138 x 216mm


34 pages


£6.00 + P&P UK


ISBN 978-1-910834-55-8


PUB: JULY 2017











These are poems about surviving doomsdays. People use the word doomsday to describe the apocalypse, and apocalypse simply means ‘an uncovering of knowledge’. Every life has its share of apocalyptic moments—not only great catastrophes, but also small secret revelations, and surprise twists of good fortune as well.

They leave you with lessons learned,

and stories to tell.




“These poems have glittered paint on their earth-caked broken fingernails. They dance the path between this, and the otherworld. Their vision is as bright and as ancient as the moon.”

Helen Ivory

Editor: Ink, Sweat and Tears


“Kate Garrett’s poems stride dauntless across a nostalgic landscape. They cartwheel through youthful nights of lights out-stories to the graffitied hell of love and womanhood, stumbling steadily toward inevitable wonderment.”

James H. Duncan

Editor: Hobo Camp Review


“Impassioned and otherworldly, You’ve never seen a doomsday like it is composed with shadows, “love built on endings”, and a thin but stunning light in the dark—a glimpse of what can be reborn. Encompassing the grace of a natural storyteller, Garrett’s poems unfold with haunting candor. Readers of this book will be transported where they unknowingly longed to be.”

April Michelle Bratten

Editor-in-Chief: Up the Staircase Quarterly






You've never seen a

doomsday like it


Kate Garrett

The circular route




my face is a filter on the city –

pupils, iris, woolly hat, orange

coat reflected back

through glass, colouring concrete




she’s there at the phone box

a snapshot



a pattern of keys

no one’s touched this year


hair the tarred

colour of tab ends


she exhales impatience

disguised as smoke

from thin nostrils




through glass, colouring my face

a filter of concrete

reflects back in pupils, iris


a pattern of touch

no one’s memorised this year



An august sacrament


The sun lowered itself into our six o’clock

armchair, blushing cream walls to the tune

of Dionysus’s blood, your faith between

my ribs chanting thanks to God for the static

under fingernails    


and when the same sun has gone tortoise-slow

and quiet through the ground beneath us

the breeze that didn’t blow today transforms

a moonless night into myth – a remark thrown into shape:

it's summer, these things happen.


I know

you would dance through

blackthorn if I asked.


You know

I try to believe

in empires, effigies.




You’ve never seen a doomsday like it


He opens the car door for two sweat-and-dirt sculpted

children with ten cent hope – their earth-scent rising

as they root through decades of leftovers, synthetic dreams

once resting on every child’s lips: Smurfs, Garfield, He-Man.


My life at bargain prices, in stasis, this millennial cusp.


An askew Rockwell: the boy and girl treasure hunting

as the July sun makes toffee of the driveway, holds itself

multiplied in each cell of each husk of the rows of green corn

along the road from here to the village.


He asks where I’m going.


London, I say, the one in England, not Ohio. His face

doesn’t darken or cloud the way they say faces do;

his eyes stay the same blue when he says I am right

to get out. Either get away or load your gun. This year


2000 isn’t going to be pretty. These cornfields will burn.

Houses will be searched, he says, and I’ll be dragged away

like the rest. And he’s going to get his wife and kids

and keep driving. But you get on that plane,


he says, don’t come back


my life spread out on folding tables between us,

the man laying down five American dollars for pieces

of my childhood; five American dollars

I will change to pounds sterling, while they’re

still worth something, while we have the choice.






He will send you a text by mistake addressed to his friend, saying it’s all too much, he got carried away, and you did too.


This you already know. You stay silent. You erase.

And you go to his house, he plays piano


for you, and the kisses are awkward, but his hands

wander anyway. You don’t know why you came here.


You were swept away by that aurora at your feet, where

the lamppost glow hits the winter street, when it’s cold


and London smells like frosted takeaways and it’s been dark since half past three. His eyes are coal before it burns, flecks


of black light that hide when he kisses your clove and nutmeg lips. You don’t want to see the solstice. You don’t care about


the sun. That evening he turned his head to the east; you could already feel his empty indent in your atmosphere,


the death of a dark star before its birth.

Kate amend Garrett doomsday