Those Thoughts Of People In An Average Day In The City by Jonathan Beale

There is an invisible symmetry thought – but not seen
It can be sensed, felt, smelt, only the few can know
Teaching of this; a failing of words and their meaning
In this real tower, of tongue and ear a Babelistic jungle

The gospel of the breed of the want of an ‘I’
The strange fear that lurks on; and again, in and on.
Over the gutter from the early stewing private fury
It is upon this on which we walk live and breathe

The day-to-day the whys and wherefores – are lost
The strange fumbling.  A blindness – where an ear is king
In the private worlds the peoples forced judgements make
And forget their own fractures in their own heroic worlds.

The mists portray what isn’t yet, and yet appears as if tangible
The gutter drawing time in its own gravitational pull.
The mean and the woman click on the same field –
Somehow playing different games for a single result

The cold winter takes and leaves ready for ‘the tomorrow’
Unwritten- there is originality in the everyday – time ticks
The setting sun, leaving the fairies and fantasy
For the night’s dream and tomorrow that must day must not come.

Jonathan Beale

Jonathan Beale has 500 plus poems published in Penwood Review, Poetic Diversity, Ink Sweat & Tears, Down in the Dirt, Mad Swirl, Pyrokinection, Ygdrasil, Van Gogh’s Ear, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Jawline Review, Bluepepper, Jellyfish Whispers, The Outsider, and Yellow Mama. His first collection of poetry ‘The Destinations of Raxiera’ is published by Hammer & Anvil. He studied philosophy at Birkbeck College London and lives in Surrey England.

Friday Night In Paris by J.J. Campbell

touch this heart
of darkness and
drag it to the light

terror is taking
freedom for

and every once
in a while a bomb
has to go off and
remind us of just
how little is sacred

light a candle
but save the

this will be a war
that will only make
the devil smile

campbell bio

Here Nor There by Sanjeev Sethi

Some are born
to be neither
here nor there.

I wanted to be here.
This was safe.
It cushioned me
from vagaries of human voyage.
But diktat
of some force,
said: I belonged there.
That was painful.

In my wisdom I chose
to be neither
here nor there.

Sanjeev Sethi

Sanjeev Sethi has published three books of poetry. This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015) is his latest work. His poems have found a home in The London Magazine, The Fortnightly Review, Ink Sweat and Tears, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Amaryllis Poetry, The Galway Review, The Open Mouse, Otoliths, and elsewhere.


A Ten Question Interview With The Artist… Nero

Why do you write?

I write because the only person who really listens to me is me. There are so many thoughts a human has in a day, and if I don’t write, they won’t put themselves in order and make sense so that I can take my next breath. If anyone reads my words and can get something from them, blessed be.

What books do you read?

*Looks at whittled-down collection of books, which is a long story within itself* I only pretend to read Kafka. Haruki Murakami is trendy with staying power. There’s an Encyclopaedia of Magical Herbs here, The Isis Papers, Milady’s Standard, The Witch’s Guide to Life, A Clockwork Orange, religious texts, various zines…

What inspires you?

Being in bad situations, fighting for freedom, my skin since skin is the first thing one looks at when encountering another, the possibility that I might overcome bad habits one day, or die from bad habits. But only the cool ones.

How did you know you wanted to be a writer and when?

My mother informed me I was a writer when I was younger. I did it for her then realized I really was a writer. Define writer.

How do you deal with rejection?

It is a painful thing to be rejected. There have been times when my sanity took a back seat to my emotions for sure. I think, though, that previous rejections have been so stabbingly hurtful that my outer layer is braced for and wanting rejection so that when I am accepted it feels real.

Who are some writers you admire?

Audre Lorde. Sean Enfield. Jolee Davis.

Is writing the only artistic medium you do?

Acrylic on canvas, baby.

What would be some advice you would give to your younger self?


Do you have any advice for other writers?


What is your writing process?

Spill and mop. I write anything that comes out, then go back and clean it up.


Nero lives in Dallas, Texas, and dreams of living somewhere other than Dallas, Texas. Her writing and artwork has luckily found its way into Let it Bleed, Not Dead Yet: An Anthology of Survivor Poetry and a few zines along the way. When courage presents itself as a beer, she makes her way on stage to speak poetry at Mad Swirl and informal social gatherings. Nero loves sleep; it is so wonderful to wake up and know that dreams hold information that can be used during conscious hours. There used to be a website and FB page and all of that stuff, but enterprising has taken a back seat to more naps.


In the Land of Fields by Domenic Scopa

The final time my babysitter sinned
was when he mapped a way,
and made forgiveness possible
for how his hips slammed into me.
If I could do it, he might also,
someday, wherever he strayed,
be so humble to forgive himself.


Wanting solitude,
longing for the simple loneliness of travel,
I said farewell and flew to Poland.
Descending, I looked down
at snow powdering fields,
and small towns,
each house with a steeple roof-
Then the scowling tarmac,
thump of touchdown…
Then nothing…
Still he followed,
and every woman I held close
felt like my captive.
Run away. Or don’t.
Most of my decisions have seemed wrong.


