The Cafe Review

by Dianella Bardelli Allen Ginsberg andava ai Gat di Calcutta dove la gente arrivava morta e veniva bruciata su grandi pire — ci andava per

Something Empedokles said, when he was saying there’s a difference

by Duncan McNaughton Collingwood had nothing better to do than listen to this guy who was talking in a type of Chinese, saying, I love to think

by Duncan McNaughton Were you there the night the dogs barked in Banja Luka? I was, with a one–armed Irish nurse and her spinster sister

by Duncan McNaughton The doctor in spite of something or other, himself I suppose, or the ghosts, we mustn’t forget them we grew up with, not now

by Duncan McNaughton Bunch of riders got together, formed a club, The Bychos, though not as simple as that. At the county jail there were two

by Duncan McNaughton Carlisle, the tailor, though otherwise a clumsy man, sat taking his ale and a helping of rhubarb–serviceberry pie. The

by Ava Darling She lies on her back, beside him in the wide bed, one of her hands touching one of his. It is her hand that touches his hand. The

by Ava Darling One must wait for the bath water to warm and then to cool, first a finger, finally a toe. Now I stand, my feet quite wet, lower

by James Koller Suddenly, up from her bed, she crossed the moonlit room, her white skin silver, he thought, in that light. What is it? he asked,

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