After the Storm
They have black tongues, arteries which are rumoured to pumpcinders and tar. As they summon the gale, words drip like treaclefrom their blaspheming mouths, weaving a tale of two horses who gallop the town: one black, the other white,like a negative impression. With eyelashes wet from the storm,they
Postcard from Dún Laoghaire’s West Pier
A fat seal drags itself up the harbour To gnaw on fishbones. In my dreams jaws clamp Round my skull, bring brittle bits of me back Down towards the seaweed, sludge and slime. I see it as I feel it. Troops expected France but spilled out of ships Here, at what was then Kingstown, To […]
Ersatzwörter
Berlin, November Today the U-Bahn wasn’t running so I took the Ersatzverkehr, and it made me think of you back home, two summers ago, when we were friends again, and sitting in a square of June sunlight on the floor of David’s room. What I can’t say with words I try to say [&hell
Marginalia
Words by Danann Kilburn. Art by Poppy Williams.
Faltering
Words build up in my throat, sticky like caramel, to choke me. The tension spreads to my face as the backlog of muted syllables drives forward but doesn’t push itself through. My mouth contorts under the mounting pressure –I’m powerless. When the words eventually lurch out, past my tongue, tee
Noticing
I know where the spoons go now and the mugs. Afternoon-slow. The first weeks meandered, chipped ceramic mugs wobbling with hot tea. You hum to the tap tap tap of the knife, noise lost in thick, citrus air. You leave the butter on the shelf so that it stays soft. Home of turned backs, [&hellip
fragments: a series
11.5.22 18:08 [the fear/the hope] to be good to be bad to be forgettable to be unforgettable social experiment 20.5.22 13:38 [part-hearted] unhinge me, move me i am already undone put me back together, but leave me alone! pull me up, down, turn me inside out you lift me up, can spin me roun
Temporalities
i. The Louvre, Paris and we are gilded spires opaque pearlescent rounds smooth skimmed surfaces you could hold under your tongue set into a crown and call jewels. a feeling of falling mid-breath, a hazy periphery and a spotlight. we are tilting, scintillating in light slowed in mind’s
The Angler
The angler, taken in isolation, waits in preparatory study, his rod cast out and off the edge of the tall tide, which nearly banks the sky. The brown of the grass seems to climb station and cloaks his closed frame in an ascending glow of rust. The scene is not new. The […