Why god why ~ Amy

Why am I wound so tight
like this wrung-out dishcloth?
The ceiling creaks and my spine tightens
I keep thinking it’s you
pulling up outside
but it’s just
snow succumbing to the slope of the roof.

I can’t seem to do the job I’m paid
half your salary to do, but that’s ok
because I find comfort in the exact
shop-bought shape of folded shirts
as I place them gently in neat piles
on those shelves your ex labelled.

Today the sun makes the snow look soft
and inviting, like a lover’s warm bed.
I lie on yours in the brightness, open
the window, and a Viking-sized fly buzzes in.
At least now I have company.

I’m wearing the crazy cartoon shirt that
everyone loves, only now I wear it
with pyjamas and it seems kind of sad.
There’s a piece that says “why god why”,
and this now appears
as what someone
who feels like me
should scream
into a pillow.

Future ~ Bob Kesh

That’s some strong shit, I thought

as my lungs pulled

like a vice removed from my throat,

I sat there dazed and lethargic

wondering if I could ever escape,

staring as a baby cried

and her father watched T.V.

Holding her with one hand so

she didn’t roll over like a potato,

smoke weighted on my bones

like indecision.

If I wasn’t so crippled

I would hold her like my future,

rested against my chest,

hoping she would grow.

First Love

First love feels like


in your first-year dorm room

is floating.


The little Buddha statue you brought

from your parents’ house

levitating on the desk.

The same kind of desk

everyone on this floor has,

but this one is yours.


Everything’s gold and


in the light

coming down

from above

your desk.



as you stand next to the person

in the rain outside,

the breeze can

and does

blow you


their arms.


It’s hard to know
the best thing to do with life.
Maybe you end up doing
the best thing for you,
the thing that keeps you going.
It makes me want
to order dessert
at this restaurant.

Morning ~ Amy

Every movement above us, the ceiling
cracks in protest, we cuddle closer,
I smother giggles in the sticky sheets.

With morning bright behind the curtain,
I stand with just my skin to clothe
what the light seeks to outline.

Swiftly I slot into the sunlit bathroom,
fail to draw the blinds, but with veins
still flush with gin, I barely care.

The Singing Blues – Vincent Edward Manda

It’s the smell of decay

Following the way

Making up the footsteps

Of my day.


It is the smell of years spent

Chasing the ideals of a money tree

In the concrete place

We all call home.


The numbers appear and disappear,

Just as the hungry

Appear and disappear;

The numbers, they dance

To the songs of loose change falling

Into a coffee cup.


The numbers, they dance

To the sound of spare change

Ringing on the counter top

In exchange for whiskey,

Tissues and food.


The numbers they dance,

Unaware of the blues,

Unaware of the evil,

The evil of dreaming higher

Than the nothing you have;

The nothing you are.


And the blues, the blues they sing

Of historic troubles undreamt of,


They sing of the decay

Making hearts weep for days,

They sing of footsteps

Leading to no place.


The blues, they sing

Of what’s always been known

And never acknowledged.


And the numbers, they dance

To a master that isn’t your pocket.


And all the while

Each second

Seeps into the gutter,

Until you are drowned so far

You can’t even see the stars.

Five Thousand – Vincent Edward Manda

Five thousand cigarettes

And I am still here,


One thousand whiskeys

And I am still here,


Ten thousand beers

And I am still here


A million thoughts

Running every minute,

Providing ten million opportunities,


Why am I still here?

Why am I still here?

Why am I still here?


When the silence

Whispers so softly.

The Cave – Vincent Edward Manda

Spring brought the sun

Months later than foreseen.

They’d forgotten their sister time

And danced together, along

With Autumn and Summer,

To ethereal Nordic music played

In the midnight sun;

Their colourful skirts swirling

Amidst northern lights.


In a cave further south

A bear awoke promptly

To find all covered in darkness;

A thick wall of ice

Blocked the entrance to her cave.


For weeks, from behind this ice wall,

She watched salmon skipping up streams,

Heard the colourful music of flowers and bees

And smelt the enticing promise of honey

Hidden high up in trees

Whose bark she’d use

To scratch her itching back,


But winter had stayed

To cradle her head day after day

In the dark, frozen cave

Until one night

She dreamed her last dream

Of salmon dancing out to sea

While the flowers wilted and their petals,

Riddled with caterpillar holes,

Were carried off

Into dark tunnels by

Droves of emaciated ants.


When summer came

The maggots had

Turned into flies

And worms in the bear’s brain

Crawled out from patches of parsley

Growing in its eye sockets and

Into fishermen’s hands,


While somewhere far away

A man wrapped the lemon and dill drizzled

Carcass of an Atlantic salmon

In foil and placed it on a charcoal lit,

Tulip shaped barbeque stand.

16 December 2016 – Vincent Edward Manda

When against a

Sky of dreams

Tree limbs

Resemble phantom smoke

From forest fires,

I would pluck a

Moonlit yellow tulip’s shadow

That bees

May bathe endlessly in the

Rooted, breathing flower’s

Fragrance filled air

While we share

Some of its

Dusky beauty.

The Upside Down House by the Canal – Vincent Edward Manda



Above, where waters reflect

A blue sky slightly tainted grey,


In between, where all

Is an unresolved mess,


Or below, where the windows to many souls

Are reflected on the water’s surface,


Where is it

That dreams lie in wait

For weary eyes

Hidden beneath the water’s face?