

yes hello it's a pleasure I'd say except
look where we are
and how the fuck did I get here
guess that speaks to the reason why I
am here
you too huh
same old story why tell it
differs largely just in names dates other such
uninteresting particulars it's
an impact and oh yeah oh fuck yeah it's
happening here we go it's another
ethanol-fueled escapade a jet ride to
oblivion hard landing read: a crash
see you don't get to survive when you
strike at five hundred and thirty five
miles per hour so bail bail bail
before the hard stop before the zero
what's the co-pay on a parachute
a question I didn't ask when I saw the
ground racing up at me
oh shit I went and did it again
no more job no more girl just this
bottle and me
fickle companions we are
and onward goes the story
excruciatingly boring if I'm being honest
each chapter same as the last
copy paste change the date
do it again
do it again
what a waste it feels
to spend more words
on this

well then why not say goodbye
fond farewell to all the good times
the not good ones too
the printed labels promising proof
but none to be found there
or anywhere else for that matter
just pain
but the words
fuck the words
if this all means they'll never
come like that again then
I hope they never do
they'd be a small small price to pay
for so much.

D.B. Devilliers


There is a place I can dwell – Jasper Kerkau

The Writings of Jasper Kerkau




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Crippled Engines

When one is in the grips of a fever dream, one often finds it is difficult to gain their bearings. Up is down. Right is left. Things of that nature. The whole selections of situations has deteriorated to complete and utter bat-shit. Waking is a lonesome, hateful task. Many of us are not capable of shaking off the magic dustman’s boon. Instead, we are locked in the dream. Eyes shut tight against reality. We see shadows of a life outside of our own and nothing more. For years, we are sweating balls and pussies in our beds, trying to make sense of these insane amalgamations and visions that plague us, fighting before our ever moving eyes. Locked in many forms nightmares.

Here we have the man who wakes up forty years into his life: did I do that yesterday? Christ what is today? How many meetings did I have? I didn’t…

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jimmi campkin


She told me; I want to tell you three things and I want you to shut up whilst I’m talking.  Holding up a hand, she extended a finger as she counted.  There’s a dream… a memory… and a verdict.  They are connected, but I don’t know how. 

The bridge creaked in the wind, bustling through the narrow valley below.  Our bare, dirty feet hung into the abyss, as curious animals peered up to see whether we were a threat or just angels.  I passed the half bottle of warm liquor and she ingested it with the grim determination of someone enduring minor surgery without pain relief.

She told me that she dreams about The Boy.  How he always appears in the background; leaning on a postbox as she walks through 1920’s Berlin, or in the seventh row of a Stones gig she imagined she attended.

She told me about a…

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Cold talks



I have seen women in a room
chilled as the mountain,
drowning in a ravenous shelter of heartache.
A feverish leg that jolts in summer.
Women breathe sand and exhale boken poetry.
Women in my town, dessicated in fumes of black clouds,
they do not speak about the evil talks now.
What is it that revolving between their cleavage?
White as their scarred skin,
summer rains blooming between thin eyelashes.
A star slips on their neck, nonchalantly
and they shove it back in their dreams.
a lullaby is eaten and forgotten, again & again.

P.S- to read some good poetry from different writers check out Olive Skins

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Dustin Pickering “You Have Left the World”

I quake, grief clasping my eyes shut
with the pride of a lion,
my chest sinks into confused silence,
and I can only look at your cold body
before me. You were hidden in tears
and years of golden simplicity
kept you from speaking.
Your heart was the needle you drove
into your flesh, and time was a warrior
who battened her eyes. Strange days
have brought a lifeless faith.
I look for the song of my angel:
she is broken, her harp unstrung.

Now, my tenderness is the queerest lie
and my poem only speaks to one heart:
the heart of decadence.
You witnessed my silence from a dark reserve
in the trilogies of time.
I ache, cold river of splendor,
and am enchanted by grief and rage.
You have left the world
with me in it.
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Introducing Megha Sood “My horror movie”


My horror movie

That nihilistic pain
simmering in the back
of my eyelids,
or sometimes lodged
like a toothpick in my throat

grabbing my head
like an incessant headache,
numbing my senses
rocking me to the core

that pain is the reminder of your memories
the miasma of incessant pain
as it dug it’s knuckling deeply into
my and kneads me violently
shaking me to the core

giving me the creeps
forever and more
before I give in
always and again
this unbirthing of childhood fears
and the panics which kicks in

oh! my relentless heart
looks for the company
which is soothing
your old gelid fingers
that gut-wrenching
and soul-numbing pain
leaves me in the fetal position

that numbing pain
I feverishly want to get rid of
this whole hamster on the wheel routine
has left me aghast
like a horror movie stuck
on the reels.


Twitter: @meghasood16

Instagram: @meghasworld16