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,15, orance/Jahiliyyah EndsDec Theatre, EtonAvenue, 3R € SwissCottagefiZ, concs 10.Mon-Sot7.45pm. molsSot315pm. andits , dramalookingat intolerance over60 years.Writtenby )onsequences SteveWaters.

ArabNights Ends DeanStreet,WID I € TottenhamCor Nov22-Dec1f12.51 7.45pm,motsNav29, & signedmot described dramasinspired by EastandNorthA

ExtremisEndsDec0, Kings Head. i15 UpperStreet,il'l lQll llA. Nov19,25& Novl8 preview El5. concsEl2. Sun& Mon A drama bout

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Jack & The Junlg zolt'-' Geq-

J a n5 2 0 1 3 ,L y r i c KingStreet, LyricSquare, smith Nov30, Dec tl2 t80,

MerrilyWe RollAlongEndsFeb23 t ea c t o r 5 y .3 2 0 1 3 ,T h eM e n i eCr h o c o l a F Street,SEI IRl, Southwark € LondonBridgef3S,MeolDeol843, Seotsf37.50, concsE27.50.Premium Tue-Sot8pm,motsSot & Sun3.30pm (pressnightNov28, nopeffDec2, 24-26, extroperfsNov26, Dec30, 8pm,Dec27. andGeorge 3.30pm).StephenSondheim o nt h eI 9 3 4 d r a m a F u r t h 'm s u s i c abl ,a s e d byGeorge S Kaufman andMossHart. The PrinceAnd The Pauper(Over6s) s J a nl 3 2 0 1 3 .U n i c o rTnh e a t r e , 1 4 7 Street,SEI ZtlZ € L



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Lni&2 , 2 , 1 5& 1 6 , .,t)pm,Dec1& . 24, 27-30,Jon2-6, -,ualadaptation of Raymond story. ns?: PolkaTheatre 240 The , PolkaTheatre, tsB donf70, concsfB, Nov 7 , 1&1 1 2 , 1 4 , 1 8 & 1 9 , ; 1 3 ,i 6 , l B , 2 A , n &

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PrinceAlbertPub), e NottingH'll fl5. Mon-Sot7. 3pm.Caroline Greektragedy




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Water GeorgeJackson


Therehasbeenrain,and crystalangelsjump frornmy wheelsas I skim over paddies towards the forest that holds floodwaters Windsblow from and a sun suspended' other worlds as I stopbeforethe risingtreesand feetrthe tug of quickeningdistances. I never realizedI was thirsty, or that beamssprungover skylinescamehereto meet' From skiesabove the sun spewsmen and godsto tumble, anclshiningthroughtheir skeletonsfall, right to thesefootstepsandthroughthesebreathsas light, settingthesefloodedgrovesaglow, of souls. a congregation

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Iike'rvateras sight becomestoo clear for eyes to stal,,open.What we see is a flas;hof gcld, an orchestrao1'muscles zipping through air, throughroutine so rvell-worn---evensilence is renervecl. His body readieslbr the final somei"sault,feet to sky, in ciefianceo1'heaven.while rvc rvatch rn'aterbrim lillc'youth personified, prornisingto flll what hollow'sbone and fl::;h, whisperingsometlringless of a dreari anclmore of a man.

j:,is1l1glgAftsl Yarn -]errold Few drearnsprast,experienceis one part faith and tw,o pans mistake-boastingno apologrto reassure our inner acceleratingvoices. Fissuredafter sleep.I arranse erhalationsinto riny. inexorahle factslike barkfarved for retracing.symbolsto renremberthe chaservhen conqueringhas proven inadequate.Somervhere else,only strandsof surrlighttattooedbefweencuftains,the clarity. of a clean shave,a televisionmuted,an insomniacradio peelinga\ /ay our names.




