Afternoon delights.

I can have as many as i want if i’m good.

I smile at him sweetly as anyone would.

It’s only one a day, and i’ll burn the rest,

Every new touch lingers on the flesh.

I crave something new and sweet, I deserve a little treat.

Each strange face a cute meet and a foreign bed to sleep.

Delicious on my lips until it spoils my insides,

I always leave the remnants on my bedside,

So the next time I deprive myself i don’t forget

How to replace hunger with regret and a warm bed.

But i’m prettier between bedsheets than the confectionary isle,

And I promise not to do either for a long while.

(You can see where i’m going with this)

A hershey or a kiss? Both only moments of momentary bliss

That clings to my mouth and I suck in its foul taste.

It sinks to my stomach. He brings sweet treats to my place.

by Hannah

Scorched Eyes

You can’t poison a tongue

That has already licked thorns

With her head dragged

Through a thicket of rose bushes

Eyes scraped from the leaves

Blush pink petals left messed in her hair

Her crown bleeds yet never falls

A voice tells her to appreciate the flowers

Rather than to speak ungratefully

Questioning how she cannot see

The bright side of this sight

As she picks off the thorns from her temples

Her eyes already witnessed horror

Of streets being set fire fueled by laughter

Cackles from those who set flames

While those who supposed to protect

Run around like headless chickens

As homes burn on the street

She remembers the poor girl

Who was slapped for crying over

Her missing rag doll

The one her grandmother made

She wonders how anyone could smile

Upon the sight of ashes

She will no longer be surprised yet

She will always be shocked

by Sonia Charales

Love Poem

Divide and conquer

The agenda of a rotten world

but we are getting wiser and stronger

Day by day

Be the rose growing from the concrete

Don't allow anyone to deplete you

of your energy

Protect it

And live in synergy with like minded beings

It seems

something is changing

Autumn equinox, leaves are falling down

The future is orange: cozy,

beautiful and warm,

and I feel inspired to write another

Love poem

How come?

Well, instead of focusing on problems

attached to the outcome, we should flow

and think of ways to solve them.

Letting them dissolve

Like something drawn on sand after the

sea foam kisses the shore

Ignore the noise and observe bad thoughts

Passing by like clouds in the sky

Choose love

Over fear, a smile rather than crying

I know, the night won't exist without the day

And vice versa

but I always suggest the lesser of

evils write the rest in verses

Adverse reactions? None

Instead of guns

Use love poems

Random rhythm rumbling, tumbling

entangled in the quantum field.

Words shield like an armor

Harbour, where you can rest And

find ways to express yourself Your

best interest is to overcome

unhappiness, say it from your chest

Hymn of freedom

Discipline and

optimism Let love be your

religion

Fighter, magnetised

After finding out about wholeness

Individualism is the medicine prescribed To

keep us away from community and union.

Be a safe place where your loved ones

can take off the armor.

Tell your man he's handsome

Don't always wait for him to tell you

Sentimentalism, romanticism, spiritualism

against scepticism, separatism and rationalism.

I'm not saying don't use your brain, but don't over analyse everything...

let it be.

In this troublesome capitalistic world

Write love poems instead of invoices.

See the beauty all around

Smell the flowers

Light some incense and pray

Wake up with the first light of the day Meditate

and make the world a better place

by Federica

Hot tongue

It’s the baby brown glitter eyes for me that shine as Frank O’Hara recites another love torn poetry on the tape/ On my wall , there’s a picture of you smiling, the one I clicked when I told you I love the rush , motorcycles and leather jacketed guys/ you thought I was saying the truth/ some days I wish I was/ I would rather love someone like you/ the ones who are quiet and not quiet/ the ones who give their all, pining like a teenage baby, watching from afar because they think they aren’t enough to drop by and say hi/ they are the ones, the crazy ones in my dictionary, my match on earth or some other celestial place, the ones who look very much like you/ who would rather watch Ladybird with me in bed than get drunk on whiskeys just because they can/ the ones who'll suffer in their loneliness, let the anguish run wild in their journals and surrender their fantasy of being the one for Fiona Apple like girls/ only to see them smile from afar/ but let’s be honest, I probably won’t even speak without feeling you around me/ I’m dramatic like that and too far gone for guys like you/ or just you/ the 16 year old me has yet to realise that/ as O'Hara says, i would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world/ I think that says a lot about how far my obsession goes for slow love/ for you/ where I let go of what all others look for/ I'd rather live in a broken chair at home with you than the motel bars that never have the quiet ones gazing from the afar

by Divisha Chaudhry

La Veo

Was it a hallucination,

or did a god really call my name?

