Recovery by Solomon Holmes It spreads like a tumour, a virus, a vile rumouraround an industrial high school playground. It stings the air like hail on frozen cheekbones, dust on a blustery day.It breathes doubt into beliefStrips the sanity from griefThat feeling before a spree.It stings the air like smog on a built up estatestale smoke from the… Read more »

by Unknown 2 years ago


by Solomon Holmes

It spreads like a tumour, a virus, a vile rumour
around an industrial high school playground. 
It stings the air 
like hail on frozen cheekbones, 
dust on a blustery day.
It breathes doubt into belief
Strips the sanity from grief
That feeling before a spree.
It stings the air like smog on a built up estate
stale smoke from the last puffs of a cigarette. 

It’s a truculent trickster,  
Con artist with nothing to sell.
Welcomes you with open arms
Wears a vacant glare, a menacing grin.
Looks you straight in the eyes as it robs you senseless.
It stings the air 
corrupting the confidences of all those around.
That feeling before a blowout.
Manipulates the matter surrounding for a cheap thrill
Reaping the weeping souls of 

It’s got a wad of terminology 
taking every chance to prevent, 
Any signs of logical progression,
Any chance to circumvent.
It stings the air 
like a misjudged joke at a dinner table.
Insecurities are secured
They’re part of the contract.
It stings the air
Then refuses to sit within the atmosphere

It performs with a totalitarian sincerity 
To an audience sick of all of the lies 
With the absolute best of intentions 
It doesn’t intend to provoke demise.
Misunderstood in its simplicity
It covers itself up to sustain.
That luscious lascivious, intoxicating glow
It’d do anything just to feel whole again. 

It finds its home in everyone, 
though there are some that it prefers.   
It waits for you to be calm, 
waits for you to be 
Floating in tranquility across the placid lake of reality. 
Awaits the perfect time to cause a storm.
Somewhere down the stream it’ll find its place.
Somewhere down the stream you’ll forget it’s there. 
It stings the air 
You’ll just have to learn to put on more layers. 


by Luca Bernstein

Round and round the headwind blows,
Blunting on the daily grind,
smiling faces, laughter, childish play, passersby,
Memories of another life,
While the mind weeps and starts to form the next lie.

A silent veil draped loosely across his face,
dried tears once fallen rest lightly upon his cheek,
bored of questions and answers, his mind wanders,
to roaring fields and sun-shone shores,
as sunlight and darkness again start to ponder.

Home again, to missing socks and goldilocks,
mind safe, except, it never rests,
The blast of radio waves followed by a tone,
He checks the screen as tears well in his eyes,
Nowhere to hide from the torrent of knowing you are alone.

No more,
Nobody there to catch his fall,
He remembers a documentary a lifetime ago,
About how wolves hunt out the weakest member of the group,
before isolating it, and then, inevitably leading to its demise.

Tears mingle with raindrops, descending from a higher place,
How he hopes that he will join them.
The bridge looms large, ominous, ready to devour,
a flash of doubt, a pang of regret for lives already lived,
A delicate flower crushed under the weight of life.

In his personal bubble, sound fades to a murmur,
As knives press in from all sides,
He leaps and leaps well,
at peace for the first time in recent memory,
the headwind stops blowing.

The police searched for two days,
his parents could never forgive themselves for the life
they’d let slip through their fingers,
his friends powerless to stand on the sidelines and watch,
In the bottom of some murky river, his body decays,
as God mourns the loss of another lost soul.