THE WEST H6ctor !:ianz,britz

impaled on light watching the world 8 kilometres above my head a plane carries the ashes of Europe

ffiJf the gymnast on the screenfalls from the vault she gets a total scoreof zero tries a secondjr-p but halfway through her run she stops before the springboard she can't she limps the audience breaks into applause the audience begins applauding in a display

of unconditional and spontaneoussupport these are the moments of true spectacle human weaknessand failure like engines of something that unites us all

i take up my tirednessand unwrap i on the table, shiny and wet the Olympic Gamesclosetomorro'w look around you America: a great grid-horror and Europe a blue blast in empty space





Memory:On the VictoriaLine,Westbound SamuelPefra-Taylor

Guessingand pickingfrom the myriad faces, I a m c h o o s i n gm y g u i d e bet'oreshe chooses, o r t a k e sm y s h o u l d e a r nd laysmy body beneath the beltsand cuttingescalators. Perhapsthen I will return to threadsof matter,strands long as my body and a i r b o r n eA. f a b r i ca n d a l l t h e masteryof perception: There,in the muggy tunnelsand p i p e sp l u n g i n g , the blackstrarrdclimbingnorth, or yellow'sendlessgyre, it is quiet at the breakof dawn, a quiet unknown to the spiritsbelow,awakewhen they sleep,they move beforespeakingat five minute intervals, giving before takingwhat they camefor. This is history,a story of hrarrds and printsand finEers: lipstick,maybefragrance, houreverthat may coff)e,round and a r o u n d :p u l l e du p a n d s w u n gd o w n . Anc somethingof me restsarnongst the years,the sludgeancjstreak of time, betweenthe segmentsof red, round lips;and the harrdthat camefor what had begun and bled throughthe page and on eachrepetition,pulledup and swungdown.






Twentv Summers MirandaBehrens

An unforgivable claritv has been lost in the haze of sweetash and dandeliondust that prowls and swishesits tail purring through the yeilow windows like a sleepingspell. A moth of forgetting perches on the edgeof the old table. He cannot remember his home, or mine. We are all forgetting, he is beating his wings once per hour, dotted with little burning eyes. The poppies sleep standing,thirst in the rusty earth, burning. Forgetting, burning, forgetting. There have been no letters here for twenty years.



The light through the leaves falls like echoesof laughter. ' We are seeping,stained. soakedwith it, and I wonder what storiesof me they will tell their children, when they have burrorved down beneaththe concreteearth. I will climb to fine heights and travel great distancesalone.

TonightI will drive to the stream where it flows, the heat of the day as it dies. Risesand dies, risesand dies.

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SKTN We hug to sayhellonov,. First glancegreetingancl we touchto sayhello now. We neverhuggedbefbre but now we hug to sayhello and it's becomesomethingelse. Somethingbeautifulbut sornethingodd because we're not sulpposerl to be thoselbiklvhc hug to sa1'hello. dt'snot us. \tr/edon't hug. But thingshaveohangedno'w. Things havechanged,ht:rrv',) d don't know how. Let's.iust hug to sayhello s0 we can touch eachothertwice asmuch we'll trrushour chestsandhit our tioreheads hard againstthe otherone's when we next meetup I l<now rve'll trugto sayhello.

ElizabethKaPlunov 4. 'memorystore' :' I know me insideout, But I don't want You To knourthe me I know. Besidesafter the third time, I got sickof Introductions. You oughtn'tknow me As sorneknow me, skeletons' Too manyoverdressed A few smilesin mYclosets. ma


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And I alsokeepmy mother'sfur coats' rny old toYS,mYsister's. Unusedor not mYown. Forgotten,and Yet stored, Broughtinto light With carefulccnsideration. And theseare only the objectsI kttowof' hotel'sbusiness is boomingamongbackpackers whoappreciate the honesty, andthinkfor f21pn, they'reprepared to turna blindeyeto theflaws.


1. Our realityis coveredin snow With wintersunreflectingdazzling white. Tellme if your wonderfuleyeswill know How it glowsunderour aurora'slight And if eternalstarswatch us over Aswe seeksleepwith headto hairto breast And we beginto dreamof forever Andseekour paradisein lovers'rest. Thereis a heavenlyspot by a tree Wheresoftgrasses are scatteredwith poppies I dreamunderit you melt into me With the openness of lovers'bodies. pierced Butthe red poppiesaredeath'sflower Warninguswe willawakecomethe hour.