From the deep night

I was awoken by the roar of Coatlicue.

Her glowing yellow eyes burrowed

into my mine, igniting my mind.

The brown scales of her serpentine heads

glistened, slithering through

my quiet thoughts.

My fear made my head turn from her,

afraid of possible sacrifices asked of me.

She drew closer,

muttering in a language my mouth was meant to taste.

What warnings were whispered into my mortal ears?

What teachings did I miss?

Still, she is calling, and I don’t know how to answer.

For now, I light candles

and speak to shadows, hoping it is her.

I need this more now than I ever have.

I am lost in the blur between this world

and theirs.

Hungry to know everything

that was once lost.

by Christiane Williams-Vigil

to the cleaning lady at benito juárez international airport

i had a grandmother who loved me once / maybe / i am searching for her everywhere / even before a flight / back home / to the house she died in / she is the ghost / i look for in the living / in your ginger coils / i see her white ones / the same plastic bucket / you hold aloft / to avoid the splash / sloshing its fullness / to the floor / your mop with thick, long locks / like melting snow & mud / & heavy as a head of hair / even the earrings / gold hooks hanging / from the lobes of your ears / remind me of her jewelry box / how she beckoned me / to her bedroom / every birthday / to gift a ring or necklace / from its velvet gums / i wore each one once / then lost them / or covered the gemstones in dust / i kept my mouth shut / even when my mother asked / looking up / i ask my father to translate / the spanish words threaded in white / down your spine / where it says / cleanliness is an act of discipline / (see: code of behavior / regiment / direction) / es una expresa de amor y respectó / (see: esteem / regard / admire) / i swallow it / & think of how i used to be loved / am i still grandmother’ed / if i only have one? / i want to believe it / rather than an act of servitude / of hurting heels / & bended back / eyes lowering when another / enters a room / perhaps it is neither / perhaps it is both / but if this is love / i picture your heart in the soap / a beating, bloody thing / cradled by bubbles & suds / your lungs sitting / on the spot you just mopped / shoe prints already appearing / a stand-in yellow sign calling cuidado / a warning both tender & sharp / like a soft slap on the wrist / how my grandmother growled it / when she saw me / running / sock-slipping on the floor in the dark / you smell like sundays at our house / like all of mexico / disinfectant & bleach / purple-bottled fabuloso foam / diluted with water / & thrown in buckets to the street / you come closer / smile with eyes / i can’t remember the color of / but i notice you’ve become blonde / in this light / she had the same hair once / & scoliosis from bending over too much / being the last to sit down / to eat / to pray / i don’t want to be a woman / always looking down at her feet / i wish i’d asked for your name / please / i hope you go home early today / treat yourself to a warm bath / scented with oils & fruit / soak your hips in the water / return to a spouse / willing to massage / the meat of your feet / i wish i’d told her so / before she left me / moving through the world mourning / & seeing the dead in every emptiness / maybe / i’m trying / to clean her out of me / free my mind of her memories / even though she’s made my heart a home / come / scrub away at this bruise / the aching / the burning / the blue.

by Sofía Aguilar

Celestial remedies

orbiting in the crevices of my body I

found that a lighthouse lives

in the pinpoint, triangular cusp

of my heart

the trickling goes on and on

to the quiet region of my gut

backstrokes in memories

below, some earthy overgrowth

floral features flood the fragments

[absences]

sewing seeds into my bones

now — of molasses

imagine that water was collecting at

the commencement of my daydreaming

held my breath to examine the

spotted roof above

found tightropes with wild dragonflies

fired up / still mirroring glass

compromised by pines and currents

if in this lies the stillness of movement

i’m going to stay some more

by Paris Jessie

Pippa, I'm Disintegrating

Pippa, I’m disintegrating

you say to me,

I’m not the way I used to be,

Not slightly.

And all I can see is people

who flash their life,

Whilst I can barely walk here, melting under

the molten yolk of the summer light.

The slathers of your cheeks shiver as you speak,

And you find it hard to get the words out,

It’s a squeak,

And all the seagulls you spend your time

shouting at,

I wish I didn’t bother getting worried,

I’m bad at that.

