by Helen Ivory | Jan 17, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
Hand You feel like a plastic hand Remote controlled Taking your sweet time To pick up a pen We should be Sequential But I don’t know What you’re going to do next The night was long When I woke up My sense of you had gone So Brother...
by Helen Ivory | Jan 16, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
Home – In Deeside Every day I walk the windy tunnel of the high street. ‘Good morning,’ says the odd one, playing a comb-tune through tissue paper. I bow. The estuary is nearby. A neighbour tells me, ‘Makes for changeable weather.’...
by Helen Ivory | Jan 15, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
Journeying From the Book of Lost Poems The moon has opened its eye on this Night of Redemption. The Penitents are all dressed in black. Only the white of their faces – their own small moons – float to the edge. They have chalked their bodies and...
by Helen Ivory | Jan 14, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
Monsanto’s Gift to War Smitty isn’t Schulte. He doesn’t drive a Cadillac and doesn’t hit his wife often any more. Schulte, on the other hand, drives a Cadillac and hits his wife usually on weekends for no good reason....
by Helen Ivory | Jan 13, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
* the sun is low enough to rest our drinks on and our too-big boots house-big Annabelle written in fluttered chalk on the table leg must be a night for ex-girlfriends bluejayMan used to love a girl who says asshole with a French accent...
