Forever by Peter J. King

Forever 01

Forever 02

Forever 03

Forever 04

As it is very difficult to read because of the size of the writing, I’ll write out just the words:



Peter J. King



henna or



full well





she is a




a prophet




clouded justice














develops a taste

for serpent

for ever



The End Whisperer by Jay S Zimmerman

The dead whisper to each other tied together by unseen strands of timeless wandering through the wilderness of pain, smeared like paint across the canvas of time, paint like blood, coagulated colors of frost and sweat in children’s screams over centuries of monsters squashing flesh into roads. Light breaks each morning revealing facades of long lost temples and mosques, of skyscrapers and houses, of bones piled high and peeling flesh. Sounds of mourning pierce like spears as corpses carried high make the journey down the river of insignificance. The wheel just turns and turns over days and months and years and decades and the grieving remains the same wherever its loudspeakers blare the voices of the weeping.  The strand will break and we will all soon be scattered into dark black holes and spit out into the hinterlands of infinity.


BIO:  Jay S Zimmerman is an artist, photographer, psychologist and social justice advocate. He has recently been published in Matryoshka Poetry, Three Line Poetry, I am not a silent poet, Curly Mind, and Flying Island, New Verse News, Quatrain.Fish and Rats Ass Review.

What is there to write? by Debasis Mukhopadhyay

A zebra.

I want to write a zebra.

An array of upturned coffins keeling over an indigo road leads me to the border.
Maybe I should try to write a spine.

Quieted in that spine like melancholia, the sunrays still keep glinting. Cobwebs hover over the kingdoms of killings.

Sunshine yes.

But I would probably keep sunshine aside and thousands of its likelihoods, thinking of the ripples of weapons murmuring like a saline breeze around our best immediate interest.

Fingers, perhaps, growing sunflowers?

Fingers, not bloodied, smudging the pastel until a hallo appears lodged in the hollow songs freshly hatched out of the muskets.

Fingers wrap us in a musical of red poppies glimmering in the sun beneath the water with myriad skulls weighing down the long drowned boats.

The sea is known to be turbulent at times. Think of the firmament?

Yes, firmament! From under those naked skins it keeps gazing on the slalom of lives awaiting a starry Lych gate.

And with all the starlets dripping fireballs in mind, I open the lifespan of lullabies for the children of war.

Dreams only root out of dreams & their shambles roll across the rubbed pastel debris to shatter against your silhouette of folly, oh muse mine, what is there to write?

Sail on, doll head, sail on, the night is your wool of time, your doom, your womb of lilac, just go fetch a zebra.

‘menos tu vientre’ by Debasis Mukhopadhyay

(after Miguel Hernandez)

that the borders of our memories are (always) shifting : Yeats

she knows


just said

footfalls & wings

been broken kind

always undoing the hasp

tugging endless


that’d played & honeyed

loft sorrows

of silk

laid over blue nails




borne away

in a scant light

rosewood beads

around the neck

around nothing


the tang of longing


she knows

nest hollowed out

and nails hammered into

the hatchlings

always blind & naked

what a moist evening

branches beneath



always lopsided roads

tossed to

her incised map

to terraform




blinds & baffles

and her

bath bubbles narrate satin in life

over the crust of bleeding

marauder in her womb

stars’ egress

sultry blubber

& biography

cracking up


she knows

brambles that hide her eyes

hide the sea in a fold

such old words


said before

never before


shifting borders

darkness abloom

the hackneyed strings of guitar


tu vientre

tu vientre

menos tu vientre


* Link to the original poem with English translation :


Menos tu vientre by Joan Manuel Serrat on Youtube :

He Who Burned Down The Temple by Zoë Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe

They said he was on a good errand:

but what proof do you have of that.


He had good stories to tell –

filling the ears of a hundred servants

all invited to gather and to listen and feast

upon words, the noises – they came as before

and when he had finished declaiming

all who had heard, said he’d spoken well.


These listeners stayed there awhile

eyes fixed upon stars,

sitting at the outer edge of a circle,

these men of worth, sitting, as if they were great

and wealthy chieftains, little to do, little to say.


He explained it all in pleasing well-meant language,

words that count when nothing else will please .


On the third night, he set out for home,

bade them farewell with the firmest kind of oaths,

sailed his ship to the north of the glacier

then out into the shelter of the islands.


It may be that what he did was good but I expect that bad rather than good will come of it.