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Killing Lizards by Ian McNab

To KILL a LIZARD I drive a knife through its back, up near the base of its head, and pin it to the ground. They writhe and thrash even with a blade in them, like they take a moment to realise they’re dead. The lizards come out early to feed so we have to collect worms, turning over muddy ground with digging forks, bringing out squirming wet bodies and grabbing handfuls of them, shoving them deep into our sack until we have a wriggling bagful.
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Slow Clap. by Katie Lewington

i can't be bothered: this damn novel
i always always worry panic stricken
by punctuation
American grammar

The Hours Flower. by Gavi Kutliroff

Two minutes split
From a single bud;
Legions of seconds sprout,
Embark cloud-bound in their
Clockwork ascent. This one
That way, that one
This way; they bloom, become
Hours eventually.

The Apomorphy Poet. by Jim Zola

I draw tiny ants around the paper's edge,
ink colonies that turn white space

into black clouds. Others think I’m odd
so I oblige them, sketch spiders

with human faces, eyelashes and grins.
I turn in handwritten poems that go

on and on, creating a hierarchy
of arachnid heroes and villains.

Untimed. by Nick Romeo

Please excuse my tenseness
Impatient demeanor but
The world will
End in a half hour
I have to get home
And feed the iguanas

Evidence of Your Yuung Ones by C. Denise Simmonds Medina

My Mame is a beautiful and strong woman; nobody can stand her, because she protects her yuung as a roaring courageous lioness in a dangerous jungle. Her weakness is only whenever her male lion partners dominates her; but the other lionesses and endangered species know that she is stronger than an ox and they don’t mess with her and her yuung ones. She is special, because she is boldly good; and she is generous to others in need. I want her to be perfect all time in everything; but ye... ees—she is perfect in my youthful eyes. My gem Mame... you are loved, because you are wonderful; and you are important, from the star... in all of our hearts. This is who you are forever... documented in all reports... the reports of your love ones memoir... to last forever and ever.

Spur on between 4:15pm-5:00pm by Sarah Edwards

It began with my need for a cheek jacket. I bought it the first time with left half of my lips missing as if hidden in some box, fortnight plus five of the era since done. The cheek jacket came sheathed in a squared casket with foil typography penned with machined technique. I could tell your unassuming thoughts when I raised the casket, from the way your eyebrows formed 3 unequal lines on your pore less temples. I still had to, the alternative was leather-colored vellum forming a seared crust, living in infinite permanence. Stakes as high as unnerved chatter, you embarked with your arm intertwined with mine. I compensated the dealer by brushing in pseudo banknotes. You acknowledged the dealer’s sallow pores and as it escaped, you saw my eyelashes droop in my sockets. You amended by picking out one webbed threadlike fiber at any pace. After gathering all 150, you took out the corpuscle matchbox sewed to the chest hair growing on your left chest view and laid them in before depressing the clammy drawer. As I heard the engine rev a hollow fog, both of our clocks started to gag fluid vapors. With the cheek jacket stoned in the casket, my fingers dug in deeper as I looked to the raw fortnight advancing. The dealer had sworn with molded guarantee and I saw the ashy grip with no metal cuts. My cheeks would be liberated of sanguine canals. Just a marked fortnight, or so, as drafted on the cardboard casket.