The Garden

Alexis Eaton

My head is like a garden, full of flowers of thought sometimes i swear i see dancing everywhere

Although sometimes what I think, doesn’t follow what I’ve been taught. There’s a heavy door to this garden, one which requires a key; I rarely give it out, because that’s how it has to be As sometimes it’s been trampled on, and certain flowers ceased to grow. But this has only taught me that not everyone is meant to know Your wildest aspirations and seemingly far-fetched imagination, as your flowers of thoughts are like the people of a nation. It’s not always going to be sunny; it’s not always going to be spring, But sometimes you take a risk, and see what someone will bring, If all you receive is snow and the constant hurricanes of rain, Know that your garden is not a place for others to plant their pain. This garden should be cherished, and looked after with care, Even though sometimes you might be the only gardener there. But you need to have rain to appreciate the sun, for how could you know boring if there was no fun?

Most people forget the responsibility of doing these deeds, But they should never cut or plant other flowers for someone else’s needs. Don’t forget to water your garden, and shine plenty of sun on it too Otherwise you’ll destroy your garden, which will eventually destroy you.

Saskia Kirkegaard

the flicks of the choir conductor the steps of the barbers in their shop window the swirl of the hawthorns as they drop the screech of the steamer in the coffee shop i unwrap garlic like it’s a birthday present i read initials carved into benches, messages sent.

the world is a poem if you read it, the everyday is common prayer, a masterpiece, a waltz, an edit. a final form, a long hard stare.

Glossolalia

Edie Lyons

Loving you comes with the stares of strangers, glancing in the street for they want a peak. It comes with a strange sensation of being followed, but I now know that’s just the little pieces of yourself you leave behind.

I do not love you for the carnations that grow from your rosy cheeks. Nor the radiance emitted from your skin, carrying you in this life and the last. But I know that’s why the world loves you, they love you for all the things they can see –the flowery essence that scatters the path you walked.

I love you for the way your eyes catch mine as soon as they begin to glaze over, For the way your laugh harmonises with my own as though we’re speaking in tongues, For the way your hands guide me just where I planned to go as our hearts dance across the room, For the way the world dissolves away as soon as our souls hide in the shadows.

My love for you is all I know and all I’ll ever know, (For I was born the minute I walked through that door), My love for you is shrouded in a mystery even I cannot solve, (It seems I do not understand my own heart).

So close your eyes, my love

Lay your head on mine, my dearest

For I am nothing without that soft whisper from your heart to mine.

Nephrops Norvegicus Velvet Morgan

We’ve met before, still Langoustine, With senses, we have touched. By hands, I’ve held your carapace, And lifted up your hand, to know a thing of loss. But why instil yourself again, Must I always fear to forget? Your tawny bridge, clenched inwards now, Closing upon what life you had, That shelters silhouette.

Whiskered white, your sceptres float, Your moon-jet eyes washed by saffron sea. Yet, still you are, ice-stoned, in furnace heat: Time gifted you, so that I may eat.

My Father of the Sea, my fine-flamed Emperor, I want to know what moved you then. How did those daggered aquilines defend? And chase the living waters, unheld and free?

I draw you out, to know what moved you then. A bridge unfurling, A path to me, you send, With crusted, shellac bones, you move alive, How easy it is, in a moment’s breath, to fool the infested mind.

But why, the more I move you, does your stiffness fight, When I am gifting you a moment’s life? Must you survive this state, That stole you from the other? How quick you moved, and then to sudden, unstirring shudders.

I know I cannot rouse you, still Langoustine, Your silence is a rattle, The rattling of silence I’ve heard before, Of what I hear everyday: Unchanged, unremitting.

And now, I mutilate your body, as I mutilate my mind, Crackled shell, and extremities pulled

To the flesh-filled meat, that guarded your heart, And I consume all that is left of you.

Do I keep your life inside of me?

In the heightened slits of memories, Still gone, still there?

With parts of your expiry slit, and sewn together: Over, and over again.

Still gone. Still there.

Time can never devour you, still Langoustine, No less me.

The Air’s Conditions

Yazmin Sadik

Here I fill more space, feeling grander than these houses I know no attachments too.

Attacking, sofa leather cracking the peaceful air’s conditions. These temporary migrants are wearing pictures of me in their pockets; I don’t ask from which room they’re taken from. The bookshelf’s rock-face kiss the only comfort in them now. Even my mother, having to pull herself away from the clock to greet me, only dances with wall-attached-hands as a goodbye finale. Can’t help but perform a last hissing fit - A climax for the stages conflict

This flight will crash, ripped apart by thunder & the corners of dark rattling the glass bottles on the attendant’s drink trolley, it’s sounding like little dry bones. That rattle, like death, a calling

Turbulence Rohan Sangha

to read the emergency instructions again for me & for him.

I don’t want us to die somewhere in an endless black sea, our bodies burnt into air like firewoodI’m telling him all this. That I’ve analysed the flight path, memorised the nearest exit. every screech of the metal wings calls for a fresh check that we both have our canary lifejackets.

& the rain is punching harder now so my toes are curling around the sand in my shoes the only land left to hold on to until his hand spread open on the armrest an island a lotus

I hold it every time I think I might crash