You call me and you call me all the time,

Whilst you forget I’m sitting upstairs on the telephone line,

But I don’t mind that the beads of your memory

have disintegrated completely,

Just being here with you is a lovely eternity.

by Pippa Hill

Wishful Thinking

Every time I hear love song

Blasting outside my window

I hope it's you

Finally


Coming back

To fight for me

But then I remember


That stuff only happens in movies

And none of them include

"I LOVE YOU"


Stitched across a homemade mask

Set to the backdrop

Of a global


Pamplemousse rose

by Lé

First Generation

Although I try to rest like the sun, Because

I have so much passion inside

to give to this world. not only do I thrive for me,

When I try to shut off I thrive for:

I feel horrible. my mother,

my father,

I feel that I am not putting my sisters,

enough of me in the family legacy. my uncles,

my cousins,

I feel like I’m being too selfish. my grandparents,

my great-grandparents,

But, do they not know and all those who came before me.

that this load is too much?

And that's too much...

I need some self-care to keep thriving.

A little patience, -- I only

love, and support to continue giving. need

a moment

for me

to keep thriving

by Solany Lara

Corner

I dream about smashing skulls into the corners of tables


but last night I didn’t


last night I dreamt the bodies were already wrapped up, with packing tape, the brown too-shiny kind, the threaten to rip-at-any-second type


and they were stuffed hastily into a too-large suitcase on top of all my favourite possessions

but somehow they stacked neatly with everyone else, quiet, murmuring,


there is no longer a difference between the once-alive and the once-dead.

something glints, meaningfully, underneath the crackling bodies


I exclaim in delight as I recognise them as forgotten clothes I once-loved

so I pull them out in a flourish.


who would be so silly to put all my favourite things in this suitcase?


isn’t it to be rid of? isn’t it to be parted with?


why would I ever want to let go of you? why would I ever need to?

a flashback pierces my skull this time.


I saw how my shin bone sawed off its head. I saw how my applied pressure made their eyes bulge out, it was almost comical (but I don’t laugh).


so we have a history... we did so much together... didn’t you laugh with me at the point of

contact? (you laughed your head off, and I offered one in return).

but now you lie neatly with the other two and I don’t recognise you anymore.

there’s no blood on my hands


there is only the sharp corner of a table.

by Yulin Huang

she has many names

maybe sultanahmet is the brain

where the memories of the old city live

maybe the bosphorus is the veins

maybe beyoğlu is the heart

beyoğlu broke and the city cried

the bridges started to collapse around me

by Gamze Şanlı

In heat.

It’s the heat that kills.

When I lie in bed and it seeps through me pooling in that inferno,

I forget what the flames eat first, and what evil lurks beneath,

Or within, but I hold my breath until it stills.

I wait and linger and plead, but the darkness wants everything to do with me.

It fills me until the cracks smooth over and I kick at covers.

When I was smaller, you would tell me to leap from the sheets,

Grab everything I could hold onto; now my hands work against me and I no longer use yours.

For a while I held on, cramming the space around me and then it turned to great waves,

No longer driftwood on the strange tides, but jetsam trashing my shores.

I loathed these walls and the ice that crept around me,

Teetering along edges and finding me weak.

When I can no longer reason, it is your name I speak,

Then the flames swell and flicker and part.

I descend further and stop to see your face from below

And remember how it felt long ago to sit by your side and burn

When I used to wait for sparks to take flame.

It is the embrace of time I only know so dear,

Yet I hope to see you come back around here.

by Hannah

The Dance Manifesto

I think, leaders of countries should be made to dance in public, be they dictators, monarchs or the head of a republic.

Before being sworn in crowned or inaugurated, leaders should first display unadulterated, physical articulation, by way of pelvic thrusts and gyrations, as a symbol of trust, to their nations. After which, they should twerk with ease, to show they aim to work for and please, each and every citizen they serve.

I don’t quite want them to dance in a group or with a partner. Alone, baring their soul, is the daring I’m after. Maybe, they could lead a Conga line, and then, straight into… a dutty wine.

If I, were bestowed, with unconditional power, I would legislate for a complete hour of dance, every day, for everybody. You see, I find it unfortunate and sad, when I hear people obstinate and glad to say, that they don’t like movement, or even music! And though you might disagree with my decree, I guarantee, that to move can improve, the body, mind and souls of individuals. Individuals form nations and nations shape the world!

