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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.

Peter Leight

There’s more waste than we use for the things we ordinarily use waste for, such as piling it on barges and sending them out to sea, tucking it under the surface like a layer of insulation . . .

Ansuya Patel

Women scrape coins from their purse,
count pennies, one lifts up a watermelon
in mid-air like raising a newborn to light.

Abiodun Salako

a boy grows tired
of dying again and again.

                                                                                                                                       i am building him a morgue
                                                                                                                                                       for Thanksgiving.