time lines teaser #1


What follows is a prose poem by Richard Biddle (aka bid), whose Twitter handle is @littledeaths68, and whose work kicks off the edgy Twitter poetry anthology, time lines.


Mesmerised, they stare at the swirling, suckered arms of the beckoning octopus and the shark’s dead eyes that offer no remorse. I come to watch the eels.

My father first brought me here as a boy and I fell in love with this ill lit watery stage where floating players perform hypnotic turns.

I too have gills, can breathe liquid. I too am behind glass gazing at people staring back wide-eyed at my naked form, giggling and weeping.


The Things I Have by Mina Polen

I have a garden of black ferns at the bottom of the deep ocean. New fronds uncurl slowly in darkness, caressing the sea. I can take you there.

I am growing a forest with your tears, your fears, your hopes, your loves. We have a nurturing ever-flowing stream, a forest in full bloom.

I have some abandoned hopes hiding inside the rain. I can only see them when it rains. They get alive, watered, then washed away again.

In the scar between two oceans I have your grief, a couple of beautiful earrings and all the tears you´ve lost. Come, I have some lemonade too.

Inside the night´s darkest hours I have forty elephants that talk with the fire, twenty tsunamis that whisper to the wind, a hundred clouds that can melt your guts and three volcanoes as a snack.

I have a flame that is my shadow. She follows me anywhere, she licks me and burns me. Sometimes she is a caress or a burning sensation. Inside.

I have a place inside myself where ice is perpetual; where silence, whispers and the moonlight are sharp as daggers.

I have inside the curve of a wave the shells´ voices, their whispers and secrets. The only place in the ocean that is deaf to its own voice.

I have a handful of wave dust in my hand. I am saving it for you. I will spread it over that cliff in the middle of the sand dune desert.

I have the fire of your eyes on my fingertips. I am lingering over the earth, igniting everything I touch. I will get to the ocean tonight.

I have a railway in the middle of the sea. Sea urchins roll along it, spelling in every twist -and in real time- the sea´s new words.


This prose poem is the third by Mexican poet Mina Polen that has appeared on this site in recent weeks. It was originally posted in 12 tweets through Mina’s Twitter account, @minafiction. I love the mixture of hallucinatory, surrealist beauty and disarming whimsy in Mina’s poetry. Hers is a bold, full-blooded voice; a bracing antidote to the too-knowing, cautious, anaemic poetry that currently dominates.

Blood by Mina Polen

A river floats inside me, goes up and down, heavy and light, loud and silent, rumbles and flows. Listen, the crimson river wants to flow out.

The river is leaking on that corner, you can hear its dripping sound at night if you press your ear on my chest or if you swim in darkness.

A tiny stream runs through the city’s crevices, pulsating. Everybody ignores its presence and bloody smell. The stream keeps palpitating.

A ferrous thick ribbon comes out from each one of us. It coils round us bonding us together in a liquid embrace. You can hear its runny sound.

On humid days, our quivering ruby ribbon rises towards hurricanes, tornadoes and volcanic clouds. It shines and flows, it soars and leaks.

When we kiss, it boils. When we touch, it whispers. When we embrace, it mixes. When we speak, it flows. Our rivers flow. Together. Deep down.


This prose poem is the second of a few by the extraordinarily talented Mina Polen that will appear on this site over the coming weeks. It was originally posted in 6 tweets through Mina’s Twitter account, @minafiction.

Dust by Mina Polen

The dust he releases contains minute skin fragments and DNA. A half dead, half alive dust that creates a map of his presence in the world.

The dust of tears is an infinitesimal diamantine that plagues the world. You can see it against the light: ephemeral sparkly sad clouds.

The dust of desire slides in zig zag over silky surfaces searching for a destiny and an orgasm. It produces very small spasmodic echoes.

The dust of sweat jumps and explodes in confetti of activity, fear and anxiety. It survives in small universes that expand and contract.


This poem is the first of a few by the extraordinarily talented Mina Polen that will appear on this site over the coming weeks. It was originally posted in 4 tweets through Mina’s Twitter account, @minafiction.