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Francis de Lima

 

 

 

Portrait

 

Oh London. U useless city. Map to
                                                                        nowhere land. Tight stretch 
                                                                        open eye. The underground metal. 

The night tube. The railway. Smog
Over coaltrip. The presence
                                                                          Of machine upon machine. U
behemoth. Sea urchin. Fricative city.
                                                                           And yet. Nightlamp burning into
                                                                           the chippy down and out. Art in 

the stuck gum on the Millenium. 

                                                                           And Wren
                                                                           turned St Pauls upside down to count 
                                                                           a broken weightline

distance into the future. Momentum scream. 
A liars’ cant. Tragedy at play. But so vast

                                                                           Life in the kingdom. Test tube. Raucous. 

Speakers in the round. Wringing poems.
Irish epiphany. Cream of glass. 
                                                                           Capable of cracking. Capable.
                                                                           Brittle plant. Chewing. 
                                                                           Something growing. On Primrose
Hill.

The heath. Episodes and vignettes. 
Untouchable happiness. Insulated time. 

 

 

Francis de Lima is a Finnish-Brazilian poet living in London, where they recently completed their MA in Poetic Practice at Royal Holloway. Many of their poems can be found in literature magazines and some have even been nominated for an award or two.

Mallika Bhaumik

This is not a frilly, mushy love letter 
to a city whose allure lies in defying all labels and holding the mystery key to a man’s heart, though none has ever been able to lay an absolute claim on it, 

Jena Woodhouse

Around midnight, the hour when pain
reasserts its dominance, a voice
behind the curtain screening
my bed from the next patient’s:
an intonation penetrating abstract thoughts

Anyonita Green

It wobbles slightly, red wine jelly.

I peer at it, nose close enough 

to smell the iron, the scent of coagulant,

inhaling through slightly parted lips

Soledad Santana

Seen as she’d hung her cranial lantern
from the roof of her step-father’s garden shed,
the parabolic formula was skipped; like two calves, we followed the fence
to the end of the foot-ball pitch.