Now irrespective of frivolities, like, I’m shy, I’m a guy, it’s just not my thing. Or varied abilities, such as the body you live in has limitations. Dance isn’t just for people who can walk, stand up, hear, see and talk. Nor does it seek high education, or low morals. You can be a winner, a happy sinner, a tightwad with a hotline to God. Dance has no preferences or boundaries.

If you can move, you can groove and delight your soul with flow. What you move and how you move it, is up to you! You can boogie in complete silence, to the sensational sensations within. Or sit in a chair and lead the cheer with gestures. Do your thing, it’s yours. Free up and do it, your way!

Movement can be bombastic, lyrical and fantastic. Yes, dance is for everyone; even the clumsy.

So don’t scoff at dad, and say his antics are bad! Try observing him through loving eyes, and hopefully you’ll realise that he’s responding to a joy inside, that’s having a bit of a bumpy ride, exiting his spirit.

The dance elements, of body, space, effort and time, come together to rhythmically rhyme…and make you feel good.

It’s an inner magic, ethereal but oh so real. And though dance is visual the essence, is to feel the feeling and surrender to it.

Try this. After a bad day, take yourself home, smooch with your partner or smooch on your own. Motion releases emotion, and emotion colours motion. Flow with it, go with it and know; that you can dance to remember, just as, you can dance to forget!

Did you ever see Mandela dance? What a King. He so nobly expressed himself through everything God gave him.

Because I know it will take time for most to understand and agree, Mandela is evidence that my decree, is the ideal movement, to take that bold step-for-change, into a new joy filled, world of peace!

Let leaders take a chance and dance. Starting with some pelvic thrusts, for trust!

by Sheba Montserrat

Did you make it through winter?

Did you sleep through what you thought was winter

with 2 blankets

only to open your eyes and find

that it was still dark,

making you roll over

and stay in bed for longer?

But then,

realising that troubles don’t last,

did you wake up one day

to the sun shining outside,

finally,

onto dry pavements

and windowpanes?

Has it happened yet,

that you feel optimistic

for the year ahead

despite the chaos all around

and uncertainty of each moment?

Among it all,

is joy filling your heart

slowly but surely from the bottom up,

lovingly threatening to stick around

until the end of year celebrations?

Have you yet recognised

the power to do anything you wanted

as the thing that you carried in your arms

day and night

throughout this season

as the dark sky overpowered

the presence of light in your life?

Are you now seeing what is confirmed

as hope at the end of your tunnel?

They said things are looking up

and it’s the first time

you’ve felt that in months

now it’s real

You made it through winter

whether you dragged, drugged, persuaded, or willed

yourself to do it

in the face of all your tribulations

You did it

and you will do it again,

just like you always have.

by Adefela Olowoselu

euphoric love

this euphoric gaze

is infectious

until i’m stuck in a daze

of love for my people,

i’m in love with my people

basking in their love for me,

all of us riding euphoric waves

unafraid because this joy protects us

see,

we’re connecting with a higher self

a higher way of being and

dreaming

and feeling

and

this joy isn’t fleeing

no,

it’s sprouting new leaves as i speak

reaching for above

euphoric branches reaching news peaks

proving that this love

for my people

and my peoples love for me

will always see us exceed

limitations placed by another

our unity helping us to achieve

the very best

for our growth,

for our people

for our culture

and because of this i can trust

that with us

there is hope

for a future

full of peace,

full of love,

full of joy,

and that is enough.

by Chan Seraphina Ahadi

DO YOU REMEMBER THE DAYS OF SLAVERY

This poem is an ode to Caribbean women (me included) stuck in the rut of the slavery diet, which our tastebuds inherited the tasty trauma of. Salty, fatty meats, placing value on animal produce and devaluing nutritionally dense food isn’t something that can go unspoken of when the conversation of slavery arises. Especially not in a diasporic community where women and men are twice as likely to contract prostate and breast cancer in comparison to white counterparts. Slavery still lingers and the effects have never required observation or sight alone. The effects are clear through all five senses of pigtail stew peas goodness. The poem explores a conflicting conversation I had with my ancestors about why they chose to pass down recipes that gave my mum high cholesterol and my auntie breast cancer.

---

Do you remember the days of slavery?

How do you want to remember slavery?

Am I a victim of transatlantic slavery?

Or am I a survivor whooooo...


Bares the same trauma as my ancestors.

Them ask why we still affi talk about slavery...

