unsung is a FREE monthly magazine that helps promote all the unsung, underrated, underground, unheard voices of manchester. we publish prose, poetry, essays, pretty much anything. we will be distributing the magazine throughout manchester... if you are interested in getting your work published in our next issue please email us on email@example.com
What we do
SOME SAMPLE POEMS FROM OUR CONTRIBUTORS - Strychnine Hill Watch with still breast the burdens of an age, the burning of a turned page onto which the tears of a doctor are written. The wisdom in the withered eyes of a toddler, taught not to live but survive, her tongue charred cries expelled into a vacuum. The safety pin pierced skin of polaroid pictures cast gazes upon the coagulated tiles that they once trod upon. The fingernail etchings of desperation sketched in hieroglyphics. They watched on from barbed wire windows where the stink of burning death and seared flesh sought them out and bone fragments littered the playground like marbles. The schoolbell pre-empts the gunspit sickle as they form an orderly line for registration. Justin D Dooley ----- Thoughts of a Caught Fish Get me a Vaseline vat full of formaldehyde the old school’s laurel leaves trapped inside. Bow legged, briny, mother loved and vacuous we tippied through the gates, bone white and shiny marrow shoed five years from the womb, sun infused nothing to hide, no burnt match between the thighs. With a heart souring saccharine at a love lost in learning strong as that first E. Remember me Alexandra Patty? Where the willow really weeps with the river Dane and the swan eggs keep in the rushes, always hatching. Every school room written like a gasp on the shore all the ghosts of the children, every mitten on the floor stronger than the rain flesh and phlegm bed yearning of the lidless ribcage in today’s early morning. Keep me from that feast of dusk and the loaves of dust, give me that pulp sweet, mud sugared husk of sun; get me a Vaseline vat full of formaldehyde the old school’s laurel leaves trapped inside. Matt Byrne ----- Unsung Bend and scrape, with nipping nails Portland, tram lines, pricking pyramids with headlines, holding cobbled hordes, head-aching hour bells, claustrophobia: ‘Everybody’s watching you when you follow the line.’ ‘With a flat, incessant forward climb She drinks a round of bottled wine, A static shadow moves, behind Nearly morning, ‘nearly mine’.’ Bench-like, sat on a woman outside (grinding writhes inside), but then I thought I maybe shouldn’t. Dying tree-like drooping down over her corpulent face, slick white hair, opulent rare, couldn’t help listening, her groaning urine skirt for cats, stranded, ripped and wrenched, outside a red-brick flat. ‘Fat, fluorescent concubine, Drink the sound and hear the wine, Fat, fluorescent concubine, Smell the taste, sounds divine.’ It hailstones for a couple hundred seconds: startling as she left the corner, ending as I get through the door, swipe card turned around, standing with her tongue on the glass licking a cross shape on the window while wine trickles out of the crevice of her mouth. Black eyes, and yellow cracks, hair was falling like snow on the fag packets of intelligent Neolithic man’s waste: ‘I know what you don’t want to know. I don’t believe in limitless roads. I don’t believe in howling ghosts. I don’t believe in seconds, I do believe in hours, but not days. I don’t believe in stealthy forms, but movements in alleyways where their stealth is worn. I don’t believe in rising day, but falling hourly, fright falls away, I don’t believe. I don’t believe in suffocating fumes But breathe, resonate, impulse, cry out, far and finger-wide, cry out!’ Daniel Brocklehurst
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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