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maoglone | Zero Readers

Flutter and Wow

Jay Fraser

Pulse-paced, shifting like
Oil on glass; greased rainbow memory
And glistering sub-recollection

A wavering reproduction (shaking)
Held up to hear (to inspect the sound)
And know (once-heard aural death)
To be (Passed from this world to haunt)





Jay Fraser is a writer from Lincolnshire. Growing up between the fields and the North Sea, he finds inspiration in both as well as in critical theory, philosophy, and horror movies – though not always at once. Currently in the process of completing his MA in Literature at the University of Lincoln, he spends far more time thinking about writing than he does writing, something that will hopefully balance out in future. You can find him @JayFraser1 if you’re a Twitter person. 

What I should’ve Said to the Girl I Love

Izraq Jesen

Imagine
a day / eight years ago / we are at the staircase to the college west wing / the hallway opens / into History i kiss / the dimple at the corner of your lips / History frowns / through cobwebbed veil

Tell me
we are allowed to / have this / to love to / become / each other / this is our colour this / sublimation / this is us

Come Home
leave the door ajar / we’ll make dinner in the moonlight / we can’t pay our bills but the / rain / is generous / where the ashwattha forests sleep / we’ll be together / it will be enough

Try again
we won’t have to / hide / we’re not wrong / not condemned not / Sinners / for the pyre / our bodies mean more than / the red ripe fruit of / sex

Listen
our blood is still warm History / has its eyes closed / ashwattha forests weep / you don’t have to / let go / take my hand i will / wait / somewhere within the / lightness / of our half-tangible shades





Izraq Jesen, occasional writer with a preference for all things inedible and unsavoury, wishes to be born again as a silver-antlered doe.

Blood Work

Michael Black

I gave them a vial of my blood,
inside the small room.
It was lost by the analyser.

Whilst

we need a blood democracy hothouse,
for now, it remains my blood.

I let it be tested again and again.





Michael Black is finishing a PhD at the University of Glasgow. He has reviewed poetry books for SPAM Plaza and Osmosis Press. His poems have been included in Adjacent Pineapple, Re-Side, -algia, Beir Bua, SPAM online magazine, and the Babel Tower Noticeboard.

Jude

Stephen Kingsnorth

My title, Jude, you understand?
If but a hardy soul, you should.
Perhaps my verse is not your space
but yours the access – trace my mind.
Why can you not hear what I voice
and, taken plunge, still get it wrong?
I’ll write, gazing in crystal ball –
if yet unseen, your wiring’s poor.
I’ll use the info learned at school –
for poetry found learnèd brains.
Perhaps I’ll translate, common state,
and then you’ll celebrate as found?
Now what I share is something known
or else the poem’s not owned, mine,
but common knowledge, commonwealth,
and recognition not my deal –
the common touch still calls for breadth –
but as I’ve finished, up to you.

“But, friend, we seek a commonplace,
that least you write, available,
not easy grace for trampling swine
but observation, chiming bells.
So, application to the task,
my answer only if both work,
and then the page that typist typed
has archetypal emphasis.
So, come together, pilgrim road,
discover what’s new in our world,
inherent posers, if we ask –
an entry point, art comprehend.
If bounded, wedded, stewardship
it might be both, best understand.”






Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church with Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by online poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies. He maintains a blog: https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/

Helicopter

Allison DeDecker

Before becoming a parent
I never realized

how much hurt is caused
in trying to prevent it;
how guarding against trauma
creates its own

how watchful eyes can blink
to police searchlights aiming
to capture and contain
instead of protect and serve

how easily a loving touch
left untempered can harden
to vice grip over too small fingers,
leading hands transmuted to gold restraints.

Round and round
these helicopter blades go;
a carousel we force kids to ride
until they become the parent-

What if we let them off?
What if we let them fly?







Allison DeDecker loves stories. She studied Theatre Performance in undergrad, and continues to be most drawn to art (be it visual, theatre, or writing) with a narrative thread, no matter how tenuous. Like many others, she picked up a lost love over the course of the pandemic. Her writing has been a source of great catharsis and joy. She is inspired by day-to-day life, current events, and the natural world.