Sowewatch Georgefackson

Sowe watch gold-finchestrickle over the flower beds, 12 o'clocksunlighton the green garden. Blowing out his candles, later, all eighty-two, he gazesout the window and we tell him to make a wish. He takes it seriously as they all beginto move for cake, and his black eyes grow to disks. I wish to live to one hundred years,he says to seeif it all comestrue. My family keepsmoving, but outsidethe sunlightstills.


Mattercoveredin snow In winterthe sunshineshere. Showmewondersif youknowhowto look Howit glowsunderthe lightof dawn Andif we watchthe stars Headcaresses heartin rest In theirdrowsybrightness Andbeginto dream The loverscameto seekpeace In its placeis a treeof heaven Softgrasswherepoppiesare scattered I dreamof you,I melt Thebodiesof the lovers Arepiercedwitha redpoppyflowerof death Reminding usawake:thetimehascome.



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Truth, Strength and Youth CamilaGaard Poisonedb)'their own skit1and the words clfelders, The clearreasoningsun blocksthe ephemeraldream,the rainbow haze, But each dav within them it stavs. This is me,youth,mankind Every soul,pastor present,has its dream From ebony skin on the stairs of equality To a nen'ous handshakeof two bitter,longtimerivals ln a President's court. To a hope againsthope, history or order, For land reform,a voice, or onlSra moderatelycorrupt leader And the smallyetinfinitely significantvisitns Are the purest. Reachingout,everysecond,to a possiblelove A possiblehappiness Never shatteredby the ripping, twisting consciousness No life outsidea.mind False memoriesforgotten in our disheveledhair We refuse to pickthe seedof experienccr That those two fools doomecius to For truth is relativeand as thin as an eyelid Sometimestheeye,the portal,choosesto remain shut And only a limited,dark wave passes To the mind And it is free to make of it whatever it wants Not everyone hastthat pulsating strength to open the blessedbarrie4 Darkness is beautiful And when the light finally resonatesthrough, Willing or forced, Then there is but only absolutedeath or life For otrr vision of truth.



Worlds apart

BOOKALIKES I AFRICA. Blazing sun. Bare tree, bare landscape.(W|II this do? - DesignEd.i

A car streaksfrom its home, A capsulewith precisionmade To guardits preciouscargothroughthe void. lnanimate trunkandbagswithall an explorerneeds, Two livingbeings,bothmale,oneyoung,oneold, Twocradlesof mindin an unthinking universe.


PastWanruick and Coventryand Birmingham, Cradlesof lightand lifeand civilisation, Out of Wanryickshire, beyondandbelowthe Midlands Stillit drops,fallingsouthto the bottomof the universe; At the bottomof the universearefew livingworlds, Merefragmentsof planets,paltryasteroids, Theirnamesare Yeoburyand Barchester and Blenworth The car hurtlesonwards,a speckof metalin the inkygreenof space, The car soldierson throughthe unlitfringesof the galaxy. lnterstellar wastesof puregreenvacuumgraceits sides, It'snearits destination, a punysatelliteof Blenworth, It slows,coastingtowardsitstarget. No fellowmachineprovides company, all is emptiness andvoid,

Brakingin an atmosphere of darktrees Theyturngracefully to land. Doorsopen,alienlightspillsontodarkground, E.D.sstepout,uncoiling achinglimbs, lnstructions and plansand logistics theirlastfarewells. Youngerpartsfromolderas bagsare unloaded. The old one leaves,youngleftin this newworld. Changesin mindsetensue, A techniqueperfectedby two yearsof practice, lntellectis suppressed, knowledge lockedaway, Facadesof prejudicebefittingthis newworldunlocked, An aptitudefor lightbanter,snobbishjokesrequired. A temporaryshutdownis needed,bodyappearsunresponsive. Timefor contemplation is required, the newmindsetreinforced. The aliensettlesdown; Unpacking supplies occupies the mind, Alienartefactsby Nabokovand Dostoyevsky stashedawayunseen, The.adaptation is yet unfinished, Knowledge muststillbe hidden,intellect shutdown. Thislifeformfromanotherworld Hassuchknowledge andmindimmense, Butnothingherewilltakeit. Threeweekstill the odysseyhome. AlexMair


