by Matthew Barton

Published in Issue No. 257 ~ October, 2018

Silk is the sea,

Til the flayed blade snaps—

The jets barrel and howl

As black wink rolls,

and snarls.

Red-edge cock-head,

a glassy machine,

plough a furrow through minnows-

You cut angles in the cellophane

of a Dead Scene.

Stalked, maxed out,

Reek of peach.

You’ve taken and eked as molasses


This ocean station communes

and connects,

In a fin-move the serene is jagged

and, next,

the moon purses lips and wets-

and then silence.

The glass is smooth

and sails in electric blue.

What a drag when it comes for you.


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Graduated from the University of Birmingham with a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. I have spent time working in libraries and schools and have had journalism published in Attitude, Diva Magazine, The Protagonist, For Folk's Sake, Wears the Trousers, and Glide Magazine.