Play no sad songs for me.
I’ve lived for the last moment.
It’s been gone and come again
And yet, you come to me
A little too late for a love campaign.
When do we love tomorrow?

The sound of an orphan saxophone
Argues with the early marsh morning.
“Go away with more than a kiss.”
Select your argument with the insane.

If you cannot respect a sole dancer
Then know the words to the song.
So many of the poor, cold pretenders
In habit the hour against the minute.
Do not seek quiet bashful advice.

In an explosion second of sunrise
The drunken sincere pale graduate
Offers you the scent of dew lilacs.
Resurrect the final lost late movie
As you imagined the fast hot dialogue
And encompass the dual possibility.

If the satin mistake is of the desperate
Then you will hear it repeated in radio popularity.
To pretend is a stubborn, stale reflex
That is suddenly discovered as an ash cigarette
Gone like the push button radio disc jockey.

With a flick of a smile
Tossed like a fifty dollar littering fine
In the caution lane of a super highway
I’ve seen the wrong side of a summer full moon
And the high tide has pulled the depth
So that I find one last jukebox dollar
And taste the after hour bitter liquid
In the reflection of your
So often visited …once in a lifetime
Terminal memory.

R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press. He has published two poetry books, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh Sense are available from Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes and Noble. He is currently working on his fourth novel, Ghost Girl.

settling in for a quick one:
evening,
and the sun is coming down
with the birds flapping to roost,
heads underwing
and feet
sunk into bellies like
water in a sponge.
and we are having drinks together,
eating
fried and salted
whitebait
(6 for 2 euros, dip on the side)
and we are happy.
your perfume smells
like flowers and strawberries
and your heart goes
like a little drum.
I can hear it from here,
tapping a rhythm
like an impatient man
with a coin at a shop counter.
sweet little heart
spilling with love,
happy
and swooping with the sunset.

D.S. Maolalai is a graduate of English Literature from Trinity College in Dublin and has been nominated for Best of the Web, and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019).

On a day like any other,
No clouds sweep the skies,
Yet my mind turns again,
My head whispers lies.

A mistake sits within me,
It grows and it grows,
I try to ignore it,
My fault again I suppose.

No suppose about it,
It’s all your fault,
My brain works against me,
A slug amongst salt.

I try to ignore it,
Yet the voices grow louder,
Motivation all but gone,
As it is ground into powder.

I sit and I fret,
I cry and I scream,
This sickness within me,
That cannot be seen.

How did it feel,
To be me yesterday?
Now it has re-emerged,
It is but a distant memory.
I know that in time,
These instincts will fade,
But a life that is normal,
All I have I would trade

On a day like any other,
Clouds darken the skies,
But who was that person,
That was telling me lies.

The sickness dies down,
I resurface again,
The whispers now silent,
The cycle begins.

In the belly of sentient beings are
black holes and worms,
Postures;
worthy and unworthy
gestures, raisons d’etre,
longings,
tentacles of regrets,
fuselages of desire below
puffed-up bloated hearts
poked-through
with sticks and twigs;
red and blue blood
wrapped in twine
hanging from
meaningless empty bottles
of preparedness.

This is where the soul sits and rests
hanging from the nearest cavity wall
until the last chime rings
announcing,
“Times up!”
where the door slams
and the whistle blows.

Suddenly
there are no plans
to make, no
hearts to break,
no solemn longings
half-baked.

Humiliation barely registers in those downcast faces.
I dare you to imagine where they come from,
feel the beatings, suffer the horrendous rape,
then watch the beatings, the rape of others.
When were you ever woken up by soldiers
in the middle of the night, with huts aflame
all around you, and rifles pointed at your heart
while your children huddle behind you?
Where’s the constant movement in your life,
not of choice but forced, clutching a baby
in your arms, ragged possessions strapped to back,
limping down an overgrown jungle trail,
hungry, thirsty and in constant dread?
No red blood on your cheeks, no dark stain on your floors.
You sit back in your pleasant home,
as pleased with yourself as some general in his fiefdom.
You might even go to church come Sunday,
pray to a God suitably neutered for the occasion.

i liked the way my arms bent
around the weight of a world not mine
i liked the angles of my wrist bones
moulded for consistency
there was nothing sharp
in my mountain shapes
we made monoliths of the present
to carry into what might become.

we built a castle on the sea
an impenetrable hull
of stone that wouldn’t sink
or bend to the tug of the waves.

strong straight lines
and five year plans
knowing where you want to be
is fine if an eye on the horizon
brings it close
but curvature doesn’t
take account of the storms.

still i liked the simplicity
in that predictable back and forth
my bones could take
the heavy salt
laid in your tracks
and our waters
always had that heady
quayside scent
that’s born of decay;

sulphide lungs
bleached wood
and bladderwrack hair
made bodies on the sand

i rose from the wreckage
when the castle sank
and spread like grit
to the wind
no more built on froth-rimed swell
nor shackled to the same tide

no more a tower
doomed to spoil
nor fall beneath the waves.

