Shoot What Moves
“Fire chews the heads of our paintbrushes,burns the parts of us it touches then eats our bedsheets up in flashesand reduces our books to ashes. It comes from laughter, and it catcheson your soft tongue, leaves your breath noxious, since this is hell. You’re a young French film actresswho fell fr
It did not happen in my day
You say, as if young soldiers in Bastogne’s trenches were not checking out each other’s bayonets, as if Kamikaze pilots did not plunge to their deaths full of hetero-regrets – the virile vein of the homo-erect gashed by patriarchal etiquette. As if Roma romance died in Marzhan’s chambers, as
A RETURN TO THE EAST CAPE
un-curl yourself, beginning at the edge, then moving slowly inward, breath and sinew. the world has not been kind this winter, tied you up in small sharp endings and beginnings (much like fallow coloured glass you pick from tidepools on the eastern coast – you try to hug the jagged edges smooth bu
confessions from the bathroom sink
tonight i beg of you, strip me naked of all pretences let us fester in the sinews of your bed feverish between bated breaths and sticky flesh. deliver me and sheathe me so that i may rebirth a thousand excuses for your fleeting gentleness. suddenly, it is July, the fields are burning. i
Laissez les bons temps rouler
join the jazz funeral/ listen to the rehearsal/ pick the sweetest rose and crush it till the petals fall take shelter/ get hitched/ fry a dead catfish/ have a little Catholic mass/ count the seconds between the thunder and the flash clap your hands/ kiss your friends/ wander ‘r
love letter from home
no it’s not what you think it is; not batter rolled in a tight embrace every lunar new year (but you hear the lid slipping off already, so it could be). it’s adding the clock and weather apps as widgets (go to bed, wear extra layers, you know we can’t take the cold). it’s receiving […
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
One Paris May Hide Another Paris
Words by Marianne Doherty. Art by Oliver Roberts.