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Dear all,

We are incredibly pleased and proud to announce the launch of our second issue. Click here to download it as a PDF or alternatively you can read Issue Two on ISSUU.

Many thanks to all our contributors and we’ll be in touch soon with details of the submission window for our third issue.

All Best,

Caitlin, Harrison, Matthew and Peter




Call For Submissions


 Photo courtesy of Phil Elverum

Submissions for EPIZOOTICS! #2 are now being accepted for publication in
early 2017. We invite submissions of literary criticism, poetry, microfiction, artwork, photography, translations and interviews.

In particular, we would like to develop a forum for questions concerning the anthropocene, the post-human, the ecocritical, the phenomenological, the spatial, the philosophical, the contemporary and the migratory. There is no set theme. However, we are looking for experimental, philosophical, contemporary and risk-taking material.

General Submission Guidelines

  • We do accept simultaneous submissions, but please notify us immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere.
  • Poetry and fiction can be of any length. Please send 3-5 shorter poems, or one long poem/sequence. Fiction can be short – up to 100 words, or long – up to 5,000. We are happy to publish reviews and essays on recent books and anthologies also.
  • All work must not have been previously published, either in print or online.  We write to contributors as soon as a decision is made.
  • Email submissions to epizooticszine@gmail.comin word document form preferably in A5 format.
  • If you have an idea for a potential essay, review or interview, please get in touch with a short description of what you would like to do.
  • Please include a short biography with your submission.
  • Poems and prose remain the copyright of their author.


from ‘Ian Curtis and the German Autumn’- Don Dombowsky


What is death? What is the past?
What was written in a blue room?
I read in those lyrical pages no psychiatric report
only the melancholy collision of worlds
Sometimes you heard a choir of gravediggers
and rakers
in Manchester’s slums
the background of a charity child’s geography
but nothing of the social war depicted by Engels in The Condition of the Working Class
in England
though something of the physical and moral atmosphere
drawn up in a frail notebook entry
‘no bright prospects for future’
no ‘new emergent forces or policies likely to change’.
With misery circulating everywhere
your handwriting follows the swallow’s flight
around the reed and over the black streets
where the homeless sit by the gates.

Reflecting on the deeper ontological problem of time and history
He foresaw an inevitable ‘return to dark ages’ and increasing social control
accompanied by sensations of solitude and paranoia.
So it is not class war that is the primary theme of his lyric poetry
rather the uniform failure of the modern
with its turn to authoritarianism and fascism
in the 20th century
a nihilistic epoch where the promises of the past were never realized
with its ‘Ideals turning to dust’.

I see you as an anti-authoritarian song poet
whose lyrics manifest an immersion
in the iconography, organization and system
of the Nazi state
in the atrocity of the holocaust
and its double the napalm war
a preoccupation with violence and power
as you contemplate the Nuremberg trials
and state terror
you invite the listener to remember
on an industrial scale
‘mass murder on a scale you’ve never seen’.

Overhead, German Gothic characters across the center of an arc-shaped sign:
Women’s Camp. Alongside, a postscript chalked in German hand: Labor via
Joy…. Joy Division.
The very name of his group indicates a fascination
with the workings of the Nazi state.
The name was derived from a book entitled House of Dolls
written by a holocaust survivor
inmate number 135633.
Joy Division referred to the section in concentration camps
in which women were forced into sexual slavery
serving as prostitutes for German soldiers
and subjected to various surgical experiments
various methods of castration and sterilization.
‘Female organs were removed from their bodies and replaced with artificial
On them were tried all sorts of poison tablets
which German pharmaceutical concerns sent to the chief physician
to be tested on humans.’
Taking this name was a political act through which you identified yourself
with the victims of fascism.
The complete lyrics of the song No Love Lost includes
a revised passage from House of Dolls
‘Through the wire screen, the eyes of those standing outside looked in at her as into the cage of some rare creature in a zoo. In the hand of one of the assistants she saw the same instrument which they had that morning inserted deep into her body. She shuddered instinctively. No life at all in the house of dolls’.
The original reads
‘Through the wire screen, the eyes of those standing outside looked in at her as into the cage of some rare creature in a zoo. She was lying naked, her parted knees still strapped to the iron rods at both sides of the table. In the hand of one of the assistants she saw the same instrument which they had that morning inserted deep into her vagina. Her body shuddered instinctively’.




Don Dombowsky is an Associate Professor in the departments of Politics and International Studies and Philosophy at Bishop’s University in Canada. He is the author of Nietzsche and Napoleon: The Dionysian Conspiracy (University of Wales Press, 2014), Nietzsche’s Machiavellian Politics (2004) and co-editor of Political Writings of Friedrich Nietzsche: An Edited Anthology (2008).


