John Grey – 2 poems



Pain never goes away.

It settles down

on the darkest places

where it can fester

and get uglier.


In a year’s time,

it wriggles back

into the flesh and bones,

refreshed, empowered.


Your lungs have

barely recovered

and now, once again,

soft sleep currents

must give way to harsh

rapids of waking

at dark hours.


People say,

don’t be discouraged. 

After a while,

they get discouraged

saying it.





As darkness oozes into swamp,

their similarities busy with mosquitoes.

I’ve misjudged the time.

Solid earth is farther than the stars.

With every insect bite,

my arms feel like human sacrifice.


Hands sweated to oar,

I row through reed

and mangrove,

floating islands,

from isolated backwater

toward the distant light.


The sludge below

assures the feel

of suspended animation.

I’m moving

but not enough to shake

the drip of heat,

snakes cozying up to boat,

the grunt of frog and alligator.


Home is my destination.

These waters define home differently.



John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Penumbra, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry Review.


Submissions now open for Bindweed Anthology: Midsummer Madness

Attention writers and poets! Bindweed Magazine will be running an anthology of poetry and short fiction, Midsummer Madness, on 21st June. It will be published as a Kindle Ebook, and possibly a paperback anthology (depending on the editors’ schedules later in the year).

If you would like to contribute, please visit the Midsummer Madness anthology page for more details, or our Submission Guidelines for information.

We hope to read your work soon!

Leilanie and Joseph


Charlotte Cosgrove – 2 poems

The Day’s Events


I have a knack for seeing these things before they occur. 

I am not bragging, There’s no third eye or

Sixth sense. I just watch, listen, 

Replay. Every conversation, meeting, 

I am actively eavesdropping.

I have played it over, become surveillance.

As if I sit in an office chair, spinning, a long black

Cylinder shooting down from the seat

Splaying out in four legs, an animatronic 

Praying mantis. Multiple screens play,

Like bathroom tiles but with moving pictures

Entitled: The Day’s Events.

Because of this constant monitoring I am tired when I see you two 

Together, the looks, the ease, the sudden 

Disinterest in your respective partners.

And I wonder if you already now

How this will play out. Or if I’ll have to wait

For the footage to be played.



Eating Feelings


There’s been an evacuation in me.

A case of – It’s not you, it’s me.

Sense has left me, the good old common kind.

And now I am a shell, a scraped out creme egg.

I open a tube of pringles, unwrap a milky way

And it is like relieving toothache by a dentist’s injection,

Wrenching out a tooth from the nerve,

And I am left, slobbering. 



Charlotte Cosgrove is a writer and teacher from Liverpool, England. Her work has appeared in Trouvaille Review, Dreich, The Literary Yard and Wingless Dreamer. She has work forthcoming in Confingo, Beyond Words, The Broadkill Review, Words and Whispers and New Contexts 2: an anthology. She was recently shortlisted for the Julian Lennon poetry prize. She is editor of Rough Diamond Poetry Journal.


Joshua Martin – 2 poems

Scrape the Bottom of the Feet




& down to

drown in

pieces of


A pretty insignificant

office party blew

the lid off the

gov’ts plans /

executions /






            was ever



the saddest one

can jump




European Art House Skyscraper


Facile dimensions like comet’s tail

end of the line stockyard crashes


   bailed OUT, simpering in

      wetted state of



                        pretending. My moon lacks


       My THUMBS lack infernos. And,

                  inside a statement,

            making amended     CURTAINS

ruse meant having to become

      inebriated. Alas! Alas!

            Poor young cannibal

            pretending to pose for

            military photo album

            curving manufacturing


            devils     in     EASTERN

European         art        house


               built to reflect

                   orange. Pardon my

            French               loss.


                 to    regret



            tip of the nose

                        & hesitating.



Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the book Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in Train, Fugitives & Futurists, Otoliths, M58, Punk Noir Magazine, Beir Bua, Scud, RIC Journal, Ink Pantry, Streetcake, The Collidescope, SORTES, Prolit, E-ratio, Nauseated Drive, and Fixator Press among others.


Mark J. Mitchell – 1 poem



Wylie made me sick. It wasn’t Wylie’s fault.                        

A two o’clock close in ’78 and there                        

was Wylie and me and Dave who didn’t belong                        

and a girl who had a name but no one knew it.                        

We trudged up Pine Street and climbed the stairs                        

to his tilted flat above another closed store.                        

And Wylie, large as his beard, who knew                        

while he might be starving hysterical he’d never                       

be Ginsberg and he so wanted to be.                        

And Dave who didn’t belong rolled joints                        

on a shoebox lid while we talked poetry                        

and the girl whose name was hidden curled in a corner.                        

Wine was passed from hand to hand.                        

Seeds clattered, rolled down the shoebox.                        

Joints were lit and passed and blessed,                        

small hand to big hand back to small hand.                        

Then Wylie chanted big, explosively boring poems.                        

Words piled on words that teetered as if more would be enough.                        

And Wylie prayed we’d think he was Allen but he wasn’t                       

and I wanted to be kind, to say something nice.                        

And we smoked and kept drinking the cheap wine—                        

Far too much wine too far into the morning,                        

and the girl was nameless and asleep                        

and Dave who didn’t belong didn’t stand up                        

and I was trying to find a kind word for Wylie                        

and it made me sick. It wasn’t Wylie’s fault.  



Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Roshi San Francisco, was just published by Norfolk Publishing. Starting from Tu Fu   was recently published by Encircle Publications.He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he made his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, like everyone else, he’s unemployed.He has published 2 novels and three chapbooks and two full length collections so far. His first chapbook won the Negative Capability Award.Titles on request.A meager online presence can be found at primitive web site now exists: sometimes tweet @Mark J Mitchell_Writer