The Hours by Brenton Booth

Life isn’t about
what you can
it’s about what
you can live
I think laying in
bed at 11am on
a Wednesday
a 6 hour early
mark from
the sun shining
and my stomach
groaning for food
thinking about the
girl at work that
recently got on the
meth hard
I always wanted to
fuck her
and one night nearly
though she’s fucked
herself now
and I know there’s
nothing I can do
about it
buildings growing and
birds talking in the
telling me things I
wish I could understand
while the old men sit
on milk crates under
street signs
and the children ride
imaginary horses to
far away places
and I keep telling myself
everything will be alright.

Brenton Booth
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. If you want to read more of his work check out his book ” Punching The Teeth From The Sky” with the following link

Tax Plan Sneer Job by Jeff Bagato

Hot off the bumper of a winnebago
Ouija reads market quotes with a practiced
slide, desperate looking for payoff
to vacation—but all she gets is
sale paper sanity brainwash—
we bought big & are selling
cheap—all you save is
MONEY—promise of a lifetime—
best time to get fingers in the till
up to the elbows and play the slash
& burn game of capital weed whack,
leaping on board bull wagon
for a revolutionary way to clean,
World Bank giddy with pleasure dough
like wrestling naked in a bucket of ice water,
a skip in the step and a cell
phone in every pocket–yes!
I want it! I love it!
I’ll take it!
Behold, you are gentrification,
you are American Dream–
you are poverty’s pick pocket,
the marked man on the other
side of Zorro’s midnite—
but Ouija predicts collapse of shapewear
revolution, reading letters on the big board
that spell shit for bull, reading
“In strikes are dreams,
in capital, only desperation”—
Ouija flips down the paper &
gets hell back to

Jeff Bagato is a writer and electronic musician living near Washington, DC. Some of his poetry has appeared in Zoomoozophone Review, Otoliths, Clockwise Cat, Zombie Logic Review, Full of Crow, Exquisite Corpse, and Chiron Review. His most recent book of poems, Savage Magic, came out in early 2016. Other poetry books include And the Trillions and Spells of Coming Day. He has also published several science fiction novels, including The Toothpick Fairy, Computing Angels, and Dishwasher on Venus. A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at


WORMS/VERMAYZA*, circa 1978 by Julia Knobloch

It was autumn, late autumn,
maybe the first week of November,
and we went for a walk,
the family on a Sunday walk,
through the historic quarter
along the city walls
over cobblestones
past a cemetery.

It was the old Jewish quarter of
a town that once was home
to a famous Torah scholar, where
he built his house of study.
It is now a house of memory.

But I had never heard of Rashi then;
nor had I heard of heinous perfidy and shame.
I was five.

I asked, why is this called the Jewish quarter,
when all the Jews are gone?
Who were they? Where are they now?

Well, I had heard about them, briefly:
The people who had no country,
so they took their names from nature,
my grandmother said, denying parts
of her own family a rightful place in history.

Back then, I didn’t know this, either.

Who were the Jews? Where are they now?
I insisted. I was five.

It was late autumn,
around the first week of November.
It was cold, the streets were empty, and
my father and my mother remained silent.
*German and Yiddish names of a city in Germany

Julia Knobloch is a journalist and translator turned project manager and executive assistant. Before moving to New York from Berlin, she worked 10+ years as a writer and producer for TV documentaries and radio features. Her essays and reportage have been published in print and online publications in Germany, Argentina, and the US (openDemocracy, Brooklyn Rail, Reality Sandwich), and she occasionally blogs for An emerging poet, she recently was awarded the Poem of the Year prize from Brooklyn Poets for her poem Daylight Saving Time.


Somewhere Called Echo Lake Part One by Natalie Crick

A man shoots with a gun.
On a mission from God
Starting his own religion.
He could do anything now.

At Echo Lake
The flowers bled and died
Where she first stumbled, fell down
And cried.

Dizzy in the darkness,
Where he led her into a grove of trees.
And gunfire rang out
Like a terrible death bell.

There were no lights on the road.
Moonlight shone onto Echo Lake
Like something else.
A place from where no one else has ever come back.

Natalie Crick has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic confessional Women’s poetry. Her poetry has been published in a range of journals and magazines including Cannons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne’s Thread, Carillon and National Poetry Anthology 2013.

I’ve Seen Your Face Before (Keyholes) by Paul Tristram

He’s learnt to laugh insanely… quietly.
Bites his wrist and winces his eyes
when his own cleverness gets too much.
Removed the right-hand pocket lining
from his unfashionable, dribbly trousers.
Armed with 13 sheets of toilet roll
and a damp beige face flannel
he sets off giddily upon his nightly rounds.
‘Well, someone has to tuck Mrs. Jenkins
who lives in the old Victorian vicarage
into bed now her husband’s up and left’
he chuckles to himself wickedly
as he WD-40’s the back garden gate.
He shimmies with half an erection
to the spare side bedroom window.
Where at an extremely awkward angle
he manages to catch her flossing hard.
The full moon sheen upon white buttocks
sends him squirting lucidly
and reaching pathetically for his inhaler.
Drainpipe clinging desperately
with just shins and ankles,
he momentarily blacks-out
and then catches himself
just before slipping and falling silently
upon his very own freshly made wet patch.

paul bodmin jail
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!

Glass Half Full by Katie Lewington

sitting on the bed
duvet crushed underneath me –
I’m a sumo wrestler, victory

drinking a drink
with another fantasy playing in my head
where everything is in technicolour

it works out
and I’m sure, i am sure

but i am not now

i am walking around

it’s like, what am i living for

you gave up
i continue my duty
it is a burden
why did your freedom get returned
while i am here
taking care of our
spastic son.

Katie Lewington
Katie Lewington is a UK based writer and has been drafting, editing and rewriting her bio since she started submitting to literary magazines and journals two years ago. It isn’t as if she doesn’t know who she is, she just isn’t sure what is relevant. Her creative writing can be read at or She can be contacted through Twitter @idontwearahat

Minor Threat by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

He said he was into hardcore
and I asked him if that meant Viagra,
he seemed a little young for all that
but you never know
and he laughed and said he was a punk
which explained the leathers and
numerous piercings
I had thought him one of those performance artists
that drink warm animal piss from recycled juice jars
to old Donna Summer
but he reassured me
he was not that,
and that hardcore was more
of a lifestyle
than anything
like eating organic
or swingers
the habitual arms dealing
of half ironic war
ensuring the poor
have more bullets
then teeth.

RyanQuinnFlanagan - UltraViolet Reading
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a happily unmarried proud father of none. His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as Your One Phone Call, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Dead Snakes. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.