AmandaWaters 1l-Day Rediscovery Retreat Aug.27th,2012 | 09:40pm I went on an ll-day rediscovery retreat Inspiredby an accidental encounter WhereI subconsciously sentsignalsthat put me on The ledgeof tremblingcupsof tea in Julyevenings I am terrified by 20th (or so) day phrases Wheremy handwritingis glorifiedandour Involuntarylackof wordsbringsanxiety Andbooksare beingthumbedthroughfor my commentsand not the context 54 daysin and velluserectionsare present Uncontrollable Because of wordsI'm receiving From Tomorrow Thisis dumb

Jul.15th,2012| 03:02am Wanderlustinglike Engulfingboozein Babylon; WesAnderson-herballing and Unspoken expectancles in my own backyard Thatwereto be fulfilledin the frontvard West-coast casualtycollidesuntoeasterncalmness: Stakingthe numberthreeas if Burningwitchesin Salem: Forgettingin a foreigncountry,temporarily; I only havea palmfulof lightlyagedpocket-change We don'tdo muchwhendifficultcasesof Sensitivitystronglyreek,poisonously, Underneath our nostrils But it doesn'tstingneckskinrubbedrawftom uncontrollable invitations Or bee-stunglipswith bacesof honey left on all the right places.



We need not panic For this state of manic Without a cure Has a lure from The constel-latj-ons in the sky. Hicrh ahorre wi*,h neither nor reiectionselection y e a r p e r : f e c t i o n . . A light away fronL In these words. And the Earth, emancic,at-eC From the pull- nq :o::c'e crl' this cne especiaJ- -qtar. gJ-owi-nq l:ght Tts bizarre rvhich .nrings us toger-her. nltu



Ir, parenthesis Ask me for Tn






more words, rich a- ^nr o v a q u e n e s s . bewitched: vast. limitlessness




From eyes, A of "o.."

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A song o1'exile,written ii-,thcs. iin.'s,ri'emp..5. trac{

thatcut acrosstheAustria.n r.,isil

Bones bitten by the jcw howl ir, ,it*rr.* a thousanddreamsof my oicicityj rise as figuresoj'smoke.

A v,,akzbesidea traii six hundredyearsbeneath the earth. Crypt of rnemory,the moon iEit ol;.'-;,,

-sr a.hrj iismrrrorrc

love lettc'r.s on gr:anoratner.s typewriter, 9mpty rryinebottlesgieaming in the light of the attic while the beils croke

3"* th"i. southemspires.


FIe never raised exceptio sing

e world is oldernow. solid to ttre core"Mour"hfuls of ,;ret newspaperswallowed r.l'hoid Patronsaint of lightning-strucktrees and lost things,all thingslost Bonestoo hollow, clinking like crystal at the bends,too full of ashenthings. \

on the edigeof clusk te]tj.nesecre,_s ro the tall grass rhe ynjte trainsbarrelecl lasi in tire hajt--light.

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r1"", vi.nnu i


"i ; at the edgeof the fountain. ,t

and 17 ! All lifb is oretending, I I arna child with thewilclerr,ess

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t+ #!1,?:i^'ii.J,1o." \rj& i!j":!il,,"when I retum to the house*ith tt

red cloorl

Sorneone humsa Germanoocra." backturnedto thewindow, tI astheempr-ytririnslipsoutof sighr. fl

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BellRings.Lunchtime. Timefor lunch. Yetso muchmoretakesplace Astime andspaceworkagainstme. l'm losingthisrace.At leastl'm competing. At leastl'm not on the stands, My handsaresweaty.Thislunchtrayis heavy. I needto put it down.Butwhere? With friends.Acquaintances. Anyrrne. Classmates. lf Lunchtirne isjusttirnefor lunch,thenwhy doesno oneeatalone? A scone,a sandwich, a coldsliceof pizza. That'sirrelevant. A new phone,a datelastnight,a freshpieceof gossip- lunchtime specials. poursout of everyone Conversation but me as I quietlysipsomething blackcurrantflavoured. laughterroars. Jokesaresavoured, Thescoresareuneven.l'm losing. At leastl'm competing. l'm seatedwith othergirlsthat areseated Skirtspleated Pastareheated Everyday I repeatit 'Excuse me,isthisseattaken?' Lunchtrayshaking Tomorrow,!'llsaythe same. Theshameof eatingalone,I can'tbearit. I fearit won't errdwell"I fearit will end. To onlookers, l'm amongfriends. pretend. I Littledo theyknow,l'm no'.oneof them. I wonderwhatthey'ddo, Whatwouldensueif theyeverknew Thatl'm an onlookertoo ExceptI havea reallygreatview.



