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

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