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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 1, March 2014


Brendan Slater
Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire, England

Cemetery Road

Over a century of grime-clad bricks into alleys where they keep eyes with Blackberrys, bats hidden in Tesco bags, and only a known face (or enough coin) affords entrance. These boppers, rockers and rollers, make their way up the spiral staircase past razor cuts and lead shot, only then, at the top do they fall. There's no 'made' men, just respect, honour, fear and hate switching like blades or day and night. For some there is no sleep. No sleep till death, that is.

Into what
did I bear my son?
Not a war,
nor a peace,
just some disease.



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