Survivors by Setareh Ebrahimi


There is no poetry in a life that was born
without love
and suffered till it died like an animal.
I try to feel as lucky as my family
tell me I am for not being war-torn,
rather than guilty.

How can we be grateful for things
not experienced that still haunt?
These images of brown people
turned ghosts by ash and fallout,
the sight of their blood the only sign
they’re alive,
is a cultural whip to keep us on our toes,
their mouths silent, too familiar Os.

Amongst the mundanity of life
with its bashful, everyday sufferings
space must be made in the consciousness
for every worthless existence
and potential Einstein
that was run over by an ice cream van
or had a heart attack masturbating.

Scrolling through the news shows me
government brutality in my own country,
someone’s cranium unable to contain its blood,
then a Cosmopolitan article,
’12 Things About Missionary That Men Love’.
A reporter recently confessed
that women are still having sex
in places reduced to ground level and dust,
unable to grow.

So morbid curiosity for the rest follows,
periods, childbirth, menopause,
perhaps someone near a bombsight
is plucking eyebrows or rouging lips
like liberated concentration camp victims.
In this moment we are survivors.
We don’t talk about the dead amongst us,
or millions of parallel fibres.

Setareh Ebrahimi is an Iranian-British poet who lives in Faversham. She released her debut pamphlet, In My Arms, from Bad Betty in 2018, and regularly performs poetry live, most recently featuring at Words at Waves at Harbour Books in Whitstable.

Check out Setareh's website 

Found in a Phone Box by Tim Kiely



Twins! Both New in Town!
In and Out Calls,
Sauna Yoga,
Kettle Balls,
Short-Wave Radio Assembly and
Krav Maga.
Call now and make us do things.


No-op cissex white boy
your sickness
your normalcy.


Work part-time,
get paid full-time,
fulfil no-time,
regard this time,
there’s only this time,
be left with this time,
call now for time.


Body to body massage.
Muscle to muscle massage.
Cell to cell massage
(phone-sex not included).


Samantha is not genuine.
The hair is fake. The tits are fake.
The conversation is so fake.
She knows that you want fake baby.
Call now and experience deep fake.


You want blue sports coats?
You want perverted Rolexes?
You want it from a husky Texan?
Baby we have got you,
Like the Satanic Deep State Globalists
have got the US Government,
they’re comin’ for ya,
they’re comin’ for all of us!

Call 13-09-90
feel dirtier
           than you’ve ever felt.

Photo by Tyrone Lewis

Tim Kiely is a criminal barrister living and working in London. His poetry has been published in the 2019 anthologies, Everything That Can Happen, from the Emma Press, and Poets Versus Homelessness, from Tonic Sta Press.