No Man An Island Is, Or Something. by Philip Elliott

only the living need to eat. twenty pounds
less to drag behind. grasping, freefalling
(Petty made it sound like a good thing),
drifting in the dark between [terribly
sad] stars [they can never touch, only
stare longingly from their tiny pocket of
space].

extracting affection from every hopeless
connection, stranded sailor sucking marrow
from bone. you are adrift, awash,
awreck, an island, a broken compass,
bottled message, etc. you are a lighthouse
— always battling the dark, taunted by
waves, rooted in solitude: never winning.


Philip Elliott is Irish, 23 years old and Editor-in-Chief of Into the Void Magazine. His writing can be found in various journals, most recently Otoliths, GFT Press and Subprimal Poetry Art. He is currently working on a novel and a short story collection. Stalk him at philipelliottfiction.com.