The passer by denies my existence with the confidence of their gait, the steadiness of their gaze. I peel back layers of skin to show the shining mess, but each time I’m swallowed by earth – which in case you’ve forgotten is cold, full of dead, sharp things. It’s like fucking an iron maiden –… Continue Reading ‘Bus Stop’ by Matt Alton
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I woke up a wilted roseMy petals were crusheda thousand tempestsMy thorns turned inwards striking my stemWorms crawled all over meYet my roots were intact – by Angelina Bong More works Malaysia
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It came to visit last week. No warning at Three am. One turn in my bed and here it is. Stealing my long breaths. Grasping the hand rail, I try to turn on my side. The red-hot cattle prod steals my spine. The pain splinters through my nerves screaming. One, two, three jabs in seconds,… Continue Reading ‘Unwanted visitor’, by SpinalPain
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Punch views images from the lead-lined room of hunched, misshaped bones. Punch dances round the room – head on a pole, chest iron-maiden bound with extra spikes, hips a claggy crucible, wooden knees. Mismatched red socks sneak past frozen feet, up past stiffened ankles. Punch plays St Sebastian. Punch is put to the rack —… Continue Reading ‘Punch Views His (A/S) Body’, by Phil Hawtin
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There is a snuffing out when the synapses stop firing. The ex-wives fade to black. His hawks blink. Extinguished. The Co-op, Jesus, trains and snow glimmer. Cut. Planets spin off the axons. Our kisses are ashes blown to the wind. He lies alone, like a great house with all it’s furniture moved out; windows smeared… Continue Reading ‘Stroke’ by Lizzie Heath
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I am your pain. Like Puck; quicksilver, impish, mischief-making. You’re easily fooled, you make my nonsense real, you feel what is not true. I stab and prickle, or transform into A metal straitjacket, squeezing your foot, your leg. Imprisoned. Around each toe, elastic bands pulled tight. You call me neuropathy; I say there’s no such… Continue Reading ‘TWENTY FOUR SEVEN’, by Hedgehog
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She stands uncertainly inside the cubicle, exposed to light from a dozen UV tubes. Machinery hums softly, the seconds tick away. A narrow slit connects her to the outside world. Friends have seen her skin, inflamed and bleeding, her swollen eyelids. She hasn’t mentioned synapse pain, the 2am, 3am, 4am explosions waking her, holding… Continue Reading ‘PHOTOTHERAPY’, by Angi Holden
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I feel the music This orchestra of mine I jest your intimacy Embracing every shard With love and warmth But should you say goodbye And leave me before I die I shall stand and run and dance To an air of triumph! But should you chance to be With me ‘til the end No matter… Continue Reading ‘I feel the music’ by Wendy Jones
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morphine tastes nasty, ive called it ‘the devil’s cough syrup’ before. it’s sickly sweet and cloying, but you know what’s Weird? when you first take that spoonful into your mouth, it’s not that bad. not great, it’s still medicine, but it’s tolerable. only when you attempt to swallow it does it make its true terribleness… Continue Reading ‘there’s a metaphor here but im too tired to find it…’ by socks
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It’s 2am and my body is on fire. Every cell is boiling. Sweat creeps from my pores. It only takes a moment to soak through my favourite t-shirt, then through the sheets and mattress covered in yellow imprints. I can’t get any fucking sleep. This happens to me every night, up to ten times. Then… Continue Reading ‘Premature Ovarian Failure’, by S. L. Shuter
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