Garrulous Months

From her lip
A drop of blood let slip
All the excessive motion
Of incisors that click
With satisfaction of gossip.

Gnawing doubts instantly release
As she relaxes the pout
Holds out the tip of her tongue
And verbalises the myth.

She could paint a thousand pictures
Instead she placates a thousand bitches.

Reems of film make up this snapshot
Each cutting retort
Serves to self-edit
In memory she’s a vision
Hallucinating as she perpetuates.

She could paint a thousand pictures
Instead she placates a thousand bitches.

A smile that conceals so much action
Corrodes away with words that stick
All of the excessive motion
Of incisors that click
With the eternal pursuit of triviality:
With the satisfaction of gossip.

Elspeth Vischer


To follow you to your various events variably,
to accept what you slip me into,
to never take myself off the threshold,
to propose you take me instead,
to pick flecks of beginning off each morning,
to read between the lines,
to interchange, between city and country,
to wish with my eyes closed,
to silence you a circumstanced number of times,
to keep the count to myself,
to use you, to fill my empty hands,
to lie awake, thinking of this:
a voice, calling my name, then yours,
then the last word worth saying out loud.

Charlotte Rowland

Charlotte Rowland is a writer and reviewer currently working on a pamphlet of selected poems, as well as a critical study on the topic of hands in poetry. Other favoured subjects include: light, openness, intimacy, the physical, and use of stillness.

A Conversation

The line cracked in Sharston Industrial estate.
You crooked your fingers and beat
a rock you had found in the parched ground.
against an old cinderblock. It

alongside a disembowelled cassette.

You told me how you felt discussed
at your job processing contracts
with your long hair and Belfast drawl
and shoulder bones that stuck out
like the wing of a ladybird
who couldn't process its landing right

You, flicking stones into a drain.
Stones, gnarled as gnats
dried up from years of making ground
with other faceless little stones
and told me about how you all you could see
was 'the smallest of small Glenn's bottle you can get'
and a parched sock
splayed, impotent,in a pile of greyed leaves

on Sharston Industrial Estate
with your Golden Virginia tobacco and your rock
and your purple tie.

Eleanor Holland

Eleanor Holland is an activist and poet who is currently based in Manchester. Her work explores structural violence through glimpses and shadows of lived experience.