the unseen codes of drawing alternative maps by Reuben Woolley


me you know

in a head &
black holing all
a singularity i’m here &
laughing most ridiculous a

glorious shine & listen
the chimes
sing loud a fortunate sound the desert disappear

               & sink
an army in quick
sand the polish of a life so
painful is it the sacred vessels splinter

these states of health are no factor
my mad friends neither they
decover them this the
secret skins of territory

Reuben Woolley’s this hall of several tortures has just been published this year by Knives Forks and Spoons Press. He has been published in numerous magazines including Tears in the Fence, The Interpreter's House,  Ink Sweat and Tears, and edits the online magazines, I am not a silent poet and The Curly Mind.

Buy Reuben's book

Gentle Waft of Intestines by Esther Betts


Yesterday was another failure
There’s no way I can pay the rent for the hostel now
Not because I don’t have enough money, no
But because I know I will spend that money before I’m able to pay
Of course I could pay in advance
But I don’t want to
I want to fail
The doctors warned me about this
That the blood would come back
When I headed out at 9am yesterday
Only half an hour after I woke up
I knew the blood would come back
But recently, King Booze has been demanding interest
Every day I wake up exhausted
I can’t shower, I can’t read, I can’t even eat
I can’t even look for jobs
To replace the one I lost
Due to too much absence and illness
I’m sorry but to survive I have to fail
Like I was doing a chore, I slunk to the nearest Wetherspoons
Ordered the cheapest pint
Glue IPA
Something that tastes repulsive to me
I felt my face contort as I forced it down my gullet
But I drank it all
By the end of the day I had been born again
I could move, perhaps too much
I had spent well over thirty pounds
But I was energised again
Today, I don’t even know if I’m still energised
Maybe I need to drink again
The damp cloth of shame covers my heart
I go to the toilet and my shame is confirmed
The blood has come back
The constant fizz of acid reflux
The warm singe of heartburn
Now a constant in my life
The doctor at the walk in clinic was very clear
My intestinal walls have been severely damaged
Now I sit in a cafe, I can see in their fridge
They have bottles of cider
The gentle waft of blood and intestines slithers up to my nose
But last time I tried to stop drinking
I almost died
I lost a lot of my friends
Well, all my friends except booze
There’s no way I could quit whilst living in a hostel
I go up and ask for two bottles

Esther Betts is an aspiring writer/poet based in Bristol, her work is interested in exploring the darker sides of people's minds.


SUMMER MADNESS by Ernesto Sarezale


What will I shout about when I become old and crazy?
Will I complain about the weather or about the government?
To whom will I yell:
        "SHUT UP!"
Will I lose my calm when Queen Kate won’t reply to my WhatsApp messages?
Will I elongate the last syllable of the last word in every senteeeeence?
To whom will I demand:
        "BRING ME SUPPER!"?
Will I use whimsical linguistic turns? Eccentric metaphors? Daring tropes?
Or will I simply bellow utter nonsense?
To whom will I protest that
Will I use disjointed phrases? Backward sentences? Semantics without syntax? 
Will I lose my breath howling:
        “15 door from idiot that again mention don’t!
        Don’t mention that idiot from door 15!
Will I call women whores when I walk past them in the street?
Will I spit on children? Will I terrorise the tourists?
What government will I complain about?
Whose mother and whose father will I insult?
Will I laugh? Will I cry? Will I sulk? Will I protest:
        “I AM SLEEPY AGAIN!”
Will I shout shirtless – shirtless! - in the middle of the street appealing
for the man who never knew I loved him?
Or will I yell at the computer in an internet café and answer myself back
with the voice of a 7 year old ventriloquist dummy?
        “Ventriloquist dummy?
Will I apologize for the inconvenience?
Or will I vociferate from the flat next to a pension in Pigalle
with the TV on at full volume in a mix of Basque and French?
        "Alde egin! Je t'aime, moi non plus. Zoaz pikutara, MERDE!”
Will I hold endless discussions with my late father?
Or with my older brother who now lives in Beijing?
Or with my boss from 2004? Or… with God?
Will I remember my nights of passion with the extra-terrestrials from what planet?
        “WHAT PLANET?”
Or will I simply repeat:
Will I steal food from pigeons?
Will I get into fights with the foxes in the street?
Will I climb up to the tallest belfry, fully naked,
after having painted my body and the furniture all white?
        “Painted white! WHITE! Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!
Will I masturbate like a chimpanzee in heat knowing that I will never come anyway?
Or will I jump out, still naked, from a psychiatric ambulance
as it rushes through Shaftesbury Avenue
with its loudest sirens and its brightest lights?
What will I scream about when I get old and lose my mind
and remember that I forgot my medication…
...and remember that no one ever loved me?
And that I am alone. Alone! Alone! Alone! Alone! ALONE!
Just like you. Like you. And you. And you. AND YOU. AND YOU!
        “SHUT UP! IT’S HOT!
         SO FUCKING HOT!”

Ernesto Sarezale is the pen name of Basque cognitive scientist based in London. Writer, multimedia performer, erotic award winning poet, film maker and sporadic event promoter, he is well known for his "boylesque poetry" act, for his one-man show “In the name of the flesh” (also the name of his most recent poetry collection) and for promoting renowned erotic literary soiree, “Velvet Tongue”.

Check out Ernesto's website