LOVE LETTERS FROM PARIS – by Alexis Rhone Fancher


LOVE LETTERS FROM PARIS an Erasure Poem (from “an almost
made up poem” by Charles Bukowski)





Alexis Rhone Fancher is the author of How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen and other 
heart stab poems, and State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies. Find her poems in Best American 
Poetry, 2016, Rattle, The MacGuffin, Slipstream, Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles, Chiron 
Review, Hobart, and elsewhere.

Voice of a French Fry in Love – by Winston Plowes


Eat me

Eat me to the accompaniment of fruit machines
Eat me with ketchup and mayo
Eat me slowly

Eat me

Eat me on the link bridge
Eat me from a red plastic tray
Eat me with too much salt

Eat me

Eat me on your last journey to Aberdeen
Eat me and make yourself late for the hearing
Eat me with your fingers

Eat me

Eat me and think of her kisses
Eat me and pretend that she cooked me
Eat me and text her

Eat Me


Birch Services, M62, Heywood, Lancashire, UK.




Winston Plowes lives aboard his floating home in Calderdale with his lucky black cat, Fatty. He teaches creative writing and was Poet in Residence for The Hebden Bridge Arts Festival 2012-14. His collection of surrealist poetry Telephones, Love Hearts & Jellyfish, Electric Press was published this spring.

Dragons – by Linda Clark


I walk with him upon a stretch of sand; as ever, it is night.
Striding ahead in that old black coat of his,
he will not turn, and yet I would know his face.

He keeps to the path, which is narrow, and now and then
Sends sparks to the left or the right – die or ignite –
the red and then the blue.

You know who we are, he says.

As you decreed, the fight was to the death.
Thus did we bleed, her jaws around my neck, my flame in her throat:
We loved, but we always knew this to be our fate.

Our orders, if you please.





Linda still lives on a windswept island off the coast of Kent with a variable number of cats – currently twelve. She’s been writing poetry since the age of thirteen when she embarrassed her mother by getting a dreadful one published in the newspaper. It began ‘Spring throws bluebells in the sky…’

She has published three e-chapbooks available on Amazon, Seven League BootsIn The Memorial Gardens and Gladiators

Love Poems I Found In Mein Kampf – by Joshua Medsker

A trio of short “found” poems, creating love poetry out of quotations from Mein Kampf.



Take up your instrument of seduction.
Transport me with fever and passion
until we collapse into a spiritual abyss.


Immortal Deeds

Performing immortal deeds with
such awkwardness and criminal stupidity…
Put an end to this…spiritual squandering.

Whip the fever-heat into my face-
in spite of this absurd wound, press it beneath your domination.


The Rebirth

Our aesthetics will crumble to nothingness
even if harmful, it must take place.
Our union demands our blood and rebirth.




Josh Medsker’s work has appeared in many publications, including: The Anchorage Press, The Brooklyn Rail, Penmen Review, Red Savina Review, Haiku Journal, Star*Line, and GuardianWitness (UK).

Don’t Call Me Names – by Samantha Terrell

I am not Muslim.
I am not Black.
I am not gay, lesbian,
or transgender.
I am not heterosexual either.

I am not Hispanic or Caucasian, Protestant or Catholic.
I am not an alcoholic,
I am not mentally ill.
It doesn’t matter whether
I am or am not a member

of the NRA. It doesn’t matter how, or where, or when I was raised.
My growth is exponential
only to your hate.
I am not an atheist. And, I am not a fool.
For, I can find ways to teach
even the most unschooled.

Fear is my great benefactor,
but I am not the rich,
and I am not the poor.
I can be elusive, but I am not the truth,
though I cannot be denied.
Try to name me,
if you want your proof.



Samantha Terrell is an American poet, and mother of two. Her poetry has been published in DoveTales by Writing for Peace, Ebola chapbook by West Chester University, NonBinary Review by Zoetic Press, Knot Magazine, Peeking Cat Poetry, Poetry Super Highway’s Yam HaShoah Issue, and others. Her website is:

Wolflow – by Kevin Phillips


Lone wolf wanders.
Wanders endless,
wolf bounds over buried bones and old cobbled stone roads
dancing in the crooked – moonlit – shaded places.
Lonely he grows – only knowing strangers,
ever wearily seeing fear draw nearer
escaping distant – but still fear becomes larger – becomes clearer.

Wolf racing—chasing his tail,
circling a trail of repeated mistakes and failure;
scars ripped deep he refrains from displays of sneers and pain,
a mask, a wolf,
noble and ravenous,
purposefully cantering along the winter landscape.

The architecture of a cruel nature,
a danger to behold
he wanders wild,
hungry for silence,
a hunger never quenched.

The chase begins unhindered;
wolf becomes his shadow,
a darkness only visible in light.
The perfect hiding place,
suspiciously inconspicuous
hidden unto – and within plain sight.




Kevin Phillips is an emerging Leeds minimalist writer. His short fiction and poetry tend to be highly emotional. Dark and dreary themes and tones run through the veins of his work.
In his own words, “I want to be the reason you check under your bed at night.” Exploring death, loss, and loneliness, he machete`s his way deep into the jungles of the human experience.

Body Language – by Grace Pasco



                He rubs the nape of his neck –
a self-soothing gesture.
A something that only happens
when words could get dangerous,
so silence is the go-to.
                She puts the side of her hand to her forehead
as if checking for a fever.
The room got heated after
firing one line after another
so silence is the go-to.
                There’s a pillow between them
and she is covered by a comforter.
He faces the window
with his forearms to his thighs and
                shoulders hunched over.
The room feels too small all of a sudden.
She wishes the couch were bigger
so she can       stretch out her legs.
He wishes for a notecard with
an escape-route spell.
Three clicks of the heels
did not do the trick.
At some point,
she’d walk him to his car.
He would stand next to the
driver-seat door.
He’d ask how she’s feeling.
She’d reply, “I’m okay. And you?”
“I’ll be okay,” he’d say.
She’ll head back to the house
with relief in every step.
One more look back to the vehicle
with his head visible through the glass.
Silence is a friend,
keeping her relief a victorious secret.




Grace Pasco is an Asian-American spoken word poet from Silver Spring, MD. She writes poetry to translate emotions, package experiences, and… to play! As for her Instagram name? It’s ThisGirlGrace.