Daniel de Culla



A teacher asks Little James

What balls are those that don’t have hairs

And Little James answered quickly:

-None, teacher, because all the balls

And more those of Villar

Have hairs.

There was laughter by spoonfuls

Like garlic soups

In Roa de Duero, Burgos

Before corralling bulls.

Little students from Aranda de Duero

Know this joke very well

And always talk of it

When they go to the wine cellar

And, into the deep of it

They touch the balls among them

To see which of them

Have more grown hair.

To who that has the longest hair

They sent him to Burgos

With free expenses

 As a prize for competing

In a competition of Billiards and Darts

To a place called “At Plane”, in Gamonal

Telling him at the Bus Station

Before car beging to move:

– Take care, Villar, you’re going to Burgos

To compete at Plane

Ones with darts, others with sticks”.

-Daniel de Culla





Trump, gypsylike to, illustrates

The scintilla of  life:

Making a Trump taking many lives

Wishing and hunting

Ancient skills of skinning.

His powerful majic odor

Dilates our nostrils

And quickens our hearts.

He will be written  with berry juice

Since his brain is as a tortilla

made with turtle’s eggs

coming to Act, coming to Eat

With Putin and his Ego

Within the necessities

Of all the livings.

-Daniel de Culla





From beginning to end

is explained absolutely everything worth knowing

about absolutely nothing.

Why not’?

We felt that the Beginning is a true leaf

of the inmortal literature

as a side of bacon changing the pig

discovering the best way to keep its legend alive

encouraging mytology

and the controversy about it:

Sun wil have its tide spreading over our maps

Moon remembering us we were gone

and we still sing everything waiting

for birth, death

inside this den of us.

Spring, Summer, Autum, Winter

coming with feelings of love, radiance

quiet and delight

As ever.

-Daniel de Culla





Crossing the Street

I’m just celebrating

The feline sense of “Like”.

How do You like Me?

I like more bananas than slices of water-melon.

And I really feel like

And yet I induced  it like

That is like.

What is he like?

The like as Me.

With my own words to receive

To touch, to perceive:

Baby is like to live; Old is like to die.

You have eyes like stars

And the face like an Ass.

I’m going to divorce You

For that¡

Like father, like son.

 – Daniel de Culla




Original artwork by Daniel de Culla



Original photography by Daniel de Culla


Gwil James Thomas

Five Finger Fillet.


The games had started innocently


with the radiators on maximum –

as the Christmas snow

twisted and turned outside.


I wasn’t even that competitive but

the explosive reaction

that I’d get from

my brother was always worth it.


I was button bashed 

at Rocket League,

thrashed at Ping Pong, 

but I smashed him at 

Shut The Box 

and after my brother 

then lost at Ker Plunk –

he vowed to beat me 

after he’d rolled 




Once, the twenty minute ceasefire

drew to an end my brother ran off

to the kitchen –

returning red eyed and grinning with

a chopping board, kitchen knife

and stopwatch.


“Five finger fillet!” he said.

“Really?” I replied.

“We’d play it all the time when I was

working out at sea –

those rough waves were

good teachers! Now, put your

hand on the chopping board!”

he demanded.

“Aren’t you supposed to use

your own hand?”

“That’s no fun!”

“The whole thing looks far from fun.”

“Fine, start with me.” my brother said

and put his hand on the chopping



My brother then set the stopwatch

for a minute stretched out his pinkie

and thumb, as he then counted







whilst I built up momentum before

the stopwatch sounded.


“48 stabs!” my brother shouted.

“It was more than that!” I argued.

“I was counting them.”

“Fine, now it’s my turn to count.”

I replied.


I got the stopwatch ready and

put my hand on the chopping board,

like some slab of meat

in front of a butcher.


“Go!” I said.


With a deep concentration I counted

the knife once –

before I felt a searing pain

as the blade pierced my finger

and saw blood on the chopping board.


“You got my fucking hand!

You did that on purpose!” I said.

“What?” he replied.


He put the knife back down,

before I pushed him onto the floor

as he performed some strange

wrestling manoeuvre and I flew back

onto the shelving unit,

taking him with me –

as a vase toppled off and landed

on his shoulder

shattering into a million pieces.


