A reincarnation


It didn’t burn like my ambitions did,
it didn’t break the way ideals always do,
just vanished, like an angel in the clouds,
with wings made of white nothingness
and the feather it dropped is probably fantasy
as on the vestiges of my loss grew tendrils of
a few insipid dreams, fragile as a tentative faith.
The bliss I search now is not in ignorance,
or despite the despotic logic that refutes
and mocks, it’s not in my dreamy escapades.
With an unfounded resolve, I delve deeper
into the excavations of the lost cities of innocence.
Nothing deters me, not the aches of a lost limb,
of the lost wing that once carried a purpose, of life.
At the end or the beginning of another origin
a reverberating voice speaks, to me,
speaks like me, rising without pain
from the ocean within, piercing the
a stone that is now the rational heart.
Not everything is lost, it echoes
in everything you write and as long as you do,
innocence now reincarnated as hope.


He likes to be called as ESP and be known for his blog: https://esprambles.wordpress.com
At most he can say that besides the mundane, he loves to read and write or rather ramble.

Cannibals Of love

- - #lesbian #dyke #sapphic #lgbt #girlswholikegirls #girlswhokissgirls #girls #women #aesthetic #cyberpunk #vaporwave #vintage #retro


Darling, you look like
you’ve never washed the hair
of someone
who hurt you
I’ve always been
a Good Samaritan
when it comes to
aiding strangers
but I can’t go on
pretending I’m doing this
for you
the airport lies abandoned
as I check in my luggage
air sealed hearts
and finger food
we’re cannibals of love
eating farewells
until our next tragedy
takes flight



Henna is a novelist and a poet from Finland, interested in surrealism, science fiction and making people around her uncomfortable. She  blogs on WordPress as HJD writes. Visit her there.



The Antelucan Hourglass

I keep time with an hourglass

because I prefer the shape.


It reminds me of the bottles

with the dark sweet fluidity

of caffeine and the feminine

bodies keeping my attention.


This addiction holds me tight,

so that when I lack,

the world is dull

as a vintage centerfold,

soft focused, air brushed

and distant.


But once the bubbles

touch my tongue,

I feel like a man

returning home

to a luxurious body

lounging in my bed.


Where is the next raven

beauty to touch my lips?

When is my next fix?


My world is shaped

by the hourglass.


Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a
collection of poets and poetry readers in the Triangle region of North
Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes
and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017.
Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut
for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes
money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.


Live to die or die to live?


Jane Birking 1960, behind her Serge Gainsbourg

Rolling the skin deeply

In the waters, rusting my bones

cold moisture seeps the pores

hits spine, undercurrents discharged

pupil widens, nostrils expand

I breathe in the black smoke

hair rise stiffens the nerves

muscles inflamed; cortisol infused

bloodstream rages like rivers in monsoon

myths dissolve in the violet rain

crumpled boats of paper, sink in puddles

the sky is a stone, grey & opaque

prayers bouncing back

no man in the sky, In seas

tiptoed to the edge

of a slippery rooftop

frictionless, I ask

Do I fall & live?

or do I hold on and die?



Siddharth is an Engineer by passion, Poet by design. Studying aerospace in France, he occasionally finds some time to reflect in a pond or study the pattern of gulls flying in the beach. Dark & twisted life of his is a concoction of melancholy & joy. He doesn’t stare into abyss; he has a flat there. Writing out of passion, Poetry reflects his struggles to overcome depression fuelled by his trauma & harassment. Sprinkled with a self-assumed sense of humor & a self-confessed love for rock music, he has been featured a few times on the front page of Allpoetry.com (weird flex!).










Head, Island, time and wave


Camp Collection Nostalgic Summer Camp Holiday LookBook

It is here we keep hands.

Can you squash the honeybees

on this table?

My head bronzes the idea of faking islands,

for our home. To save

it. My head is the sun, islands;

a wave.

I hold your head and move it.

to the sight of dwellers.

