Mark Terrill

  MEIN FUCKING KAMPF   Over by the big living room window, looking out into the garden, my wife, in an out-loud conversation with...
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Faruk Sehic

It seemed to be the first time in my life that there was an advantage in having a scar on my face. If it attracted demented, neurotic women and half-mad men, was I one of them too, marked with a shadow of disfigurement – a freakish, dark aureole above my head? The answer was affirmative. This kind of magnetism isn’t exactly a blessing. But the scar became my ticket to the show.

Peycho Kanev

Darkness everywhere / and only one firefly / cupped by the hands / of a child

Meg Boyles

He keeps showing up in my dreams, / or my dreams keep building themselves / around him. Either way.

In Memoriam: Petr Mikes

Czech poet Petr Mikeš died this week at the age of 67 after a long illness, adding to this year's horrifying tally of recently deceased poets.

M.K. Foster

It’s December, and if I bought my father a goldfish, / he wouldn’t see what I was trying to say

Rob A. Mackenzie

The guinea pig feels unclear whether it is rodent / or mammal. Either way, aspiration is marsupial

Mirka Szychowiak

Kitchen full of black aunties sighed, outraged with Grandma’s lack of respect for the written word and the bloody stamp in the corner of the page. Nobody questioned the war death. She was the only one who put her foot down.

Friday Pick: Eric Ekstrand’s Laodicea

The book’s most conspicuous motivation is to make poetry happen between “you” and the poem; that is to say where the line ends, your imagination cannot idle and where, deliberately, the words do not say it all, it is the reader’s mind that finishes the thought.

Theodore Worozbyt

My brother was dead, I had no idea of it

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