Meditations on the Angel by Meghan Privitello


When you can shoot the messenger and the messenger bleeds light. What a privileged execution. * The hierarchy of pain starts and ends with the body. If the body can believe in ascending towards some impossible sky, it can mutate pain out of the flesh and into a memory of smoke. * Heaven is a privileged institution. All destinies are…

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Ships In High Transit by Binyavanga Wainaina


  Does the person define their face, or does one’s face define the person? Matano often wonders why it is that people so often become what their faces promise. Shifty-eyed people will defy Sartre, become subject to a fate designed carelessly. How many billions of sperm inhabit gay bars, and spill on dark streets in Mombasa? How does it happen…

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Catalogues by John Grey


Catalogues arrive in droves. They want me fitted out with hunting rifles, fishing waders up to my knees. They’d have me listen to CD’s of the Four Lads or take home courses in Philosophy. Some even think I’m Joan not John. Hence, I’m let into the secrets of somebody called Victoria. I’ve heard this is all very scientific, that my…

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Photo credit: Alexis Rhone Fancher

Hello Stranger by Cynthia Atkins


It’s me—This voice inside a tin box inside the intention to be a voice of one, but we’re all crammed ………………in traffic—This grid is the lunatic abyss inside a pickle jar. We are lonely in our cars, we are little cubicles of languor. With a smear, I see the Vintage Red vinyl of my mother’s handbag. I hear ………………the marvelous…

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Midnight Things by Onthatile Marang Modys


Music at 01:20 Rendezvous with rain. Midnight blues. Few things sound more beautiful like rain and jazz at 01:23. One of those days it had been, but the natural harmony, accompanied by the sweet symphony of Jimmy Dludlu’s the winds of change calmed typhoons down. The blissful smell of hookah in the background was enough to forgive any sin. Hookah…

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A Junkyard Full of Lilies by Saima Afreen


…of all lights the flicker of a mellow sun is the sweetest unpacked, raw like warm honey flowing on your lips golden. Flickering as the lost faith in fairy tales. A smile your mother played with before burying it in Arabian deserts. The sand glistens in your voice travelling to a wrinkled face fixed on Blue Jays. The soft ice…

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You Have Nothing Less Than That to Say That by Lana Bella


somewhere between the stiff tonic on the rock and crinoline mist blanking the frozen lake, you walked the backwater with wild December strobes traced like fish ribs against the dark. Clay ground hummed through sky’s chalice’s ice, pent in slits where creeping vines pressed themselves with your soles into the bones of every small thing scattered in panic. So you…

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Orality in Amu Nnadi’s a field of echoes by Kufre Usanga


  Amu Nnadi belongs to the third generation of Nigerian poets – the generation whom some critics consider a continuation of the second generation due to a lack of definitive/clear cut ideological separation between both generations. The second generation of Nigerian poets abandoned the esoteric language and private concerns of the first generation by simplifying the language of poetry and…

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a field of echoes by amu nnadi


… and mind flutters to a close eyelids to slumber all over, a certain darkness emerges earth is populated with nothing but a tempered sigh t night flashes white underwear as meteor, quickly closes her thighs mortified by the radiance of stars she grows shy as mimosa pudica dies from shame of too much conceit from a sprawling field of…

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The Market by Ifediba Zube


  There is a huge pile of corn husks at the entrance to the market. The sides of the pile are flattened and stained red by hundreds of marching feet and speeding wheelbarrows. The steady rainfall has turned the ground to thick red mush that sticks to my slippers. I should have brought my black rubber boots. I used to…

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Quarter Moon by Alan Britt


Today I’m coming back. Like hieroglyphics scrawled upon an overpass, I’m omnipresent. The shadow around my waist expands to include cosmic debris: planetary fragments, clouded leopards looming the horizon, clarinets like loons stretching their necks to have a look. My hand disappears into a void. Like the mantle clock with vermilion smeared cheekbones, or dusty Bose stereo with a mustache.…

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