poolside and others that mostly consist of a bent back in a field – some are chauffeured some are piled into the backs of trucks driven fifty miles from border to farm on rough roads – some...

      To the Litten Tree Morning sees droplets of spittle flicked over foraging insects. Down hind legs, hidden among the leaves, the sated dump fresh honeydew and trees weep sugar. Sweet hurt. Little graces matter. The bus drivers know us, let us smoke...

      Bats You are pleased to see me in my gothic T-shirt – those bats, you say, have been your friends. Throughout the months you think you’ve been here, they have perched above your bed, protectors, telling you by sonar, not to fear. Without them, you...

  Mark Wyatt now lives in the UK after teaching overseas. His work has recently appeared in Exterminating Angel, Greyhound Journal, Ink Sweat and Tears, Osmosis, Sontag Mag, Streetcake Magazine, and Talking About Strawberries All Of The Time. More here:...

    white flag, black flag he lived with his hand permanently on the throttle, like it would kill him if he let it go. existence passed in flashes, his alcohol soaked dreams indistinguishable from reality—he was a victim of his divorced mind chalking up his...

    Bananas My mother gives me a pound note, creased, warm like a secret. Go buy a pound of bananas, she says, and I, too quick, ran out. I walk the tiled floor of the grocers, past rows of sparkly gala apples, ruby grapes size of gobstoppers. I point at the...

    A woman is scrubbing a grave A woman is scrubbing a grave but the blood remains a woman dreams of a brown beast driven mad and knows it is herself a woman believes the voice in her mind nurses the splinter of glass in her heart a woman may defend herself...

    This Thing Called Loss a boy grows tired of dying again and again.                                                                                                                                        i am building him a morgue                          ...

    Skyscrapers Raining Paper Again, in one of those dreams where the cityscape is now razed though in a way that’s familiar, in a fugue state, my dream-eye knows: this is how it’s been. The hearts from the heart-shaped hole punch are scattered on the...

    The Things We Carry We carry the scars of Section 28 that were stitched into our skin during lunchtimes dodging fists and after-school ambushes behind the bike sheds, where onlookers’ cheers drowned out the blows. We carry the silence of Clause 16...