...Because oxtail, crowfoot and pigs feet still taste so sweet to me

From the likkle scraps massa gave my great great granny

No nutritional value pon it

Di likkle piece a skellion can’t save it

Nuh matter how mi try fi mek it sound healthy

Them ask why we still affi talk about slavery...

...Because food we still ah eat can cause disease

Aunty breast cancer, chemotherapy

Mi ah suck out the bone ah di lamb neck stew

Chew off di gristle pon the chicken back

Links to high cholesterol and heart attack

Mi still nuh want face di facts

But who is to blame for my family recipe

Is it di massa who left di scraps fi my great great granny?

So when them ask why we still affi talk about slavery...

...It’s because plantation food still taste so so sweet

by Jahmila

Untitled

like halos adorning the crumbles of history, fog

traces

her fingers over forgotten names, swirling

translucent

cursive along lettered echoes

‘soon, soon, soon,’

withered red, frail skeletal darlings, decaying

romantic lexis on ruins

his preserved body lazes on a wooden frame,

bathing

in my blood

forever the white saviour

we shall know nothing more than what the past

dictates us to believe-

does desire of the truth plague you incessantly?

chains condensed, snugly fit into pages in your

garter,

he rustles against your fingertips

frilled cuffs amidst the shifting shroud of death,

breath fragrant with wine,

laconic noon and stern sun-downs brought

us here

the cyclical link whose hair i adorn with strings of opalescence

a lost soul feeds on the solitary gasping

Marlborough,

the one weighed by the weeping Caucasian

warmed by a honeyed flame

by Nia

The Gravedigger

When I met the fox, he was a gravedigger

‘The years have aged me’ the fox would weep

Every tombstone was shiny


Covered in clingfilm


‘to stop the rain from tearing them to bits.’

In another life, the fox was a criminal


Mother loved bad men


‘I could have been a dancer’ the fox said


‘I had nimble feet’


On tippy-toes, the fox would dance in the moonlight.

There was one particularly special grave

The grave of a badger named Elaina


The fox would scream her name

Pretending it was a performance art piece

I asked him what she did


He replied, ‘she was a master of disguise’

That isn’t a job I quipped


‘and yet she was always working’

Love could not be laughed away


Still every night the fox had a heart for dinner

With a side of fries


‘hold the ketchup please’

I don’t visit the Gravedigger anymore

He calls me on his mobile device

And when he can’t hear me


He calls me Elaina, and I cry

by Fowsia

Ramblings of a Born-Again Sinner

For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.” -Matthew 20:1

We see what the kingdom of heaven is like... But what is god like?

---

We didn’t fail god

god failed us

God is like a child with a “Do Not Enter” sign on his bedroom door. You draw closer, he draws

further way.


With each step toward him, he takes one back.

God is like


a father that walked out on his child.


The child abandoned asking what they did wrong.

god left his people


Long before the “salvation” in the desert.


Long before the exodus.


God left us in the garden


half-naked


exiled.

The first father

Walked out on his first child

Sins of the father as they say

God is like


a distorted mirror


We were created by him


In his image.


How vain


With the task


to love him.


How selfish.


To create something Just for it to love you.

How pathetic.

God is like


the child that


Tires of a toy after he breaks it.

Tossing it aside to collect dust.

God is like


the Fuckboy


That you want to feel closer to

Promises of


Love


Safety


Security


But


Sin disfigured us.


Made us ugly to him.


Ghosted by the Holy

God is like


the teacher that fails his students

Testing us


But


He created a test with no right answers.

And told us to pass.


Knowing we’d fail.


Fuck the test.


He failed us,


Not because we ate the fruit


but because he already ate it too.

God is like


The therapist


You go to at


Your most desperate


Weakest


Most vulnerable


He mocks your weakness


Twists the knife


In your mind


Mutilates your thoughts Nothing left but a

Lobotomized husk

God is like


The rebel leader


His gaslit torch


Promising


Rebellion


Disruption


Revolution


All the while Sowing seeds of

Conformity

Corruption

Suppression

His perfection is a lie.


Thinking if they were better


Then dad would have stayed.


The father failed his child.


God failed his children.


God’s not dead, he’s just not here right now.

God is like


The landowner


That hikes the rent


He works you in his fields

Only for you


To pay him back the wage

As you toil for your pennies

He snatches them away

Yes, god’s kingdom is like a landowner

who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.

by Rae Lee