and so it goes… two boys neck-deep in a boiling argument talking about which album is best Made In Lagos or A Better Time a man calls beer the devil’s urine you do not swallow poison and expect to blossom a boy regurgitates the faces of exes ruminating on Celine Dionic times one more heartbreak and his heart becomes a cold-room certain foundations turned children into lamp-holders how many more change-makers do we need? one boy thinks his life an adaptation of a Nollywood film doesn’t know which father turns river to search engine did you mean: Chijioke traumatic is the missing of an offspring till we meet to part no more or not the lab welcomes another cadaver girl holds masterclass with friends lecturing of how a boy’s body is a British accent: sharp like new born razor slicing everything it collides with a writer gets called sachet Shakespeare on Facebook the bird app is a warfront for a country Nigeria; sachet hell fire the synonym for a barbwire  ...

      In the form of a joke After Steven Wright I got a humidifier and a dehumidifier put them in the same room let them fight it out now my house is all shiny a confusion of moisture finding holes in the walls I watch the neighbours cooking eggs thoughtlessly walk up to strangers and scratch a penny on their hand as an act of blood-copper tenderness I feel like that all the time marching between the barricades like a weary insurrectionist I yearn indecisively for the furniture to be removed stepping shameful into the future we obey only the most facile rules measuring distance in misunderstandings piled like the bodies of ants there’s so much between us unspoken and loud as a flag if we’ve failed to communicate meaningfully it’s because sometimes I’m in parentheses while you’re italicised like rain     Jack Emsden was shortlisted for the Wolverhampton Literature Festival competition 2021, and was awarded 2nd place prize in the Verve Poetry Press Community...

      Because a forest After Joe Cottonwood Because there’s a pandemic on and you should treat yourself to good air Because the height makes you look up and looking up feels good in your spine Because the air is fresh and you breath more consciously, downing each lungful slow and deep Because in Japan, therapists prescribe it for anxiety and sometimes we all walk to a place further than ourselves Because in forests you find the instinct of your ancestors and feel sheltered Because of the way the light flashes through the trees, taking up space for wonder, healing something ancient and feral in you     Hannah Gordon is a London Irish, queer poet, teacher and facilitator from Brent and a member of Malika’s Poetry Kitchen. She was a host of Spoken Word London and co-led their 2019 Anti-Hate festival. She is the founder and chief facilitator of Word Up’s Words Down writing group and was selected for the inaugural Mid-Career Poets program at the Roundhouse. Her...

      Brush-tailed landlords In Australia, we shared our house with possums who lived in the space above the ceiling. They had been there long before we moved in and likely regarded us as their tenants. We kept daylight hours that didn’t bother them and paid the rent by planting fruit trees that the possums raided every night. Our orange cats had not signed the lease, though, and defended their territory, which led to noisy late-night battles punctuated by thumps, howls and yowls that I used to lie awake and listen to; the two sides were about the same size, with perfect night vision, claws and fangs. The descendants of the first landlords are still there today, fighting to cling on to a corner of what was once all theirs.     S.C. Flynn was born in Australia of Irish origin and now lives in Dublin. His poetry has recently been published in Abridged, SurVision, Beir Bua, The Waxed Lemon and Neuro Logical.

    CARRIE (With reference to the Stephen King novel of the same title) I learn about the shame of a woman’s body from my mother’s handwritten notes. The ones I pass, red-faced, to my teacher that excuse me from showers and swimming. I stand at the edge of the echoing pool, flush under the stare of my classmates and imagine every laugh is aimed at me, humiliated by my exclusion and worried that while I stand here everyone can smell the iron of my blood; see the stain seeping into my skirt’s fabric and dribbling down the inside of my thighs. There is no pride in womanhood here; no sisterly bond in the changing room when our pubescent bodies are revealed from under layers of baggy clothing. Where every breast bud and roll of fat is scrutinised and found wanting; where pads and tampons are bad but not even needing them is worse. Steeped in lessons from Carrie we fear becoming targets of ridicule; are cruel and careless with our bodies as we absorb a shame we don’t understand....