TodayI watkedthrough Londonweoringearplugs Zhang Alexander

TodayI walkedthroughLondonwearingearplugs the smellof wetdogin my nose heraldedby the cooing of pigeonsmistakenfor whippoorwills.

WhenI wear my fathe/s too largecoatI lookat my hands peepingout of the sleeveand seethat I am a smallchild kickingeachpileof leaves I realizeI havethe driesthands: l'm watchingthem graspin on themselves

in a darkcornerof a multilevelparkinggaragewhere there is a groupof chasidic jews crouchingovera gameof dice I flickeda cigarettebutt up orbitingoverbranches of trees to comefallingdown landingwith a click andthoughtbackto the arizonasuncorridor.

I returnhomein the heigthof londonwinter to turn the cornerof Fourthand University whereI cansee my hungryfingersstainedgreyfrom looting not crematoriumsbut ashtrays you pointingat your mussy ,,this hairannouncing istuesday,, tellingme that the eiffeltower is the loneli;stbitch, (the parisair is coldup there)

cansee u s f i r i n gt o y g u n sw h i l e d r i v i n gc r o s st h e s o u t h s i d e b e a t i n gt h r o u g h f u l l m o o nd e s e r t s cansee w h e r e I w o u l d n ' t k i s sy o u a f t e r s p e e d i n gf o r t y m i n u t e so n t h e h i g h w a y , b l e e d i n gi n t o m y m o u t h d e m a n d i n gs e c r e t sf r o m o n e a n o t h e r h o l d i n go u r b r e a t h sw h i l e d r i v i n gp a s tg r a v e y a r d s cansee m y e y e sb u r n i n gf r o m s t a r i n gj u s t s t a r i n go n l y s t a r i n ga t t h e b l a c kv a n i s h i n gp o i n t so f i n i e r s t a t eL 0 w h e r e i s a w a b l o w n o u t t i r e o n t h e s i d eo f t h e h i g h w a y turneci off the aircon b e c a u s ei t w a s t o o d a r n nc o l d o u r b r o k e nw i p e r sw a i i e Ca g a i n s t h e s t o i n l

f e e d i n go u r e g o sw h e n t u c s o n ' ss t a r sn e v e rs h i n e ds o v i o l e n t l y and cansee l e a v i n gt h e c o n d o m w r a p p e ro u t a n d t h e m o r n i n gw i n d o w ss h i n i n gb l u e l i k e m o t h e r s ' f u n e r a l s t e l l i n g m e a b o u t r e c u r r i n gs e xd r e a m sw h e r e n o t h i n gh a p p e n se x c e p tc a r c r a s h e sa n d t e e t h k i s s e s b u t r e a l i z ei n t h e l i n g e r i n gf l a v o u ro f h o r c h a t al e f t i n b e t w e e nm y l i p sa n d t h e t i p o f m y t o n g u et h a t I c a n o n l y j u s t r e c a l lh o w s h e r e s t e dh e r c h a t t e r i n gt e e t h o n t h e c o l l a ro f m y c o a t

t h a t m e t a p h o r i c agl i r l who kept a perfect account o f a l l t h e g o o d s u n n yd a y si n a s m a l l n o t e b o o ki n t h e back pocket of her jeans.

:i"i:T'"o:;- E

e;= - â&#x201A;Ź

Suppose i advance my hands, cautiously cupped, towardssomeonesaying, asI do so, "thisisa fine red one"

l e a ni n t ' : h e r t o p l a n t b l o o d vt e e t h inthe hcllow nestled b e h i n d; h e e a r u n d e rt h e h a i r .


