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The International Magazine of Poetry & Graphics ▪ Bi-monthly ▪ March/April 2008

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He who wanders is a Canis Lupus
on a deserted afternoon, where thoughts undulate

as if to say ‘water’.


Though thirsty
he will not howl.

On foot, he searches the Arable land

learning of Bedu;

With their alert eyes
the men from the distant sands

give him well being, and holistic


removing the material

and the worldly.

The red land is mammal’s ultimate nature

forsaking all earthly temptations;

absorbing life in soft

and distant song,

which becomes evermore real

with his dim myopic stare.

Knowledge never ends,


And with taking out his dusty notebook


He finds poetry

within each grain of the sand.



Texts Past Midnight


A text before dawn in hope

I see the sun

-golden lawns

and clear skies of blue-

like earth in awe

before my eyes.


I write of my mothering dove

without the aid of light;

preaching to the quiet

I feel the love

that might have been
-and of truce I hold my heart-


I am broken and colder

than her, though I feel

as if we’re yet to meet;      


I pleat my duvet

to cover from the chill.


I hope you get this.

I cannot sleep in this world

where ghosts linger and bite

upon my toes,

-do I speak amiss?-

for all I feel in haunt is guilt.



A Night in With Gordon


My Mother never told me

that a beverage can comprehend such life;

a piquant of desire as the soul

of its breath pimples my naked frame,

as if to say

... yes, you still can begin to feel.


Tonight there is a

certain odour in the air.

I overlap my sheets to which I bed

and my body I begin to hide

to elude the watery paste

that has dried upon my shaking thighs.


Gordon, where is my love?

Andy, she is envious of your adherence

and belief in maudlin love;

as you delve in the beauties of free porn

and circulate your luscious tongue

around the salty centre

of McVittie's mini cheddar biscuits.


If you say, I must believe.

Promise you'll cradle me tonight

until the day is due?

Just cup my wealth to your lips

and as we adjourn this I promise:

that tonight- of her- you will

never have to feel.



Andy Carrington was born in Pontefract in 1983 and educated at Wakefield College and the University of Wales, Aberystwyth, where he currently studies English Literature and Creative Writing. He has been the feature of various monthly and quarterly poetry magazines. His work has also been included in two poetry anthologies: one of which was compiled to raise money for the Prince of Wales Hospice, Pontefract.



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