Milner Place


The sun hammers the corrugated iron,
cracks the thin boards; but over the sea
the clouds push their black hearts closer

and it is discussed that the evening
will be a washing-out of the runnels of shit;
plastic buckets and old tins will find

their appropriate pitches, and the children
who go down to the city with boxes of brushes,
rags and polish, are near to becoming apathetic.

This afternoon the music is only anticipating
the drumbeat; aguardiente is opening the eyes
of old men and bright dresses are all the colours

of the desperation of hope. And this is a brief
time of the sleeping of spiders and a shining
of moonstones on the buckles of sad shoes.

Albert Russo


the sight of a burnt-down car
wrenches a howl out of his clutched jaws
a raucous primeval howl
which is the genesis of fear
ashen as our planet
atter the big bang

and the stench of molten rubber
grips him by the lungs
the unrelenting howl
reverberates in his bones
as it suddenly hollowed out ...
hollowed out ... hollowed out

a myriad sparkles illuminate his mind
then at once the history of mankind unfurls,
thrust upon him,
deaf to the miseries of the heart
oblivious to the lament of the flesh

it is written there, as a testament
to our collective memory
that no one shall escape IT
no matter how it is disguised
whether through the mask of hypocrisy
or the smirk at our great cynics

and there will always be
a burnt-down car
to remind us of our collision course
with the ultimate unifier
yet, we still need
the judeo-christian-islamic bogeyman
to brandish IT betore our eyes lest we forget

and whoever claimed
that faith was an exercise in futility
equating the love at God
with the sentiment ot guilt?

Dimitris P. Kraniotis

Fictitious Line

of cigarettes
and mugs
full of coffee,
to the fictitious line
where the eddy
of words
leans against
and nods,
to my silence.