A poem by SIMRAN DIVATIA. I stand, firm believer In the concept of self love, A hypocrite. A fraud, Cannot help But compare myself, To ‘prettier’ girls With skinnier waists And smaller thighs, I think we are all full Of positive advice, Until we’re talking To our reflections, And can’t meet our own eyes. Featured image by Flood G, source: Flickr. 

Hypocrite

A poem by CLAUDIO CAMBRA. noise Iʼm used to it. they said, I said, this is how it is. all this noise and everyoneʼs listening. everyoneʼs looking. talk to the ceiling but quietly, the keyholeʼs watching. somewhere out there the keyʼs going to come kill me. twenty thousand seatbelt threads ready to rip and throw me through the windshield and everyoneʼll hear me die. scratches on the wall I hear the nails scraping on the wall counting the times I breathe waiting for the last one to pass. shapeless faces staring through the frosted windows. listening through the blindfolds as I try to sleep. they tell me theyʼre coming. through the vents and through the windows. all I tell them is the same: Iʼm used to it. Featured image courtesy of Claudio Cambra Gomez

Schizophrenic

A poem by A. M. SMYTHE. No one sleeps in this city, no one, no one sleeps, not tonight. Tonight we’ll listen to Zarathustra and read the new Bible. Tonight we’ll walk through the streets of the Old City, though the streets, the twisting, turning, winding, weaving streets, and unlink all the hands that are linked because sleeplessness is found in solitude. Tonight we’ll kick everyone out of our beds and leave them sat on their luggage in Sants Station like tourists without a map, robbed of all identification in the Ramblas, the bars or the beach. We’ll call them Morpheus and refuse to slumber under warm Christmas lights and Coca-Cola Santa Claus, under shiny new blinking iPhones and bottomless beer bottles. This night we’ll celebrate Samhain instead of Halloween and wish the mainstream media happy Hanukkah because our name is not Palinurus any longer and we drowned all the…Continue Reading

Thus Spoke Zarathustra

A poem by SAM HUDDLESTONE you said “jump” in your mind   like a lead laden leaf, you fall; skydiving initially, you risk drowning thereafter.   you pollute it when you break its surface, holding breath and closing eyes,   caught by a fraction of the volume. a squint of high stakes but still the sun floods, floods all but you and the area directly below.   once adjusted you look to see your feet dangle and dance down in the blue. straddling oblivion; treading water in a sideways figure of eight.   who knows how many of your bodies make up the depth. you see it so it exists but it is nothing. what does that make you then? lost in mirrors and photographs. you set your sights to a time signature and can shoot if it gets too much.   your arms are spread, you start counting down…Continue Reading

top down bottom up?

A poem by WERONIKA BRZEZINSKA. The entire world: shadow of the moon, the past, the soon, caught in your eyes, and wants to play hide and seek with us. Come! Above our heads a million lights, beneath our feet a million lives whispering their stories to blades of grass that pass them onto us in sound and scent and swing. See? The sun is pulling the horizon down by a string. A renegade in retrograde, like me. Sunburnt sky, red my lips, Evening flare, burn my tongue, Swaying waves, teach my hips how to dance to summer’s song. Can you hear it, the music in the distance? Listen… The wind is whistling a tune for two, will you sway with me if I sway with you? Here we are, now we are, as we are d a n c i n g hiding from our decadence, silent by coincidence, waiting…Continue Reading

At Sunset

A poem by ANONYMOUS. How many times will I go through Gower Street looking for you again?   In between the trees, And the Quad, And the faceless smiles, of every stranger that locks eyes.   How many times will I miss you again? In the library spot you liked With the panini you always ate Small memories are pointless I know. But they form a bigger picture of something else, something that hurts a little less.   All the places you once were, Are now empty and silent. I don’t know how to deal with it yet,   Your silence.   Our lives are part of other lives. Cobwebs made of cobwebs, Piles of red string tangled together, The best mess was our paths crossing in between it all. Despite it all.   I keep looking for you everywhere. Not in the trees this time, but in the sunny flowers…Continue Reading

Gower Street Missing