by Helen Ivory | Nov 28, 2012 | Prose & Poetry
The Air is Blind with Cities The air is blind with cities. I see sparks of meat, scattered like body’s of rain, with tiny voices. I see starving faces, bluer than hills of sand, of perfectly formed deserts. The hunger is calm, like...
by Helen Ivory | Nov 27, 2012 | Prose & Poetry
Reverse Aubade Next you’ll be saying the effect of rain-flow on a house is our own fluidity, those unheard percolations. But the old gods weren’t stupid. If my body’s a temple or whatever, no light at the door reaches the relics. The new...
by Helen Ivory | Nov 26, 2012 | Prose & Poetry
7.05 am crossing towers of tall apartment blocks [Jumping roof to roof like the Hulk] a shallow flow of sewage beneath my shoes [I am Superman] work around the corner Monday morning, 7.05 am. all quiet, except for dog walkers [Bank robbers and I...
by Helen Ivory | Nov 25, 2012 | Prose & Poetry
Cryogenic Steam First I fell from a window and thought I’d never reach the ground. A door opened in the fog. Once inside I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it feels like to be dead. Somehow when I found myself walking the steppe it...
by Helen Ivory | Nov 24, 2012 | Prose & Poetry
Up the Block a backhoe has cut the hours in half for three days windows have fallen doors been split by the rumbling thunder from a neighbour’s lot I drive the machine across the computer and renovate my brain Joanna M. Weston has had poetry,...
by Helen Ivory | Nov 21, 2012 | Prose & Poetry
Incommunicado, Tate Modern I find the tiny steel structure after the third miscarriage. Tucked in the corner. It calls out to me. Heavily lit and engulfed by white space, it lies remote and confused, craves something it doesn’t understand. It’s meant to...
