Three Monkeys Online

A Curious, Alternative Magazine


  • Ljubljana

    Ljubljana is one of Europe's coolest capital cities, famed for its castle, beautiful bridges, vibran
  • David Gray Returns to Ireland

    Songwriter David Gray has announced a special Irish tour, focussing on small venues, in part to return to his roots [Gray first found an audience in Ireland, before his massive hit album White Ladder]
  • Billy Bragg’s Life’s a Riot with Spy vs Spy

    Billy Bragg‘s debut album, Life’s a Riot with Spy vs Spy, gets the anniversary re-issue treatment this month. Cooking Vinyl release a remastered version of the original album and live reco
  • Murmurs and sudden bursts. Once You Break a Knuckle by DW Wilson | a review

    I’ve broken an arm, right at the elbow, where it seized. I’ve torn out ligaments, burned a hole into my wrist with an iron that still shows up bandage perforation and always will. Scars ru
  • Goddess | a short story by Mark Gardner

    Our baby is crying and I wonder how Victor can sleep through. ‘My dear, the baby is awake.’ He opens his eyes, ‘Will you?’ Yes I’ll go, you sleep through, you useless shit. I suppose you don
  • Scenes from a Spide’s Agoge | a poem by Eamonn Stewart

    These “suicide-prone” epigones Gather to drink from The Marian Shrine. And shout taunts at those They’ve already insulted online . They only go mob-handed At those they have fought, And are lite
  • Aide Memoire | a poem by Eamonn Stewart

    In the snap, confetti the guests fling were the scales from the butterfly’s wings. Coventrating not cleaving the air that used to make it soar – became a simulacrum – an electroscope flappin
  • The Drones | a poem by Eamonn Stewart

    The youth I know are angry drones Appeased by a certain smoke alone. Their function done: their queen bees Ascend to forensic matriarchy.   But it’s futile to speak For these smoke-dazed drones
  • The Chyme(s ) | a poem by Eamonn Stewart

    Oft have I heard the chymes of midnight In adjacent flats or in the streets. These materialise, like Balla’s lamp In the morning under my feet. I awoke to a peal of beer bottles And white-cider tins
  • Derelict Transfigured | a poem by Eamonn Stewart

    A young derelict with a baleen beard, In which every drink or meal he’s had adhered. Traversing headlights lifted this stone I practically hurled on the way home.