there were more than colds here
you sneezed and sneezed
my goosebumps are clapping oh
theyve always got some place to go now

we cannot be sick
the luggage of illnesses is kept in the storage room
nothing feels so solid there

i revisit only when i need to be reminded
that this shell of a skeleton of a body of a being
layed on the floor from twelve years on
i shouldnt make this so easy

Contributors

Karissa Satchwell She writes as if there’s no other choice.

Contributors

PiP We, being a Poem in between People (PiP), are a band who have performed with live musicians and Djs at a range of venues throughout London, including the Scala, Kentish Town Forum, 93 Feet East, and the Tate Modern. We were described on National Poetry Day in The Times as “London’s top new spoken-word talent”; we consist of four excitable poets and an elusive saxophonist - the poets being Joshua Idehen, Musa Okwonga, Inua Ellams and Catherine Martindale aka Poeticat, and the jazzman being Shabaka Hutchings. We are currently putting together an EP for release in mid-2008, and are launching a live band soon too. We don’t like stereotypes, and we don’t like eating fish. MySpace

Contributors

PiP We, being a Poem in between People (PiP), are a band who have performed with live musicians and Djs at a range of venues throughout London, including the Scala, Kentish Town Forum, 93 Feet East, and the Tate Modern. We were described on National Poetry Day in The Times as “London’s top new spoken-word talent”; we consist of four excitable poets and an elusive saxophonist - the poets being Joshua Idehen, Musa Okwonga, Inua Ellams and Catherine Martindale aka Poeticat, and the jazzman being Shabaka Hutchings. We are currently putting together an EP for release in mid-2008, and are launching a live band soon too. We don’t like stereotypes, and we don’t like eating fish. MySpace

Contributors

allchangeplease allchangeplease is young poet who can be found in divers cracks of the big Earth (mySpace). it writes songalongs too, and is a wizard with Microsoft Paint. it writes its poems with fridge magnets and random number generators.

I’ll give you the key to unlock our Eye padlock.
Then only look for our Treasure hunt.
I’ll cut these chains with weak wrists, they cause me pain.
Heavy was never a game I chose to play.

Now take your step, keep want, my sandman.
I’ll sit here and peel my grapes, ill read my second hand shoes.
You can still clench the thought of me. I’ll keep sitting on oak.
I told myself I would not turn. My spine was curious, I saw nothing.

Now I will close skin and spread my sigh. You have left me here to cry.
Pen knife, cut these ropes. My young neck has dropped to my chest. Water me.
Now you are free. I think only once. I do not care.
This is a selfish game of maths, where the noughts can swallow your hope.

Five clench my thigh, Knees push, and smile was patiently waiting.
Help me walk faster, dress desperately scurries away from me, I stand on my hill.
My coat of wings fly away, I cross my legs and sit down.
Pull up the grass and make knots. Knot us. It’s nice not to hear a sound.

Contributors

Gemma Hattersley I have been brought up, for eighteen years, in a village where the ducks have their own story book. I travelled down my road into a bungalow, moving my possesions in a wheel barrow, when I was eleven. I write down my thoughts into a small brown book which is in my top drawer. I often get told that I speak too quickly, I can tell this is true because people nod when I’m talking. I like walking out onto carpet in the morning and cheese and pickle sandwiches.

I pull on an old gray sweatshirt,
forsake creativity for woolen gloves,
leave the necessity of my writing desk
and venture out to a cold January yard.

A naked birch dangles jagged bronze catkins,
like spiny gold ghosts, over the barren loft.
It twists and dips in the wind
as I organize my thoughts.

A fruitless plum tree, littered with hungry doves
cooing poetically,
waits for me, to dip a wrinkled paper cup
into the half-full bag of plump seeds.

A murder of crows,
like black rags scattered across the pale red sky,
argue at dawn with bitter shrieks,
escape at sunrise,
and remind me to return.

Contributors

Sean Reynolds I was born near Los Angeles, caught frogs in the concrete stream-bed of the LA River, played hide-and-seek at midnight through the dark urban forest of Griffith Park, blushed at whores and debated Jesus freaks on Hollywood Boulevard, followed Sunset to the ocean, cried on the pier and fell in love then started I to live again.

its not very fair
not fair for you to know this and not reply
its not very fair for you to bait me with exchanges and smiles
and then do nothing, leave me nothing more behind

though maybe its not fair for me to want too much
need too much, ask too much, from a man who
recognizes my breath only at certain times
its not fair for me to want your hands on mine, in my hair
when i cant manage to look you in the eye too long

keep playing as though i dont see you when i rest
as though i came ashore on accident, like the rest of the garbage
and ill play as though there havent been those before me

but
i might stumble if you dont reel me in quick

and thats an advanced warning

Contributors

Karissa Satchwell as a child i wished on stars for a cinderella dress and a prince. sometimes i still wish on dandelions. but for different things.

Moriarty, you were unique.
Not just handsome and rugged
with a nose like my father’s, bent—
asking to be broke one last time.
They’re not your poems.
Not your words howling
like a wounded stray—
I rummage through greedily
like a boy
with a forbidden magazine.
It’s the jagged image of a man
I envision
pushing against
the strength of his own sincerity:
counting railroad ties in the cold night air.

Contributors

Sean ReynoldsI was born near Los Angeles, caught frogs in the concrete stream-bed of the LA River, played hide-and-seek at midnight through the dark urban forest of Griffith Park, blushed at whores and debated Jesus freaks on Hollywood Boulevard, followed Sunset to the ocean, cried on the pier and fell in love then started I to live again.

Makes off
with a mobile phone
and this dangling from his hand……

) ) ( ) ( ) ()

) ( ( ) ()

” I can’t get no satisfaction, I can’t ge………”

Contributors

Chris Major Chris Major lives in Stoke. Poetry in 80 UK print mags and also widely on line. ChapbookEchap

Contributors

Miles Seaton Miles Seaton is a member of Akron/Family. Interview