I feel close to an idea I don’t hold.

A persimmon seems orange

from our reeded home.

from here.

I remember walking away in the middle of

the supper.

And watch you all from the attic’s floorboard.

There’s a hole, you don’t know of.

You smell of a marsh. The sweat filled up in the

depression of your collarbone is a part of something

bigger. You break it. It does not exist. Now.

But one knows it had been,

there. You stick.

You should lose an arm

and I, an eye.

I think.

To know what other ways,


To wave and watch.

My mother after

an Eye operation

told me

she would have loved to see everything.

before losing sight for an hour.

An obvious fear of incapabilities.

I have it. I know you have it.

You do not have to hurtle away.

You pack mangoes. The green mangoes.


you know it takes four days to reach back.

The woman knows you’d be home.

The wind is softer.

Dwellers stop

to dwell.

You travel and reach home.

The water in your belly hurts when you sleep

facing floor. Everything about leaving our place

would hurt, I knew.

For a month. Or four, maybe?

Not any longer. It shouldn’t be.

You work and live good.

My head bronzed the picture in mind;

One I imagine you to have become.

by now.

Good, in every way.

I write. I need to think of you.

You don’t have to think of


You couldn’t squash the honeybees.

You loved them

and you loved your skin.

My island isreal. Your city too.

very different.


By the time

We ate the sun and tried to become.

Everything. Anything, we could.

The land looks swollen.

We return the sun to the place the other day.

After flood. Everything about it is sadly red.

You ask

a sinking loon, if it needs to be pulled.

It cries for mother.

It’ll be late.

I remember you want to sit on the top of that oak.

You reach. You’d fall anytime. I know

You’re falling.

I ask you, if you’d like me to catch.

You shut eyes.

A bit too late.

I talk about things for hours. Sing a few poems

to them.

By the end, they wanted to know

if I wanted them to listen. They were ready now.

I lost the power to redo things.

On an empty beach. While two people make love

An orange dog with sunken belly,

vomits in the background.

They loved dogs.  But they couldn’t see.

An hour later they reach it.

The orange of its body goes blue.

Nothing beautiful left. Anymore.

The short woman behind the fat sunflower,

I talked about. Hasn’t lamented

since morning. She touches

everything beside her.

Like touching is the only way left

to realize how unusual the detachment

felt in the sides of her head.

It ached, often.

It ends. All of it.

before time.

Everybody knows her now. ~the end of a day.



The dark of the little ship against the whitest

table in one of the rooms. It has the right sun

falling on it, from the window.

I allow myself to venture back

into the time where I found out-

to love is easier.

Erroneous methods where you went mechanical.

I do not look forward

to talk about sadness.

So I’d talk about the ship.

I never played with it.

It reminds one of the turquoise.

Losing its life. Popular voyages we never

even had time to listen.

A long time that it takes to reach any bay.

The luncheon.

The pretty women

A group of people with bitterness-

dead of dissipation

Men with long


An old head of them.

The prayers for

bounty. The tale of pitcairners of the Norfolk.

Small boats feeling nothing

ahead of the ship.

They think they’re small with no big Islands to head


It’s 3:00.

The afternoon passes like that.

With still beautiful sun

on the ship, kissing it “It is a memory of the big boat that disappeared.

Before time.

My father brought this little ship,

telling me about the many who

did not survive.

They hadn’t known the ship, the people.

Some even jumped off.

They needed to be free.

There were men and women who wanted to live.

But the ship couldn’t.” He kept it on the white table

few months back.

And, it’s been there.

So Ivory.

Beautiful, like

what love sounded and felt.

Priyanshi is a seventeen years old girl from Kashi. She studies humanities. She has been writing for past
two years. She likes to write about anything that involves details, mixed feelings, nature and experiment
in poetry.
Her words haven’t been published before. Hope you’d enjoy reading.
For better connectivity, you can find her on Instagram: @abeautifulturtle_

© Priyanshi