PrimarY Schoot


b a c ka r c h i n gf o r w a r d r i g h t t h r o u g ht h e s t o m a c h : s h e p i c k e da b u t t e r k n i f eo f f t h e t a b l e r a i s e di t h i g h i n t o t h e a i r a n d brought it dcrwn to rest cln my plate. we had satthere together and watched how the heat o p e n e du p andbled. --


soon after the gas station I p a s sa n o l d h e l l ' sa n g e l c r o u c h e do n a l o w w a l l o f a p a r k i n gl o t c r a d l i n gi n h i s l a p a 2 - f o o t g o l d e nc r u c i f i x a,


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greetsme. the gatekeeper tellsme that whentheyshotSputnikout intospace motherrussiawasso oroud b u tl t e l l h i m , from experience, that asa Child,I wastaughtthat affection isthe monsterunderthe bed. andso i passwith eyesaverte d behindsunglasses jacket hidingin a tweed a shoplifted postcardof the grand cai"ryon from the north rim in 1-901 a n d a t i n o f s t a l en a t u r a la m e r i c a ns p i r i t .

ZhangstandsuPon a dome o v e r l o o k i n gt h e s l o w romancandles, p i c k i n gt h e g r a i n s o f c o l d s a n do u i o f h i s h a i r l e a r n i n gt h e i n l P o r t a n c e of a greal winter coat.

r:: o;. Eaf


A cloudy,dull,andmurkyday,withoccasional theremaybe Duringthe evening drizzle. somemoderateburstsof eyecontact:especiaily rather Feeling acrosspartsof KentandSussex. breeze. chillyin an easterly

Murder is not just a word to ne or a black flash of headlines I read whilst lazily crunching cornfla'kes the tragic tone of the newsreadertelling me something,somewhere,for someone,went wrong'

Murder is the twist of a man's eyes : when he hears the shot and looks at his chest to see the red running up to greet the whilenessof his shirt.

The cry of help that stalls as it starts

Murder is a person who was ii,.,ilrgjusl a sec:ondago

now in froirt of you

Deader than dead' tell you' than the dead' let ne to Nothing looks more dead

I closethe liCs Sometimes stare to switchoff ihat giassyfish-'::1te

I'm not a incnstel.

st-il t

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I am a fragmentedentity casttogetherwith discordantthreads snatchesof contradictory conviction like shatteredporcelain. Theseshardsof self are not irreconcilable; they hold together like a string ofpearls, eachtaken from a different ocean. Who will tell me I am not the lead in a three-act play? I am Lady Macbeth with blood red hair and a shivering grin, I am waiting for a cue to exit that never comes. I find the stageis loneiy. Who will tell me I am not a gentleman, a knight in arms? I will die to seethe dawn kiss my misty country. I will love a green-eyedman with fine hands.He has a penchant for secrecy. Who will tell me I must not smoke like Marlene Dietrich? I can dorm my shots in a dark room _while the saxophoneplays, I can make my eyelashesheavy. There is a stranger starirrg in the distance. Who will tell me I am not a grandfather, widowed and u,earv?I feel woebegone,like a teapot

Rabbit Hole SamuelPeffa-Tavlor

efl27U= I heardthe storyof the rabbitholeat night, from a balconyin the gardensand springs, cloudof London,its provincesunexplored. Risento floor eight,stunned,and lookingover, the groundroseand sankat the beatof my breath. Rabbithole,high on PrimroseHill, the name stark:the first roseandthe last shake from the dashof the animal,the rippleof fur andthe dutiful, feralchildrenlaughing asthey run, down anddown in spiralsandin sphereswherethe light of the carscannotbe, and the cordsbetweenthe stars'reappear, whippingthe creaturesinto fits of madness and longing,odespouringforth from rodent teethandtumblingfrom the towerblocks,f'luid. ,--=-------




