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Poetry is Peng – March


He took his time, he waited years

That night, they put the kids to bed

And he watched her gentle eyes

reflecting dying fire embers

And when the embers were almost


he said, “Sweetie, I have a secret.

A secret I’ve never told a soul.”

And her eyes were fearful, curious.

He contorted inside

The truth was, he’d waited for the flames to die out

Not just to stall

But to make sure they wouldn’t hurt him

If she pushed him in.

She, oh she would never, could never

But he’d told before and nobody

Least of all himself

Had understood, or even been


Closed doors and blood from fingernail scratches

Broken nose, tired eyes

Dark circles in pretty purple smudges


He finds himself back in this familiar living room

His house, his wife, his rules.

And he must tell because it hurts like broken


to keep it inside.

“And, darling, when I was in prison, I didn’t kill a man.

I didn’t murder, I didn’t steal

I committed a capital offense, unforgivable,

And for it I still burn in the hell of my own skin

In self-captivity.

I didn’t kill a man, I loved one.”

She knew, then, what they’d tried to do

With slow torture; as if his soul was not

tortured enough already

As if he would not have committed another capital sin

If he had the chance.

Sparks, spasms, liquid cruelty

Screams and tears of acid pouring down his face and in his veins,



“But that is not my secret”, I whispered, my voice splinters, my voice the ashes of the fire gone.

“My secret is, it didn’t work.”






M’avvolgeran ancor le nubi,

Frattanto che tu,



Clothe me shall the mist, anew,

So long as you’re,






Gods Port


Our neighbours refused, we welcomed – ale in arm,

Two ships; Sihab-I Bahri and Miraty Zafar.

Four hundred and sixty Ottomans, a six-and-a-half-month moor

is why Gosport’s been named Turk Town since 1854.


Sea and dust combined, twenty-six sailors died,

cholera and tuberculosis to mention the least.

From Haslar they were sent, to an eternity of rest,

in the cemetery besides Clayhall street.

Still across the creek it flies, Turkish flag in pride,

Abdallah and Hayrunnisa are handed flowers.

Beyond the prison we gaze, as the poppies are placed

over the bodies this town once towered.


Yet, as in Ocean Breeze we feast, this history is uncomplete

besides, Orhan’s is a teenager’s dream.

And as long haired we stand, outside Ramze’s red door,

I gladly name Gosport Turk Town today and since 1854.


Amy Thomson



My inability to get hurt
Like dead flesh
It doesn’t hurt like a fresh rose
When stomped
Dead flesh sees future
Of being hung
After cut for steaks..
It doesn’t complain or
Can it complain after being dead?
Feathers ceded by birds in flight
Are like me.
They don’t get hurt
For they are not butterflies squashed by
Children in play..





My Mistress is Agony

For Mental Health Day

What? Wait. No, please wait my dear,

I’m not ready for this, I’ve just barely healed,

I’m begging you please, oh ma cher,

These words echo in my mind as I see agony approaching,

Her eyes are filled with hatred & devotion,

Her temptuous lips glittering with abusive admonition,

Her soft hands are so cold, so dead, yet fair,

Her hypnotizing scent would will any man with despair,

Her flawless skin makes me tremble with fear,

And with a kiss from her lips, soon death shall be here.

Zeeshan Malik



i no longer need to explain myself

my experiences have allowed me to push out my emotions

whether good or bad – it is my personal coping mechanism

when approached with an opportunity to talk

i question “what is this going to change”

yes, talking is good for the soul

but, recapping all that has broken you isn’t ideal either.

i don’t want to remember anymore, and as harsh as it sounds – you can’t help.

so save your generic responses

they don’t plant any seeds for me to bloom

let me grow at my own pace

accept me for choosing this path

because, if my pain has brought me this far you can’t blame me for adjusting to the effects of it.


new beginnings


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