Joey Simmons

Maryhill Road

Your eyes were caught taut

in the cradling shadow

of the street light’s viscous hue

like blue paint flaking

on a black door.

At the edge of your eyes,

debris carefully assembled.

Faded windows and wine bottles,

everything noted.

But too little, too late.

Filth flecked sandstone

flashed in the rain.

And the colour of that rain

so hard to recall.

Finn G. Cargill

Mortals On a Boat

Peering into pure nothing with imagined sightings

of colossal squid or leviathan, nascent beneath the rolling sea,

never breaking waves but too real all the same.

As the night-sea connects somewhere,

to the bottom of the sky, I am at the corner of darkness,

as my long coat is beaten by the gale –

lungs and coat breast possessed;

inflated by wild laughter.

I stand levitated in the dark,

in a glass reflection over the eggshell foam and black ocean.

This wind confuses the dotted spears of rain, makes

geometric lines that pelt us every way,

as the prow bucks enormously, lifted by the curling body beneath.

A gorgeous fear comes, then;

inspires dreaming of sea-titans and death striking a lone soul

like a tiny doll folded by uncaring black waves,

and by grandeur, we’re alive.