Late Summer Things Leave or Rot

By Frankie Mace




Floodlights on a back road observant of vigilance


Murmurless but for the almonds growing by the wall // topophobic


Careering beetles assault Oleaceae branches



Screen doors dustily // dusk hot and orange speaks for us


Floodlit by a porch light filled with the appearance of things


The stars weakly compete // longing chews the air it has substance



On a back road by the wall a many-scented memory graft


Yellow hills recede as arms murmurless


In a white box house separation spasms // brown limbs longly drape tangentially



Sparse lacerations inarticulating rapture


Chemically pool-blue child shriek leaps // kitchen fed olives


Chicken innards bloody flies-haunted slap flat stone floor cat laps



Here is the locale of convalescence


Reassembling in the heat // breaking almond shells with a found rock


Whirring grey Discman wires connect us nose to nose // brown arms white nails



Poet’s jasmine wreathed fecundity flavoured stickily with loss


Accumulated debris of terracotta tiles // ants liquescently uncanny weave a sun lounger


Dusk hot and orange // speaks for us



Slick smiling melon slices cut for a pool-blue brown child


Moorish blankets rough faced day beds dark cornered


Here is the locale of convalescence // four rooms afternoon quieted



Rough built stone walls // cool hot air currents soporifically muted


Old car recedes crunch skids the gravellish back road


Not a crash but a dismantling centre first // cicadas in the dust hills



Behind the box house by the wall amid the almonds and olives.


Pain is kept there as a memory // murmurless

British Steel

By M.J. Cole



The Station is printing an escalator that spirals clockwise

At point break banally raptured and as immaculate

As identity shouted down from history

Windows inhale to shatter themselves

Reveal a shrapnel portal beckoning

Forceps scalpel forearm force in fragments

Permeate the wall and drop void-wise

Nothing gets rebuilt only rebranded

Imperial facades are a kitsch warning

The preservation of a threshold symbol

Slack-jawed sovereignty compounds

While social combustibility ghostwrites

Parricidal syntax to trace the arc of survival

Potentiality pixelating into grain silos of undifferentiata

The new black is squared and the crack is cubed

It makes us stop at the border of them and us

Boiling footsteps of indiscretion as every starting car

Might shudder a prelude to an explosive sigh

Finally stones comfort as they rise

Two hundred fifty miles per hour as they rise

To spite the muscle and marrow of history

As they rise as they rise as they rise



By Caitlín Róisín


a film of sweat

washing dry

my lips apart

the heavy uhhhh

oh the heavy limbs

stuck here and here


blew into my nose

and I tasted

the grey light, also

cotton wound on dust

a warm shape gone

fraying the reeds, horses


kick the day, my toes

brush the wet neck

soiling our land our

dry mountain we

are lead out of the desert

we are sunk onto the coast

low sun

weight-ed sky

there is an arc of dryness

our wheels could click

I watch it part and



the salt licking my lips