Written by Perverse Psychology 


Behind her transfixed emotionless stare lies a lifetime of memories.

Magnificent stories once warmly re-told as if re-living the moment.

The romantic in me wishes I could say that Age delicately filed her away in memories, Deciding which ones he’d let float to the floor, only to be found again, if needed, with a little bit of searching.

The romantic in me wishes I could say that she grew old gracefully, surrounded by her family, re-telling her wondrous stories, her soul radiating as she reminisces,


I want to believe that somewhere inside she’s still there.

But I know she isn’t.

She’s lost.

And when I try to imagine what it must be like for her

I have to remind myself that she doesn’t know.

She’s lost.

And I can’t help her find herself again.

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Sun and Moon

Written by Mike Davies

Photograph by  mark divier

Photograph by mark divier

If the moon and stars
Lit the night sky no more
I would still find my way to you .

If my limbs failed to move,
My body crashed and burned
I would crawl to be by your side.

If the sun in the sky
No longer shone bright
My love for you would light the way.

If you were to leave me
And never to see you again
I would find you in my dreams.

Whether it be day or night
Helpless or alone
Fear not my angel
For I will always be with you.

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The Ageing Man

Written by Mike Davies

Photograph by  Huy Phan

Photograph by Huy Phan

I remember when I was young, 
And I had all the power. 
When I was youthful and strong, 
And I didn't pee every half hour. 

When my hair met my shoulders, 
Not an ounce of fat in sight,
When i could see without glasses,
And my trousers weren't too tight.

When I owned every record in the charts,
I knew the words to every tune,
I didn't use a bulldog clip,
And my face didn't resemble a prune.

I remember when I thought I'd live forever,
And getting old was just baffling, 
And rising to the occasion, 
Didn't involve scaffolding. 

The days of my youth were full of fun,
I would never go backwards, here's why,
I may never meet the love of my life,
Or hear my beautiful daughter cry.

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Written by Perverse Psychology

Photograph by  Cristian Newman

Photograph by Cristian Newman

Grandad walks so slowly

Granny’s even worse

Grandads a little tubby

Granny’s going to burst

Grandad smells of Whiskey

Granny smells of beef

Grandads losing all his hair

Granny’s losing teeth

Grandad woke up early

Granny’s still asleep

Grandads almost six feet tall

Granny’s six feet deep!

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Times Up

Written by Perverse Psychology

Photograph by  Heather Zabriskie

Photograph by Heather Zabriskie

I’m still here.

I feel.

I think.

Therefore, apparently, I still am.


Where am I?








I’m here.

I know you’re there.




Where am I?

Where am I?

Why can’t I see?



I can’t!




I can’t.

I can feel you.

I know you’re there

I’m here.

Still here……………..



Keep talking.



Heart beat………….







I’m scared……..


Beat…..   ……  ….  ..      .


B…  …  e…    ….   …  … a…   … . t…    …     …..   .  .

...   …    …    …      …      …      ..     ..      ..      ..     .      .       .      .         .        . Silence

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Lace for Liquorice

Written by Emma Reynolds


His mouth pressed into a thin line,
Straight through me his piercing black eyes stared,
He reassured me everything would be just fine,
Never before had I been so scared.

A grimacing look but accompanied by allure,
The whisky and smoke stained room was filled with tension,
I was dressed up all for him, the latest fashion in lace couture,
He promised black lies no innocent mouth could mention.

He was sticky just like liquorice,
His God like hands controlling the pure creature beneath him,
The silk sheets were splattered with filth as the night became feverish,
The love she wanted didn’t appear, the shining sun grew dim.

Crumbled like a handkerchief thrown from his pocket she lay down,
Falling to the floor her golden hair shivered in the breeze,
Still beautiful she belonged to him in that crushed velvet gown,
Dripping in red she poured out for him, his own personal tease.

Arranging the lapel of his tailored suit,
He leaves for a moment to fly off into the neon night,
All she can contemplate is her violation from a brute,
As she lay there slung on the chaise long and blinded herself to his cheated sight.

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Disconnected Love

Written by Payge Stanley

Photograph by  Cooper Smith

Photograph by Cooper Smith

Walking away at the airport that day was the hardest thing I’ve done, but our quiet promise sealed with a kiss shut out all doubts.

To go back to video calls and texts after two blissful weeks was the cruellest torture.
To say I missed you was an understatement, but our love was stronger than the miles that separated us.

But soon our love grew tired of traveling through the speakers of our Skype calls.
Your promises got home sick and didn’t make their way to me.

You sent a ‘Return to sender’ on my love that left me with the biggest ‘fragile’ warning.
 The time zones seemed to delay our plans more prominently than I thought.

You grew tired of waiting, I grew tired of fighting, we grew tired of nothing changing. I just hope it was the right decision for I know there will never be another love story as memorable as ours.

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Eyes Disguised as Lustful Lies

Written by Payge Stanley

Photograph by  Rhett Wesley

Photograph by Rhett Wesley

He told me lullabies and promised "once upon a times".

Kept me wishing on the dandelions I'd thrown into the sky.

For he looked like a fairytale, a happily ever after cure.

But he was a wolf in sheep's clothing, who's intentions were impure. 

I bit so freely into his apple of deceit, 

unaware of the games he liked to play, where he would always cheat.

Too impatient to take the path that was made to get to the end,

He'd make detours of his own no matter who's pain was at extent. 

I dove deep into the ocean's of his love I thought was true,

While he drew in other shipwrecked girls with a simple "I love you".

