Late Summer Things Leave or Rot

By Frankie Mace

 

office-space

 

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

unnamed

 

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

 

waking-sea

By Caitlín Róisín

unnamed-1

a film of sweat

washing dry

my lips apart

the heavy uhhhh

oh the heavy limbs

stuck here and here

majesty

blew into my nose

and I tasted

the grey light, also

cotton wound on dust

a warm shape gone

fraying the reeds, horses

snort

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

wait

wake

the salt licking my lips