Category: Poetry

Joe’s Parlour by Nicholas McGaughey (Lucent Dreaming Issue 11)

Joe’s Parlour was the place for birthdays, special treats and a towering Knickerbocker Glory when Mum divorced, and we went there to celebrate not seeing Dad so often.I didn’t like fruit salad or strawberry sucked like blood through a straw; the never-ending spoon, stirring split cream and syrup water. The confusion of tastes. Nicholas McGaughey has new work forthcoming in

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Life Has Stuck Around by Ellen Wadsworth (Lucent Dreaming Issue 11)

Every morning I watch my breakfastas it sizzles in the frying pan.I eat in solitude,and I think to myself:“I am more alive nowthan I have ever been.” It feels elatingto drink my comfortable tea.Because of this,I smile at myselfwhen I brush my teetheach night. Going out is such a treatwhenthere are no restrictions.The world is really my oyster,as it is

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Early As Early Can Be by Helen Grant (Lucent Dreaming Issue 11)

coffee doesn’t taste the same in fact caffeine can be a killer i now often keel over
whilst pregnant during showers dry retching dry or vomiting in the circling water
on my washed feet a cot doesn’t matter
nor the cheap but whatican’t easilybuybabygrows in Barnados
and all i can think of that does matter is cots

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The Unconscious Collective by Emily Butler (Lucent Dreaming Issue 11)

There is no fame in our commune.Everyone has the same minimalistic bedroom,the same dim twinkle lights.Shivering swirls of pink dustsing to the edges of the past.Our fireplace is perfectfor the creation of shadows.We forge memory through forest.We watch the seasonal retreat of birds.Much is alive without realizing.Recede through your mind into a rocking chair.Recall snow’s sophisticated blankness, sudden in your

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Perimeter by Jack Emsden (Lucent Dreaming Issue 11)

Due to limited control of our formatting on posts, the formatting of the following poem is incorrect. we’re always pulling at our limitsthe threads of our temporary bodiestemporary homes I want to patchworkold jeans into new jeans into an ivory skirt and slipinto the sun hips swinging or strip to nothingat all unashamed on the blow-up mattressholding my pronouns proudly

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