‘The Dead Frog Of Love’- Stuart Ross

The squashed frog on the tarmac was calling my name. I could hear it distinctly. No one else seemed to notice. They just streamed by, wiping their brows against the sudden heat, eager to begin building their collection of I Heart Managua souvenirs.

I knelt. The side of the frog was split open, and indistinguishable red and yellow blobby things were poking out of it. I tugged my baseball cap down over my brow to block out the glare of the sun, which hovered directly above. This wasn’t one of those dried-up frogs you find tangled into a dust bunny in the corner of your Grade 3 classroom. This was a freshly dead creature, who just hours or even minutes ago was hopping along thinking about whatever it is that frogs think about.

A couple of bubbles surged out from the slit in its side, and I realized that the little guy had begun to actually cook. This was where the country had gotten its motto: Nicaragua: Where You Can Broil Dead Animals on the Sidewalk, Especially in July. I reached into my shirt pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. I opened it, emptied the cigarettes into my other shirt pocket, and gently scooped the frog into the cigarette pack. I looked up and saw a uniformed soldier watching me from near the terminal door. She was squinting and grinning. I was a crazy gringo.

When I arrived at my hotel, Casa Leonel Rugama, there was a message waiting for me from the Oficina del Turismo de Nicaragua. I knew no Spanish, as I had never been further than Sudbury before, but I did recognize my name among all the foreign words, and I could figure out “Oficina” and “Turismo.” Well, they weren’t really foreign words, because I was in the country of these words. I was what was foreign. I wondered how you said “frog” in Spanish, because I wondered if this was about the frog in the cigarette packet in my shirt pocket. Were you allowed to pick up dead frogs in this country?

No, I was sure that wasn’t it. If it had been, the letter would have come from the Oficina del Policismo instead of the Oficinia del Turismo. I thought about that soldier who had been watching me. I wondered if I was in love with her. I had been to Sudbury six times and had never fallen in love. But in Managua I had fallen in love within minutes of arriving. I had found a dead frog and love. I pulled my tiny Spanish-English dictionary out of my back pants pocket and flipped through it. I had found muerto rana and querer.

My hotel room was about two metres by four metres. The bed was a thin mattress on a plank of wood. A fan sat on a shallow wooden ledge nailed to the wall. I turned it on, and put my face into the breeze. I tried to remember why I’d come to Nicaragua. A small lizard clung to the wall beside my bed and looked me right in the eyes.

The bar was tiny and had a thatched roof and no walls. Where I was from, in the small town of Cobourg, on Lake Ontario, our bars had walls. The same with Sudbury. Four walls to every bar. If one travelled to find something different, then this was definitely travelling. I couldn’t wait to tell people back home what I had seen. Also, instead of tables in this bar, there were large overturned spools that had been used for, I assumed, telephone wire. These were surrounded by roughly made wooden stools. In the stools sat a dozen or so young Nicaraguans. I stood facing the nonexistent wall in the front of the bar. I was flanked by a man with a regular-sized guitar and a man with a very tiny guitar. I looked to them, one at a time, and nodded, and they nodded back, one at a time.

A woman wearing a white cotton shirt and blue jeans stepped in front of us and said something in Spanish. The audience cheered. The two guitarists struck some chords, then paused. All eyes were on me. I thought for a moment, holding back the panic, then drew the cigarette pack out of my shirt. I lifted the lid and drew the frog out a bit, so that it looked like it was peeking out of the box. I turned it toward the audience.

Then the guitarists began to play. The chords from the big guitar were deep, like the voice of Lurch from The Munsters. The chords from the tiny guitar were jingly, like the rain that had fallen on the metal roof of my hotel room at Casa Leonel Rugama the night before. Below my nose was a mouth, and this I then opened.

The rana may be muerte
but still he is in querer
with the lady soldier
who was standing by the door
of the terminal
at Agosto Sandino Internacionalismo!

Sing, Nicaragua, sing!
The rana may be muerte
but still he is in querer!

The guitarists struck their final chords. I had done it. I had performed with a band in Managua, Nicaragua. I couldn’t remember if that is what I had come to do, or even how I had found myself at this bar, but the audience went crazy. By which I mean, they shook their heads in disbelief and began laughing. One of them yelled, “Más cerveza!” which I took to mean “Service for everybody,” because the waiters seemed so slow to look after the guests.

