dawn’s approaching, outside, the psithurism’s heard, my wholeness already swathed by the morning breeze; as if inviting me on a sound sleep, yet, still awake— shattered heart, fractured self, lost soul. . . screaming thoughts; the monsters— they’re killing me. in this four-corner concrete— i was caged. finding freedom, i, scared— that they won’t hear this cry for help. i, afraid— they won’t feel, i can’t breathe, and won’t notice my agony. Keen Balcorta w

I am evaded by sleep like a stalking lion. Grasping at oiled reeds for purchase here, but the effort must be worth it. There must be some of it in prescription papers; liberate the mind to catch it. Find a door with sand beyond it, up to knees and naked on it. Tell me there’s more in foil dots because I’ve waded, and wading in groups isn’t better, only gets hotter. Here in Canberra it’s called

Cuddled up and burning With the stories I won't tell, I find comfort in my scars While I rest broken by myself. I breathe my cigarettes Lit by that cancer-giving peace Of such a friendly ash like death Brings pleasant nightmares to my sleep. Withering in this ecstasy Of loneliness and pain, I caress my silent torture In the husk of loves remains. I hold tight my regret And savor every screaming cell Found lost inside my faithless temple: My cozy, cozy hell. Brian

listen to the storm created by cockfights the people its paper dolls: living in the moment, passing time under the hot afternoon sun. the kids play outside in a gamble while the tall grass hide their scream: a little girl jumps to play chinese garter. watch as the boys play hide and seek, looking for cardboard boxes they can use for sleep as the red light district shines at night. Jan Franz M. was born and raised in Caloocan, Philippines. He graduated from the Polytechnic

sleep will not come easy, not with you coiled up in the corner, pistons ready to fire, metal straining against metal, every muscle tensed, like a horse before the bell. you sit in the corner near the crack of the attic door. that is the place where we think the mice come out at night. no, sleep will not come easy. i’m scared to think of myself at last falling asleep and then being yanked awake by a deafening snap. Grady Trexler is a high school student in Richmond, Virginia.

memory comes as rumour or ruse blessed sleep two days from death I roll into an office dressed in blue a fulltime job in the giant machine yesterday’s crowds already forgotten scribbling papers into encryption the fireworks are set up too early I tense my back before the first shot when the minister spoke is unclear I shake a hangover out of my ear today I got stared at by forty people there is a tadpole stuck in my wrists man alarms dog with loud button the dog breaks into

you always wanted me to fall in line like a soldier does and keep my mouth clean but I was always saloon mouthed and frequently kicked out with bourbon on my tongue. when I would return home all hollowed out I would lay down on lamps to see myself spread thin on the walls. I make a pretty wallpaper don’t I dear? I wanted our love to have the expiration date of the honey in Alexander’s sarcophagus. instead I got a free-fall head to go along with my lack of a parachute. this

Gusty winds and cotton skin Blessed with unclean thoughts Sky blue teeth and tongues of fire Charmed with smoke and cough For those who tremble For those who weep For those who shiver For those you can't keep For those who crawl on hands and knees Through broken glass to beg and plead For those who drink and never sleep And pray the Lord their crown to keep Stephen Viola ($) is a writer and musician based in NYC/NJ. #winds #skin #blessed #thoughts #fire #smoke #tremble #weep