Brad Evans

a good woman she was a good woman, knew her place in the home. she was a kind woman, kind to everybody: her brother, mother, father. she cooked them all a roast dinner ev’ry Sunday … I ? I don’t remember what I did at 11.     I have no reason to complain but… Brad Evans weiterlesen

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Peter deVries

Art Julia began at Kidsworld on the 3rd of February. It was a new amusement park on the Gold Coast, near Dreamworld and Movieworld. It consisted of amusement park rides and baby farm animals and a couple of movie cinemas and plenty of junk food outlets. Julia was a cleaner, working 4 a.m. to 8… Peter deVries weiterlesen

Gabriele Pötscher

Twelve out of My Things Wait in Autumn I sit and wait, the hours an endless chain, The minutes sluggish and black against the day, Like crows in wintry trees, their feathers splayed against the rain, Stopped in flight, now still as rocks, their passage stayed. The wait is long, and I a battered brittle… Gabriele Pötscher weiterlesen

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Les Wicks

A Few Poems WHISPERED A man at the window is watching quietly, thinks he’s hidden in the dark. But I, too, am watching him. And I have learnt that men’s eyes will pulse as naturally as the sun. Sometimes fierce & occasionally upsetting. Like good handymen we sand, then lacquer coat after coat of civilised… Les Wicks weiterlesen

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Philipp Arno Vajda

Der Mond ist ein Trick der Dunkelheit / The moon is a trick of the darkhood 7 Gedichte / 7 poems Speechless Gravity Bothered by the sun still shining got a letter from my dear: “You know, death is just another creature, howling if he’s near!” I have no answers, nothing happens to me, my… Philipp Arno Vajda weiterlesen

Michael Griffith

The Beachcomber The Beachcomber brushed the sand from off it. It was another eye stained with seaweed. He rinsed it in a low tide wave that poured crackling towards him, sounding inside his cold cut ear like sherbet exploding over the sands silver tongue. He’d found many before, exactly like this. Blue eyes marooned in… Michael Griffith weiterlesen

Christiane Stenzel

Erinnerungen an Magda An dem Tag, als er Magda kennenlernte, trug sie einen Kleiderbügel im Haar. Es war ein leichter metallener Bügel von der Art, wie man sie erhielt, wenn man seine Kleider aus der Reinigung abholte. Dünn, biegsam und vielfältig verwendbar. Er trohnte in ihren schwarzen, zerzausten Haaren wie ein umgekehrtes Dreieck und sah… Christiane Stenzel weiterlesen

Paula Hanasz

A Day in the Life of My Thumb Whack! (thud, thadump, creak, sqush, skadimp) The body fell, crushing me beneath it’s plentiful bosom (what a way to wake up!). Pins and needles, sharp nails, cuticles galore! Ay, what a life! Next, i expect, little J. Horner will have me thrust into a Christmas pie to… Paula Hanasz weiterlesen

Dieter Sperl

Letters from Vienna Whenever I had set about it as a sixteen-year-old, when as a twenty-year-old, now as a thirty-two-year-old, so when I was a seventeen-year-old, when as a seventeen-year-old I had got to know someone, a woman, a child, a man, a warm expanse, or moments of a taut movement, absently lying in the… Dieter Sperl weiterlesen