Leauu hft feuittaaul Efiiucfin


tt #

!\tords like f irer,trorks like fireflies like bees E u z zb u z zb u z z I n m y h e a d ,a l l t h e r i m e A n d m y m o u t h r : a n ' tr r o v e f a s t e n o u g f i; r n dn . r yf e e t v ; c n ' t s i i : , t i l l A . l i e nl i m b a t t a c l ' l e dt o r . r e A n d I c a n s m e l l : h o c o l a t ea n d p a s t r ya n d b a g e l sa n r Jg r a s s T u r n i n gh e a d t h i s w a y a n d t h a t l i k e a d e e r w h o s m e l t s o m e t h i n gw a s u p

A n d f l e d ,t r e e s a p a n d l e a f b l o o d a n d s n i f f s n i f f, ; i \ N a i lv a r n i s ha n d r a w p o t a t o e sa n d w a t e r c r o p l e t sa n d g l a s s A n d c o n g e a l e db l o o d . Want to run want to fly want to takeoff froni puny iegs A n d c i r c l et h i s w o r l d r o u n d . l s i t a p l a n e ,i s i t a b i r d n o i t i s I T i m e t o s a v et h i s w o r l d , R o b i n , S h a r p e nt h e s t a k e sB u f f yt i m e t o n a b u s a n Angel (Fallen) Or a poet turnedSpike. I w a n t t o c l i c ka n d c h a - c h a - c hdao w n c o r r i d o r s S c h n o o ps c h n o o ps c h n o o pl i k es p i n n i n gl e a v e sa n d c a u g h ti n a d i p a n d c h I , n d j u m p f r o m s o m e w h e r et a l l Let'sswoop let's fly L o o ku p l o o l <d o w n l o o k a l l a r c u n d J o i nh a n d sa n d j u m p C o l dw a t e r a r r do h f i s h ! L e t m e b e a f i s h W l r i s k e r e da n d g r e y ,w i s e a n d l u d i c r o u s T h e c l o u d sa r e s e a h o r s e sa n d t h e t r e e s a r e l a d i e s A n d r a v e n sw e a r c r o w l r sa n d l i v e a t R a v e n s c o u rPt a r k . l f I j u m p i ' l l t o u c ht h e s l : ya n d t e a r a h o l e A n d t h e s t a r sw i l i c o m et u m b l i n sd o w n . Letme eat C a k ea n d p o t a r o e s ,l u s h i n m o u t h l i k e e a r t h , L e t m e e a t a p p l r : sa n d c r a c k e r sb, r e a k i n gs n a p i n m y m o u t h . T o u c ht h e b o r t c m o f t h e p o n d ( m i n d t h e k o i ) a n d h e y w h o n e e d sc l o t h e s L e t ' sd r a w f a c e si n l i p s t i c ko n b e d r o o r nw a l l S m i l e ys a d s m i l e ys a d i t ' s W R O N Gc r o s si t o u t o u t M y h a n d sa t e w r o n g , t v / i s tt n e n l b e t t , : ! " s i r a p e d R u bt h e r n b e t t e r ,s c r a t c hb a d s k i na w a y ,b a d s k i n l i k e r n i a s m a I a m r i g h t ,I a r nt a l l a n d o w I h i t a w a l , A , l i c ei n h o u s e ,c l r u m b e a t sh, e a r t b e a t : ;w, h o n e e d sh a i r A n d l e t ' sr u n , p o u n dp o u n dp o u n d Can I fly? Of course I carr L e t m e f l y ' ,f i y a r v a yf r o m t h e s h a d o wo n t h e w i n g I t ' s c o m i n gf o r r r e b u t l c a n f l y I c a n r u n L e t ' sw r i t e , l e t ' s s c r i b b l e l,e t ' s c r e a t es r : c r i e lsv i t h o u r b o d i e s A n d d a n , : e i, w o n ' t c r y ExceptT h e w o r d s a n d t h e n o i s e sa n d t h e b e e r b t eatbeatin mv head I t v \ i o n ' tt o a v / a ya n d i f ; t d o e s l ' l l b e e m p t y Let me be let rn,:go let me live B u t o h c l o n ' :l e t m e t h i r r k D o n ' t l e t n r ef e e l Don't F e e lg o l e t D o n ' tt h i n k t e e l l e t m e Don'tlet me feerl Don'tlet me Go