I took his words for honest truths, as if he was unable to lie,

But all that lead to was my naivity and his careless goodbye.

He walks like he owns the sunset, and as if the moon illuminates his eyes.

But the spell has been broken from me and I see through his disguise.

He never was prince charming, he was only ever a beast.

The rose was an illusion of promise that he only intended to lease.

I feel sorry for the others who may not escape his tower of lies,

and be locked up in isolation with sugar coated eyes.

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Can Words Heal?

Written by Tim Foster


Why do I find it hard to write down my thoughts?
Is it because I have too much to write?
Or is it because I don’t have enough?
Perhaps it is because I don’t know how,
to put such vivid, deep, nonsensical emotions onto paper, naked and vulnerable, for all the world;
the world which matters to me – 
to see, scrutinise, laugh at, pick the bones out of.
Do my opinions matter? All dark and depressing,
I promise there’s light at the end of the tunnel,
A bloody long tunnel, but then again, my God,
My God always has time for me.
Yet, am I not just procrastinating, delaying the inevitable?
One day these words will flow from me, one way or another,
and let’s hope they re-build, move, and unite friends, foes, all nations. Or at the very least,
to allow one voice to proclaim to another – I love you….
And truly mean it.

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Written by Tewenika Edmonds

Photograph by  Alessio Lin

Photograph by Alessio Lin

Over the years I’ve lost myself, leaving pieces of me behind. I look into the mirror at a body and face that’s not mine. 

A shadow lingers over me, haunting me from inside. I have no strength to fight it, so within myself I hide. 

People notice I don’t talk much, but I have nothing to share or say. My thoughts they are not pleasant, they take over me each day. 

I’m growing weaker by the minute, there is little left to save. I think back to when I was younger, those memories in the past I crave. 

A little girl who was happy, how I wish I could go back. To save myself from sadness, from slipping through the cracks. 

“Don’t let anyone bring you down. Trust me, they will try. Hold your heart closely, don’t fall for every lie”. 

“make better choices than I have, for my choices they were not wise. This is your chance to save us, so wipe the tears from your eyes”. 

I come back to my reality, where I’m drowning once again. My pain is pulling me under, this pain it has no end. 

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Written by Perverse Psychology

Photograph by  Evan Dennis

Photograph by Evan Dennis

So, let me get this right . . . 
One night, Daddy planted a seed in Mummy? 
Inside her tummy? 
In an Egg! 
Was it runny or scrambled or fried? 
I’ve tried to understand… 
But how can an Egg, and how can a seed
Have a cuddle in Mummy and then make me? 
I don’t look like a chicken
I don’t look like a tree, 
I don’t have any feathers
I don’t have any leaves. 
I find it hard to believe, 
I think you’re telling me lies…. 
Ok, next question… 
What happens when we die? 

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Christmas Comes But...

Written by Jean Roberts


Ho! Ho! Ho!

It must be

Christmas time again

as colourful lights


across high streets

like spiders webs.



of decorated

Christmas trees spring up

in unlikely places.

Shop windows entice

with neatly wrapped boxes

of promises.

Pop-up shops appear overnight

offering a bumper

box of Christmas cheer

for just one pound.

Banks assure us

of the best

Christmas ever

with their favourable terms

that take us a lifetime

and a day

to pay for it.


Yes it’s Christmas time again!


It’s only August!!


Written by Anthony Murphy


Behind my right eye

the pain taps out its own Morse code,

sending its twisted message through my body.


My face feels baby soft,

like a stranger’s,

and I taste the tang of metal on my tongue.


The merest hint of light

burns magnesium bright,

and kaleidoscope stars dance behind my eyelids.


My stomach rolls and churns,

like a lifeboat in a typhoon,

a hot soup of vomit catches in my throat.


My machine gun pulse

pumps through my tired limbs,

trying to burst through my pale skin.


So I bury my head in a soft cool pillow

and let the dark comfort

the storm in my skull.

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Written by Anthony Murphy

Photograph by  Ian Espinosa

Photograph by Ian Espinosa

My body misses you like a phantom limb,

your soft paper touch and slender white length.

You are like the memory of a one night stand

that quickly burns away.

I know nothing that’s inside of you

except the five minutes’ pleasure you give.

I yearn for one final fling,

for my mouth to wrap around you,

draw your heat in.

To feel your tar black kisses against my cracked lips,

dance within your cloying scent.

To suck the life from you as my lungs gasp for air.

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Written by Sophie Jayne Whitrick 



Our eyes are open but our site is none.


Shrouded in ebony emotion eclipsing illumination.

Your own worst enemy. 

Drowning in ink. 





You. Love is sight. 

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Untitled 2

Written by Sophie Jayne Whitrick 


I was a woman before my time

Now I’m just a girl with a rhyme

It hurts in my head

The voices wish me dead

Question is it better to live?

To the world, what do I give?

I am a burden, a worthless soul.

Once a dreamer with unreachable goals.

Now those dreams just echoes

Who knows how this story goes?

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Wonder On

Written by Beenish Akhtar 

Photograph by  Oshomah Abubakar

Photograph by Oshomah Abubakar

Do you ever wonder,

How you got somewhere?

Even though a while ago,

That’s exactly where you wanted to be.

Do you ever wonder,

How far you could go?

But what if the void is still empty,

So you’re too afraid to see.


Do you ever wonder,

How all these people got through?

They probably had it worse,

And you feel lucky to be you.

But do you ever wonder,

If, like you, they had never tried?

Then you would have no inspiration,

Because they’d have never caught your eye.

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