Once, at dusk, I strolled
the foggy streets of Warsaw,
the pavement puddled,
and reflecting,
and at that hour, alone,
I stopped hearing the sigh of traffic,
discussions, the racket
of winter wind lifting leaves
high above the sidewalk lamps.

When I heard my nephew was born,
I thought, how noisy
this world must be for him,
how mortal.
That night, to spite a missing person,
I refused to listen
to the sound of cathedral bells…
to spite a missing person…
To be honest, I was still attached.
My babysitter died and I was still attached.
It seems so strange to say it
quite like that-
But how else can I say it?


When I wake up,
I confront the mirror,
press the safety razor to my skin.
I uproot a breath.
My body craves to hold,
and be held.
Because there are faces
I may never see again,
I must say
there are two things about darkness
and what it does to us-
Her bright, hooker eyes
when I flicked the light switch off,
how the pupils constricted
as if in blind faith,

and my babysitter closing
the closet door,
shadowed and speechless.

Domenic Scopa is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2014 recipient of the Robert K. Johnson Poetry Prize and Garvin Tate Merit Scholarship. He holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. His poetry and translations have been featured in Poetry Quarterly, Reed Magazine, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Belleville Park Pages, and many others. He is currently an adjunct professor for the Changing Lives Through Literature program at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. He is also a copyeditor for The Tishman Review and a manuscript reader for Hunger Mountain.  

Wanton Kittens Make Sober Cats by Benjamin Blake

Animalistic; a fox trailing the scent of a vivacious vixen
Or maybe I’m more like a rambling tom
With missing teeth and scarred hide
But who can still yowl out well-worded songs of lust
With the best of them
All you have to do
Is find a way out of the house
And into the sultry night

Benjamin Blake

Benjamin Blake wines, dines, reads, walks, and writes from the North Island wilds of New Zealand. He’s also the author of A Prayer for Late October, Reciting Shakespeare with the Dead, and Southpaw Nights.


Attention by Katie Lewington

see these sheets I’ve messed on?

scribbling like a child with crayons

my mind wretched-

my mind bored-

savage tiger vacating from the zoo-

nobody told me to write

I was barely persuaded

except at school

didn’t grip the pen right

I ain’t retarded, I’m special!

why’s everything got to be


I’m not a brain in a jar-
a sample of tissue

why so serious

from the off

at birth

encouragement is the shrine

to which we go

chubby palms and thumbs

it’s easy to smile

when mummy adores the painting I just messed on –

handprint on the wall

the song I sang word for word

I can push my cart
even peddle my wheels

this is attention

it dazzles me like the sound of busking wind chimes
I like it

why does it stop
and where does it go –
behind the clouds

my childish stories have to be read and there isn’t the time

eat, walk to school, homework, brush my teeth and bed

routine fucking routine
attention attention I crave


nobody likes it when I do it wrong-
correct me? fuck you

read what I’ve written and validate my existence –
why don’t you

I’m human I’m human I’ve a heart in my chest and it beats
boom boom boom

fuck it

I’m OK within my own isolation

freezing? yeah it’s bitter, bitch

but I’ve got my instincts
my name
feet in two shoes –
with laces I’m not able to tie

I’ll forge my path

don’t come around pretending you care now

I gave up long ago on you.

Katie Lewington 2

Katie Lewington likes to review the books she reads, listen to music, daydream, watch Cary Grant films, help The Pithead Chapel journal and Transcending Shadows review and Punks Write Poems Press sift through their submissions, sniff 50 year old poetry tomes and enjoy the aesthetic display of many literary magazines (She has been published in some of these) Contact her through Twitter @idontwearahat and her blog

Interview With Paul Tristram at DreamMiners Publishing.

Paul Tristram delivering the goods over at DreamMiners Publishing.

paul smoking - Copy

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!

I Brought My Tears To The Solace Of Sea To Quell Them In The Swelling Depths by Nicole Surginer

The waves in cadence crashing to
screaming of the restless wind as
shrieking seagulls blindly drift
shadowing the suns blinking eye
To my knees I fall listless in hot sand
Rummage for shells chiseled in truth
Glistening undaunted in genuine glow
I scrape my wrists on shards of monotony
My blood cries into trembling ocean
I gaze into the surface glass
An archaic reflection peers back
Ghastly, sullen sunken eyes
Haunting skeleton of fragmented dreams
Startled into piercing, cognizant silence
I hear the record spinning on repeat
The chamera laugh in taunting tune
in powder puff lair of salty sky
Time is the toil of memory’s myth

Nicole Surginer 2

Nicole Surginer is a poet from the small town of Bastrop, Texas. She is inspired to write by her love for nature’s enchantment, a fascination with the power of raw, intense emotion and a desire to create beauty with words. She has been published in Tuck Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Indiana Voice Journal, Tuck Magazine, Sick Lit Magazine, Your one Phone Call, In between Hangovers and pending works in the Contemporary Poets Facebook group anthology, “Dandelion in a vase of roses”.