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It’s Morbin’ Time
Rebecca reached out to bad apple about the possibility of publishing a poem titled “It’s Morbin’ Time” and this is the result.
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Haunting
Losing a love can become a small death. In the time after, that residual love can become a haunting.
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“OTHER BOYS ARE BORING AND YOU ARE A BURNING HOUSE I WANT TO LIVE IN”
To love someone is to let them become second nature, a routine of affection. Routines can be hard to break, but love can go up in flames.
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untitled voicemail
Hello. I’m unable to come to the phone right now. Leave your name and number, and I’ll return your call as soon as I’m free. Thank you.
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those who made those who made me
Threads present, past, and fibre converge in order to state ownership of a culture colonised and Christianised, of takatāpui.
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it is now safe to turn off your computer
Preparing to configure poem. 77% complete. Do not turn off your computer. D̶̞̔o̸̙͛ ̷̛̹͐n̵̨̼̄̅ó̴͍̩t̶̤͐ ̶̹̾͜t̶̯̱̑͂ụ̶͝r̵̢̳̃ň̶̨ ̴̪̅ő̶̰͍f̶̣͂͠f̴̰̔̽ ̴̧̅ÿ̴̢́ŏ̸̭̩u̵͙̎͑ͅr̷͓͉͛ ̶̛̤͔̈́c̶̡̿o̸͕̫̓̇m̶̝͈͗p̵͆ͅù̶͔̺t̷̗̩̎ẽ̸̞̰r̷͈̍̾.̷͍̅͂
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small thing
As if tempted by a bottle marked “Drink Me”, kate shrinks. Shrinks so small, small enough to be popped in a pocket and carried on home.
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Barren Land.
Natasha Hope-Johnstone moulds infertility into a poem. A new life of honesty without the brevity of humanity holding it back.
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Ass & Assonance
Sweat, sex, lip gloss, nectar. An assonance of want and need from Kayla Allison.
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High Five
Up high, down low—too slow! Beware the giant hands, warns Nicola Andrews in this frenetic new poem.
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Put your hand up if you’ve ever felt personally victimised by your body
Backne, butt hair and boob jobs. Get close and personal to a body in flux with Sylvan Spring.
Category: poetry
In a dream, you saw a way to survive, and you were filled with joy.
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