Pocket, tongue and throat – Kristiana Reed


Sorry is a stone

because it is cliff-like

in my pocket

and gobstopper hard

beneath my tongue

and one is not enough

to summon an ocean

with white horses

and forgiveness.


It is a pebble, shy to water,

resting heavily

at the back of my throat.



© Kristiana Reed 2019

Kristiana Reed is an English teacher and a writer. She is the author of the WordPress blog My Screaming Twenties and she writes about love, her struggle with mental health, survival and hope. She is currently in the middle of producing Between the Trees, her debut anthology, and writing her first novel.  

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Sirens and Birdsong – Kristiana Reed


These are the sounds of home

alongside the hum of traffic

and the creak of my bones.

Long walks bring both

to my ears and balance

death and life on a scale.

The mating calls atop

telegraph poles

and the drone of blue

and red warning lights

tell me stories

which all end

in the same way:

you are so lucky

to be alive.

You are so lucky

to have a home

which isn’t whitewashed

in sterility

and the wails of patients

hidden behind drawn curtains

or crowds of relatives.

You are so lucky

to have a home

which does not disappear

like Dorothy’s

or rainforests,

a home in one place

found by footsteps

not by wings

on a slipstream.

You are so lucky

to be here

and to hear

sirens and birdsong;

heartache and love;

time and its music;

death and life.

© Kristiana Reed 2019

Kristiana Reed is…

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That warm light

Candice’s writing is stunning 💛


She grew used to hunger

til it became a language to delve into

the ache a reminder

she once lived

the gnaw a shadow

of a former self

kneeling for prayer, her arms beneath the moon

in swaying movement

that moment elongated like youth

thinking she’d live forever

eternity her dance partner

even then

she did not need sustaining

no warm glass of something to forget the ghosts

they were not yet powerful enough

and meal time was a delicacy of suggestion

fruiting in her eyes

as she undid her zip

the slow fall and hiss of clothes

finding purchase in gravity’s collapse

she stood before you bare and empty handed

your eyes on her, hot and smiling

causing her to

light up like she were composed of a 100 watts

shining because you regarded her

nothing else was necessary

not even a meal in her empty stomach

unaware one…

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Tomorrow – Rachel Finch




There’s a cigarette hanging

from her lips, a little swollen,

blue and purple,

hand painted crimson

to remind her, today

was a new beginning.

The ashtray is overflowing,

she leans over it,

knocks the ash into a glass

of whiskey, picks up another

and leans into it.

Music is blaring,

she’s moving

the top half of her body

to the beat, resting the lower,

jelly legs, fuzzy feet.

She locks eyes with the girl

across the room,

she’s talking in someone else’s ear,

she tries to lip read,

sees the exchange, mouths,

“Today was a new beginning,

is it yesterday again?”

She watches the girl’s hand

float its way to her mouth,

sewing a button of before

onto her tongue,

hurts inside to understand

and debates the same.

The thump of the beat

pulsates into her

and she’s glad of it

when the others enter the room.

Someone’s shouting,


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Phenomenal piece from oldepunk ❤

RamJet Poetry



Temper temper temper

Speaking 31 flavors

Of madness, you stalk

me once again

Dance in iris

tourniquet Titan

Breaking through seals

Make the deal

A Devil sits at my table

Progenitor of pale hollow

The air in here is casual

A callous malice whispers

Pressing upon

all the dreams

Dying in the cracks

Of the floor


There’s a model of

your bathroom from

the old apartment

in my heart where

you live.

there’s a deal

with a Devil

on my mind

why is negotiation

such a grind in this place

there’s a Giant at my table

talking about how he’s been

feeling small

all my days

are bleeding color

hard targets in

soft appliant praxis

barking dogs worry

over the scraps of souls

in a bin out back


I should be worried,

you know?

regression to the mean

a Golden fact

when caught in an act

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This Woman, Two Generations Removed

Absolutely exceptional piece ♥️

The Eggcorn

She said last month, 
after knowing her 50 years,
that she cried on my behalf
every weekend after I graced the porch,
which smelled sweet from petunias,
with my crumpled paper-bag luggage.
I didn’t tell her that I cried too, 
with downcast eyes
and contracted shoulders, 
willing invisibility
from terrifying locusts
singing in the trees.
Or when the sweet sour-cherry jam
was replaced with
twenty-nine cent tacos and
I was left to shake
my dirty clothes
into a pile on the grimy floor.
I never told her about
the nights alone,
when I couldn’t close my eyes against the moon
because suffocating dark amplified
ghosts of angry voices,
those nights, when I couldn’t find the stars.
She said, last month,
that she should have bought me a suitcase.
I just laughed, because the paper bag didn’t hurt
but with a tightening chest I knew
that was…

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things with flowers

Gorgeous piece from Devika 💛


bc6c6dcb0f924115b8e3f3389ef7a67d127409177.jpgits like lilies.
diluted heaps of blue tears.
scalded and indexed.
all the marking onto my heavy lips.
My lips are even today,
with plum shade paint
dancing on the rim of sorbet.

its like white wildflower,
a fish with black scales dancing in its slumber.
Piquant, small pebbles cascacding from tears.
salty as skin. salty as dream.

its like mirror,
sequin shades of lover.
i am wondersruck galaxy.
These veins in my hands run fever now.

Thank you dear readers for always reading my words and leaving your lovely comments. I truly appreciate it.

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Quarry – Jimmi Campkin

Phenomenal piece from Jimmi Campkin 💛


DSC_0068.JPGI’ve been sitting on this icy stone for half an hour watching her swill the endless whisky miniatures, produced from her pocket, around her ulcer pocked mouth.  She hisses at the weak sun, and in the cold our breath mingles like clouds colliding before a storm. The sky is barely lit; just a candle covered in dehydrated piss and viewed through a filthy window, but the grass and the sheet metal buildings and the broken down flat fences all feel alive.  Even the dead trees kick and stomp under the soil, trying to work their dry roots into the moist holes under the soil.

We’d spent the morning in a burned out car, trying to find the places where our arse bones didn’t pinch on the exposed seat springs, making all the appropriate vrooming noises and twisting wheels both real and imagined.  I hadn’t slept in sixteen hours and I’ve…

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