/ lo ,*,7^ -/"2 ^/4 . â&#x201A;Źt a.4

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t[oxane Hamerlynck ?*-.*'alorer: &ilr& cnff.e.e end_of a dq*' - b{p b a srn*}l urining tortlr in sBite nf fa*ing l&e "t F* inenitalile esrd of the$r rnedinere affddr.

sh+decigeddren*e prefuredillegiblehandirritirrg andmadea rnentaincte he tcld.h,*irhe kad s,m*shingto shon,tn htr afur this n'imporequoi"etc. a barge btrer its hnrmseleral mfies a*a3, alnJtcr a rnirinte th,eylt'ere sfierit The r*.hde timeall she mldd thi* ssnnssrnenreesaid tsher the imirsse isjust abigplae:vith trotscf smor bnrt*rem n'heri rras tfte-lillner and r.r'hyis t&ere all &is ptrd end atrsn da starcp colktars elw pct ietfesl

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(iVlhen the bombs come,

When the bombs come, anclwe are shuttled out of villages uncler the tangled horizons of our nuclear \ yrd, -



this placewill disappear. The hot life of new mythologies willblow throughthe brown whisperedhills. What is thereto holdthis old nation together? F; Roadswill fall away beneath us unclerthe b l o s s o m i n go r a n g e skyscapesof a new world.

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chain smoking one afternoonatler another newborn coffee burbles a little inside a 26th floor apartlnent looking at the groundsfloating in the cup telling a story to them of the rlay the rvorld will be destroyed in the blue featheredlight of rnorning- very pretty arnid the universalhilaritv of u,its and wass who think it is all ajoke to long ever west without fuei past coarsedust and dead coyote load which is lllled with dust as rvell.There,her biology illustratedby sunset,her mouth like a phone about to ring, a smile inbetrveenhiccups.a ghost caughtin a'this be glory then it has been a long tirne sincei tnrstedmy eyes. its all thesernirages from the hear we ran. laid in grass.tonguesrolling out 5/ l Tths of a haiku found in hel crossu,ord. we scrarnbleddown the banksand set to nibblins besidethe water she reaclredover and plucked out his eves and put them in her mouth and sucked all the proverbial floatersuntil "toothpick comesout clean" that's hc,rvthe fuel gauge sho'a'swhere we were but i daren't her. i dare not. it is very important to know how one gets to where one is, anclm-u"knuckles are as white as e

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ciir-rgsto her thighs at the bottorn shir,e.'ingirr a chil! that cuts to her bone. in this weathei lcidspretendtheir breathis smoke. shorvedme a lelic of her childhood, a giant bali irade of cheweduppieceso1'gunisuckei Jry; fat and heavy. liuddled on a oarkbench.childrennlav and don't look me in the eye in the blue light of deadair 3AM static breakingthe quiet of severalhours,slowmoving roman candlescrossthe sky, like the birettasof dead cardinalssuspended', tiom the ceilingsof cathedrals 3 as it were forever the kitten q,oke him up purring on the othersideofhis bedroom door zhang,l,ory'dreamthat yoti are on a sinkir''gship. nou, it ain't y'otrrturn. but


Al lel ta ta

was full with both near and

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hrifion fees c) T hririon

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/ rten and deact, tse prepared to deford these things I I you have ociupied, that you are buildin!,



ay of concluding, thery our only real e you is to continue, keep going

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fo. preGprocessu, the collective w,.-singular voice. This processwao --certainty that this was the only way for us to continue being both so many and so different. It is only by being so many and so different that we can keep on holding this


all f,rre ur.,,-

We are part of a movement that poses a 1 serious threat to the status quo and we are I

consensus/ and democracy.

ways to use .these spaces, avs to hold on to them and i up again. Resist fiercely nder attack. but otherwise \ what you are doing, let it 1.We are all watching one . d ffom Cairo we want to n solidarity with you, and I for what you are doing. , Cairo/24th of October,2011.. dable eitwearethepaper.orgl

Still and Still Moving #7  

UCLU Writers' Society's poetry zine "Still and Still Moving #7"

Still and Still Moving #7  

UCLU Writers' Society's poetry zine "Still and Still Moving #7"