Poetry. — Is this the end of this chapter? If I were to stretch my hands out would my fingertips grace only the expanse of liminal space between this one and the next? Are there no words here to cling to, any longer? Will I fall, free-form from this paragraph’s denouement? …

Sad/emo-vibes poetry. — The air is sad tonight heavy-striked and hammered flat, it smells of burning and steel If the fog was not so thick, perhaps we’d see the sparks — embers floating impossibly high like fireflies, this fire flies into the crying shame of night covered by callous fumes The air is…

Poetry. —

Poetry that’s somehow both bitter and hopeful. — Fricassee our fried hopes over a crackle-spit flame — roast the remains of our dreams and loves, grill the grand delusions of things that could have been, and make a world that burns and boils away until all that’s left is cauterised Then maybe we can start again in this flake-crunch…

Poetry. —

Poetry which is related to the writing prompt (somehow,) I promise! — Warning: much talk of spiders — like, the entirety of this poem mentions spiders — though it’s mainly focussed on the webs. Thought you should know! …

Poetry. — Warning: mild body horror and anatomical/surgical imagery Good ventilation prevents all sorts of problems toxins, chemicals, molds or moulds, all breeze away through open windows letting the air breathe and be breathed This vent is opening and out crawls the acid that burned your heart This vent is opening a hole…

A haiku. —

Poetry. (…Idek. Enjoy!) — No-one’s here again the two of us have an arrangement so that we can share the moments. No-one’s here again except the words won’t leave until I place them into just the right place and so I listen to all the nobodies and no-ones in my ears from years before when they spread out their…

Poetry. —

Poetry. (Selkies are awesome. #JustSaying.) — Warning: implied domestic abuse Where is my coat? Oh please — do you see? I need my coat to return to the sea My husband he’s looked, (or so he says to me,) but he can’t find my coat to let me be free I yearn to swim with my sisters…

Poetry. (I was listening to The Used, and… —

Poetry. (This one is truly from the universe *shrugs*) — Dance a line in the sand and you’ll see that the stars were made with your ballet shoes and now nebulae froth in the waves There’s a chill this morning as you pirouette sand into sky you pour your heart in the movement knowing no-one will hear the cry You…

Poetry. (I really don’t know what this is…… —

Poetry. (And some sort of critique of hustle culture, I guess?) — I think I overdid it (Yeah, I think I overdid it.) How to stop it? Interlock it double-knock it — (there’s gotta be a way to slow this rolling train) — Cos I think I overdid it (Yeah, I think I overdid it.) And maybe I overdid it cos that’s the way…

Poetry — Warning: poison, injury, and infection imagery A drip of ink venom and the world crashes blue-screen and white-noise in your brain. Growling in digital corners, hoping the — Bite — will cause such razor-tooth pain that you don’t see the wounds they’re hiding. The infection grows, the venom never slows, and now you have matching wounds. So whatcha gonna do? You gonna bite someone too? The choice is up to you. Make it wisely.

Poetry. — The dreams all turned to ice cream when they melted into goo, and I turned to ask the question to the answer I once knew The words got out when I was sleeping, guess I need a stronger lock this just keeps happ’ning to me — gives the neighbours quite a shock…

Poetry. (…If I have to know the tale of Gelert, then so do you) — Warning: animal death, referenced infant death Gather the poets let them hear his master’s laments let them hear the infant’s calls Gather the poets let them tell the tale of betrayal Gather the poets let them explain how he was the best of hounds loyal to his master to the…

Poetry. (The prompt had the Welsh national colour in it — I’m powerless at this point.) — This red is the red of my land of our blood of princes slain and workers pushed to their limit This red is the red of a dragon that never died of a culture that survived of a people that still rage against that dying light that Dylan Thomas told you all about…

Poetry. …I was listening to The Arctic Monkeys… —