Then there was silence.


I had no idea if he’d just

lost five finger fillet –

or he’d secretly won by stabbing me,

but he looked over and grinned,

holding his shoulder

as I held my hand

knowing that the games were over

and that life wasn’t something won

it was something that you played,

or at least it played you.


Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal


The river maiden calls
to me. The voice of an
angel, the trickery of a
sorceress, she guides me
to the depths of the river.
Sleepwalking under water
I become a fish and a
catch for someone’s menu.
I provide nourishment
when for years I had feelings
of lack of self-worth. To be
needed for once, I let it all
happen without knowing
I had fallen into a spell.



J.J. Campbell

breaking all the hearts


staring off in the distance

and it’s always the wrong

song that comes on


an old lover leaving,

breaking all the hearts


and soon your demons

are in the corner



you can’t fool them


they know you aren’t cut

out for life in this world


and no matter how much

you try being positive

it will never work for



those hands will always

be around your neck


you will always be

pinned to the bathroom

floor at your grandmother’s



therapy never worked


the drugs never helped


and even alcohol has

turned a cold shoulder


thankfully, you know

a guy and you still can

find a vein


John Grey



Against her breast, she wears her dead grandfather.

Even now, she can’t help thinking of how he died,

shuffled into the steaming oven,

suffocated as stiff as her black shoes.


In mid-summer, she drinks hot black coffee

in an old suburban Chicago house.

How tight her collar buttons at the throat.

How sad the farewell that slips between her blouse and bra.


The chain is as long as a train with many windows.

The one face twists when she turns her head.

It’s a typical portrait of the time.

The eyes can stare at her but no way


that they can see what’s coming.

The locket is small, no longer shiny.

It’s been with her year after year,

a brush with darkness and with light.


It’s from a time when Europe looked elsewhere.

Or when blindness outflanked vision.

So many names her tongue could sanctify.

When it’s just the one, her silence is a beautiful thing.



Judge Burdon

Judge Burdon

She lives with low rent day dreams, on no name backstreets.
Dirty sidewalks made from quicksand concrete,
There’s no yellow brick road.

In this city like desert without an oasis.
Hope a disease that breeds in places,
Where God wouldn’t go.

In the air there’s a stench the smell of desperation.
And lives are stamped with a date of expiration.
The Devil’s grip on their souls.

Night crashes down with the sound of a train wreck.
She’s on the prowl for love and everyone’s suspect,
But they just leave her cold.

She cries with a sound that no one hears.
Her eyes lost their voice
Now she can’t speak with tears
She wonders ’bout life on the other side of the mirror.
Kneels down for one more unanswered prayer.
But there’s no one listening out there!

And she bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn
She’s hemorrhaging lies and alibis.
She bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn.
Break free Persephone
Brooklyn left the front porch light on.


Judge Burdon

other children feared monsters
under their bed
i feared the one living under our roof.
his hair was nimbus black
with a storm’s thunder in his voice.
his fists were freight train brown
ball bearing knuckles
frostbite blue was his touch
with empty icebox eyes
his smile untrusted growling words
spoken like tangled spaghetti
he was my mother’s husband
my siblings’ father
a childhood of baseballs never thrown
bruises and shattered bones
medicated with lies
happiness diluted with tears
in a house with screams undetected
when asked what i wanted to be
i testified “far from here”
now, fiber optic home front news
faceless words
cancer eating away at your life
with the fury of a piranha
your disease now my champion
fighting with the courage
i was unable to muster
your epitaph written in my adolescence
while plotting your midnight homicide
again you leave unaccountable for your actions
i’m left to wrestle with the demons
not the strength to forgive
my memory too scarred to forget
i’ll keep the battle lines drawn as your monument
let the puzzle piece fall where it may
good bye old man you’ll be missed
like a pit viper’s bite
your pain can no longer touch me
from the grave.


Grant Guy

I Do Not Know What You Are Thinking


Grant Guy

She said

I don’t know what you are thinking

You do not talk to me

I said

I do not know what I am thinking

I do know what I am feeling

I cannot put feelings into words

She said

That is no way to talk to your lover

I said

I do not know what love is