poetry

A poem by Rob Schackne

Locked inside the iron house

Seventeen others are snoring

There are no windows anywhere

No ventilation means we’re dying

A poem for Friday night – by Rob Schackne

She sits down too close to me

and orders a bottle of red wine

already loaded fast busting up

with her boyfriend on the phone

A new poem by Rob Schackne

Inner Mongolia or Nei Menggu

shares an international border

with Mongolia (of course) and Siberian Russia

it stretches almost two and a half thousand kilometres

A poem by Canaan Morse

Rain, rain start to fall,

wash the window-studded walls.

Through the sewers thread your way,

flush the oil out to sea.

A poem from Shanghai, by Rob Schackne

Every time I go across the river

My taxi passes a tiny place called

The Museum of Locks, between

Two hapless shops in Fuxing Lu