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poetry

  when walt whitman spokea multitudes he meant     did he not     that within each ovus an obsequious beer soaked indie boy broods about steppin in front of a fuckin bus         t burrow down intae the freckled id     where coffee torns t treacle on the hotplate and borst fegs are embedded in the carpet     what i really mean is that ad hate to be that kyid again          rollin along crash barriers at some gig in the union while the country is sold by the furlong     drinkin what i made at my forst communion on a nightly basis     then starvin maself of breakfast & lunch & good mental health
Abstract

Poetry

February 2021

James Conor Patterson

Poetry

February 2021

Prism

Kandace Siobhan Walker

Poetry

February 2021

  Board trustees tapped heirloom spoons against the graduates’ wet green skulls to get at the yolk. Academics, in...

Poetry

February 2021

From: Acheron

Freya Jackson

Poetry

February 2021

                                     ...

THREE POEMS

Poetry

January 2021

Luke Allan

Poetry

January 2021

  First winter in Iceland     Some mornings we’re woken by the sound of our neighbour sneezing. I raise the blinds and drink...

Poetry

November 2020

Three Poems from The Rake

Tristram Fane Saunders

Poetry

November 2020

The Rake packs up his troubles in an old kit-bag and smiles, smiles, smiles   Holding things, I found,...

Poetry

October 2020

THREE POEMS

Inua Ellams

Poetry

October 2020

Fuck / Trees The White Review · Inua Ellams – ‘Fuck Trees’ Dego / Though we know it isn’t...

THREE POEMS

Poetry

September 2020

Cecilia Knapp

Poetry

September 2020

The White Review · Cecilia Knapp – ‘All My Ex Boyfriends Are Having A Dinner Party’ all my ex boyfriends are having a dinner...

 

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