This poem is taken from Kezia’s first full length collection, solipsist: poems for breaking bonds, (Moonshade Publishing), a volume of free verse themed around personal experiences with abuse, trauma, depression/anxiety, and progressing through healing from toxic and unhealthy relationships.

Kezia Cole is an author, poet, artist, and freelance editor, mostly found dividing time between the wilds of southwest England and the mountains of northeast Pennsylvania. Scribbler of words, dauber of paint, and fighter against chronic illness, Kezia is also a passionate animal welfare advocate, and fosters rescue dogs. Work has been featured in prose anthologies, mixed media exhibitions, and on national radio. She is also an Open University alum 🙂

The stink of tradesmen soils our air.
Square eyes yield to cynical “cheer”,
while Mary’s flight in Joseph’s care
is fast eclipsed by wine and beer
and the only type of spirit shared.

The poor dig ever-deeper holes:
gathering debt for children’s smiles.
Rather than nurturing their souls
they blithe succumb to market’s guile
and smother crucial Birthday goal.

Irish writer, Perry McDaid, lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. His writing appears internationally in the Bookends Review, Red Fez, 13 o’clock Press, Curiosity Quills, Aurora Wolf Literary Magazine, Amsterdam Quarterly, SWAMP and many others.

Mike Garry: The Arndale was an important place for me growing up in Manchester. It was the closest thing to an American mall we had. It was glamour for the kids of Manchester, from Moss Side to Fallowfield, and Moston to Miles Platting. You’d socialise there with your mates, pass the time with a pasty and checkout the latest knits.

I also worked at Stolen from Ivor selling burgundy jeans, but it wasn’t like going to work, it was like hanging with your mates. And these days, the centre is better than it ever was.

Mike’s other well-known verses include ode to north Manchester, God is a Manc, and St Anthony, which is dedicated to the former Factory Records boss and TV presenter Tony Wilson. Mike has now turned his attention to another famous Mancunian with his piece commissioned ahead of The Arndale’s anniversary.

David Allinson, Centre Director at Manchester Arndale: Manchester Arndale has been one of the UK’s most popular and exciting shopping destinations over the years – welcoming 40 million people through its doors every year.

The opening of the northern extension in 2008 led to the arrival of the country’s largest Next store and attracted international brands such as Apple, Monki, Victoria’s Secret and Pink to Manchester for the first time.

The centre remains as popular as ever today, highlighted by Japanese fashion brand Uniqlo’s decision to open its flagship store for the north at Manchester Arndale last month. Our position as one of the UK’s leading fashion hubs has also been boosted by AllSaints’ decision to sign up for a further 10 years at the centre, and the arrival of Quiz, alongside the centre’s more established fashion retailers such as Superdry, JD Sports and many more.

Manchester Arndale continues to attract new shops, restaurants, and leisure brands, and we expect to announce more exciting signings in the coming months.

Special thanks to Suzanne Armfield, PR & Social Media Manager @ Manchester Arndale

To you, I am a lipstick-slicked smile.
A branded automaton.
A stocking-topped fantasy.
A bring me, serve me, filthy joke.

To you, I am there for the calling.
Push the corporate button,
Watch her dance.
The strings are invisible.

To you, I am a peripheral bauble.
A wanton waitress.
A pocket for a business card.
A bringer of brandy.

You cannot imagine
What I’ve seen.
What is required.
A head for heights, and hearts.

The hands I’ve held, the tears I’ve wiped.
Gentle comfort to a stranger,
A colleague, a child,
When fear or pain or death takes flight.

To you, I am a lipstick- slicked smile.
A clouded view.
I hope I never witness your descent.

Kathy Hoyle was a former Creative Writing student at the OU, graduating last year, and is now completing her MA at The University of Leicester.

Today at breakfast
Sister Mary has pulled out from her cupboard
A blue box filled with crispy crosses –
edible rice bran
the colour of amethyst Trix.

She pours the milk over
her wholesome “t’s” and watches them float
miniature crosses buoyant on a purple sea,
the envy of all Carmelites.

Sister bows her head and prays over
her tiny morsels, each
infinitesimal snap, crackle and pop,
giving thanks for some rangy white-haired Diva
back in Rome whom they’ve named
Product Manager.

Hunter Boone was published in Sappho Magazine under the pen name of J. Hunter O’Shea, has a BA in Creative Writing, studied with Stuart Dybek, Eve Shelnutt, Herb Scott and Jaimy Gordon whilst completing a MA of Fine Arts at Western Michigan University, and plays a Fender Stratocaster.