On My Evening Walk Down Walworth Rd
For anyone considering going on T

I’m ready for your future self to walk right up to me.

I am certain that I will recognize you
because I’ve been practicing!

As night falls like a slow curtain onto evening
I scan features

What am I looking for?

Well    You won’t have the same face
in a year or three—

I am looking for a time machine menagerie.

I spot what could be the full bow of your lips,
stubbly, from above, inhaling smoke
before the 68 takes you home.

Your soon to be cheekbones more prominent —
hills to run down when summer comes —
on a radiant parent
surprising their kid with bubble tea.

Your focused eyes on a box of plantain.
Deep concentration making them filled
more brown than white.
A different mouth asks if they sell iru.

I spot what could be your hair, longer now,
zig-zagging in rows or freshly retwisted
waiting outside the barbershop for their boys to get niced up too.

Your very specific nose
rushes into Morrisons —
its rounded square tip,
your nostrils broader now
fulfilling a wish for a nose closer to your mother’s side.

So when you stride up to me

your stride.
your stride!

You will stop
just short and say:

This face still fits
in the palms of your hands.



Rhian Parker (they/them) is a black dyke poet from the Deep South. They received a dual-degree M.A/M.F.A in Creative Writing at UNC Charlotte and Kingston University. When they aren’t writing; they’re baking gluten-free treats or going on long walks around their borough.





My cockatiel, Pippin, has learned to listen
for that particular resigned sigh of the bus
as it passes the living room window
and shrieks whenever he hears it.
I don’t know why he does it
nor who he imagines is on board,
come to recue him
or just to visit. What difference is it
to a parrot? Either way, it startles me
out of my skin. You have to laugh,
don’t you? So I do. Don’t they say
our pets become us?
Because then Pippin turns to face
the opposite wall
and begins beak-grinding, a sound like
fruit and seeds being pulverised
between his jaws,
a classic sign of contentment,
until he’s head buried in feathers, asleep.
I was accosted on a bus, once.
Right in front of her captive audience,
she yelled I was bloody rude for not
thanking her mate for standing up,
and giving me the wheelchair seat.
I would have, but that day
my voice was hoarse, I was wearing a dress,
and any sound I made might have attracted
violence. It shouldn’t be so
commonplace that we have to choose.



Madailín Burnhope is a disabled, transfeminine writer based in Warwickshire. Her work has been published widely in magazines and anthologies, in print and online. Her debut poetry collection was Species (Nine Arches Press, 2014).





does it scream like a man or a girl?
it screams like a dead thing
it howls like an animal
crying out
we are wild
we are feral
eyes sting with tears
red skin beneath my fingernails
touch me again
i’ll bite it off
rust blood dripping
down your testicles
i never was a man
or a boy
i’ve never been anything
but a fucking miracle
glory in creation
we are all gods
made in our own image
after all
but we are not benevolent
not good gods
we are callous
we are cruel
fists full of bruises
mouths full of blood or cum
on our knees
in bathroom stalls
used to smoking cigs
sidestepping spit
by the underpass
outside of school
used to talking shit
dodging fists
or painting blood
across the walls
used to split lips
clothing ripped
can’t say how many days
i’d trip and fall
best bite your tongue
or taste teeth later
and teachers make
liars of us all
girls are often
boys are boys
and boys are cruel
there is a sick sort
of violence we reserve
for those we view
as not like us at all
god knows
you can commit
unspeakable acts
if you can convince yourself
that those you’re hurting
aren’t quite human
are something less than
something small

you wanna know if it screams like a man or a girl?
i want to rip a throat out
teeth bared
it builds in the back of my throat
i scream like an animal
sick of losing siblings
sick of seeing bodies fall
sick seeing faces on phone screens
are we allowed no peace at all?
so use our deadnames
we are replaceable
sensationalise our deaths
we are disposable
i’m sure all the violence
was inevitable
we just make noise
like so many animals
or dying bodies
or violent criminals
howl between the bars
of our cages
bite the hand that feeds us
beats us
a cornered animal
with no other options left
will fight
will scratch
will bite back
back against the wall
will kick
will curse
will lash out
will cry
make themselves look big
sound loud
scared shitless
form crowds
march together
what now?

when we’re arrested
while we’re grieving
at our vigils
the only option left is riot
they’re killing children
in broad daylight
we are dying
this is violence

this government
is killing us intentionally
every MP
a murderer
a liar

the NHS is segregated
trans healthcare
a witch trial
every GIC
a pyre

Brianna Ghey was 16

throw a brick

break a window

start a fire



mithago (it/its) is a mad crip tranny dyke poet, perfomer and activist. It is the 2023 UK slam poetry champion and has represented england at both the european and world slam finals, as well as having performed across the uk and europe.