Mitch on a Kent Road at Night
Underneath the cold dust of night, skin coated in its sharp spit, he’s bobbing headlight first into the centre of the road, chin jutting out like a speedbump. Soon, the rubber will gravel him again—wrap and warp his skin—and slide him slick across the tarmac, beetroot nucleus pulposus.
Cordiform
Tick tick. Some animals need their loves far away from them. With the canned freeze, phone flickering under a blanket, I could almost understand. Pinecones in the boreal forest are right now closing up on their own warmth, Mr. Attenborough tells me, while long ears and pads have become pelt casings
Shibuya hospital
August 31st 2017. Tokyo City, Shibuya hospital second floor There is an incredibly ominous feeling that accompanies knowing the exact place you are to die. I have been lying in the same spot for nearly a year now. Tubes snake their way under the blankets, latching onto me in humiliating place
THE EYING OF MY SCARS
“Collection of Sylvia Plath’s possessions to be sold at auction” reads Tuesday’s Guardian. Up for grabs are the proof copy of Plath’s novel The Bell Jar (1963) and her pre-publication author’s copy. Both are written on: her proof edition is “carefully corrected”, and her author’s c