As I walked the dark and warm streets of Managua after my success at the bar with no walls, I fell into an open sewer. I remembered a trick I’d learned from a television show back home. I again drew the cigarette box from my pocket, and flung it up onto the road. It was only a matter of time before the dead frog of love attracted the attention of the beautiful soldier, and my life would change.



Stuart Ross is the author of ten books of poetry, two story collections, two books of rants, a solo novel, and two collaborative novels. Most recent: A Sparrow Came Down Resplendent (Wolsak & Wynn, 2016) and A Hamburger in a Gallery (DC Books, 2015). His second solo novel, Pockets, is coming in 2017 from ECW Press. Stuart lives in Cobourg, Ontario, Canada, and blogs at




‘Omens of M’- Ellie Walsh (from Issue 1)

Cocked fist, rosebud. The blade, made for thatch, removes it easily
don’t wash your face at night, you’ll marry an old man
Blood drips like a metronome. I flick the head a safe distance
chew and spit a dry chrysalis to stop the pain
and there are eyes in the back of its head, like M
fish in your dreams will bring you gold
The underbelly is orange, so pretty I hardly want to skin it
don’t sweep the house after sunset
It squirms once more; a whip-stroke in the sand
don’t enter the kitchen while bleeding, you’ll rot the food
Poison from the wet stem of its throat smells like a delicacy–
don’t borrow salt, a salt debt is bad luck
I could feel guilty. While M struggles to find purpose
a crow kaa-taaing on your roof invites new guests
crouched in the doorway for warmth without smoke
whistling at night invites the devil
there seems so much of it in a dead cobra
a dog howling on your doorstep invites death
posing in the clay and the dust, waiting to rebel
are you listening to me, chori?
waiting to prove something of its life
don’t bring snakeskin into the house, however pretty the underbelly
waiting to dance as if watched by nothing but its own eyes.

Ellie works as a Contributing Editorial Associate at Coldnoon Travel Poetics Journal where she runs a column focused on poetry from South Asia. She attended Thompson Rivers University in British Columbia where she studied English, and she later completed her MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University in the UK. She is now in Nepal on PhD research where she studies post-revolution feminist poetry from the Terai – a place where she draws much inspiration for her own writing. The Nepalese villagers teach her how to harvest rice and often tell her to lighten up.


We are pleased to announce Epizootics Issue 1 will be out by the end of October. We can reveal now our contents page–


‘Apollinaire and No Relief’— Alex Rake

‘No Longer Alone’ and Notes— Allen Fisher

‘Colourful Ash’ and ‘The Sea Of Granules’— Ali Znaidi

‘Also Known As Walden’— Andrew Taylor

‘Covalence’— Bill Bulloch

from ‘Excluded Airspace’— Brook Pearson

Re-Black 1 & 2— Bruno Neiva

Awakening, Abandon, Culpable— Caitlin Stobie


‘PEAK TIME [Unfinished]’— Daniel Eltringham

‘THIS BODY’— David Rushmer

‘Ian Curtis and the German Autumn’— Don Dombowsky

‘Omens Of M’— Eleanor Walsh

‘The Oracle’s First Picture Book’, ‘Slash For The Lowlands #4’, ‘All God’s Children Want Ham and Eggs’— Glen Armstrong

‘Sand Heart Sequence’— Haley Jenkins

‘The Astral Accidentals’— Iain Britton

‘ Untitled’— James Davies

‘The Sanguine’, ‘The Same Sanguine’ & Notes— Jennie Cole

‘From Under The Gas Museum, A Collaborative Invention in Three Parts’ and ‘Ignore Previous, Collaborative Inventions in 11 Cantos’— John Hall and Peter Hughes

‘A Short History of The Mini Skirt’ and ‘Three Quarters Of A Ten Bob Note’— Kenny Knight

‘Untitled’— Maria Luigia Gioffrè

‘ Offspring’— Mark Goodwin

‘Migrants’ and ‘Taxidermy’— Melisande Fitzsimmons

‘Quesalupa (You Gotta Try This)’, ‘Bomb Taco’ & ‘Taco’— Mark Staniforth

from ‘The Saragossa Manuscript (section, the third)’— Richard Barrett

from ’20 Poems by Ikkyu rewritten using paper and pencil’— Stephen Emmerson

‘The Dead Frog Of Love’— Stuart Ross

‘In Medias Res’ and ‘Under The Weather’— Wanda O’Connor

REVIEW: Grey haired lady or squirrel. What do I know? – Confessions of a Cyclist Review— Tom Jenks



We’re very excited to be bringing you this work very soon. We will also be reopening our submissions window in November.