Monica Tate @uvxart
Image: Sam Smith
@viewfinder.general_
Text: Theo Stolz
I used to be a painter
A lover, a dancer
But now I’m nothing
But a number, a glance or
Something, someone out here
A Price to Pay
Streets filled with people with empty faces
Everywhere seeping
With hidden traces
Of what we used to be
We were filled with life
With Joie de vie
But now the strife
Of conformist harmony
Takes over our individuality
We are now a metropolis
Buildings towering over us
The problem is
The ones at the top of them
Who dictate who we are
Who we must be
How we live
When to breathe
I forgave my beauty
The wonderful complexity
For the sake of community
And our sanity
Are we sane or are they
For admitting what we lost along the way
Or for what they admit would cost us
All for the sake of the metropolis
Glasgow is kind, Glasgow is cruel. Glasgow is cold.
You’ll forget to turn on the extractor
You’ll take a hot shower
And the Glasgow fog will mould your tiles for a week to come.
Love doesn’t stop at the city limits. It grows, and is peeled off, and grows back Spores under your sink and in your bed.
Rachel Lyndon @ronglelyndle
Sam Smith @viewfinder.general_
Fifteen-thousand, eight-hundred and seventy-five gigabytes of information in one ejaculation
the most intelligent species, I’m reminded, is man. when your finger spells its ABCs on my clit, the way that you learnt between ads for FKC and the Army Recruits If you can cock an erection you can cock a pistol
CLUCK CLUCK CLUCK. POWPOW CHICKEN
your ET-finger rifle jams giving new meaning to floppy disk -the way that Sherlock says ejaculate! mansplaining murder to English kids before your soupy alphabet spunk spells E = mc² on my tits
Text: Rachel Smith
@sillyviaplath
Image: Sam Smith
@viewfinder.general_
SAD
(SEASONAL AFFECTIVE DISORDER: DEPRESSION IN THE WINTER MONTHS)
THEY GIVE IT BIG WORDS, MAKES THEM ANGRIER / UNCOMMUNICATABLE/ ACRONYMS FOR THE SELF-INJURY / SEASONAL SELF-MURDER /METAL COLD WHEN THE SUN SHRINKS LIFE INTO ORANGE FOSSILS / AND SUMMER SHUTS ITS BUSY HEART TO TOURISTS / WHEN NIGHT STEALS COLOUR FROM DAYS / AND YOU STAMP ON LEAVES FALLING LIKE RED PAPER FLAMES / LIKE LIFE, THE MISERABLES CREEP ON IN / YOU START DRINKING TWICE A WEEK AND OBVIOUSLY, THE WEEKEND / WARM WITH PINOT CALM / NEW POOR / BUT TAYLOR SWIFT SAYS SCREW-TOP WINE IS CHEAP / SO YOU DO IT ALL ALONE / ITS ALL DEPRESSANTS ANYWAY / IT IN TRODUCES THE ENDING MONTHS / BRINGING LIFE GRIEF / PARTIES FOR THE VIRGOS AND THE UNDEAD / THEN THE BIRTH OF CHRIST, AGAIN
Rachel Smith
@sillyviaplath
Annick Weinandi @analogistin
Cars whiz by passersby, who zip briskly towards and from, bundled tightly in hats and scarves, devoid of patience to inhale the aromas of fresh croissants and coffee beans that waft from the doorways of the café lined road. She stands alone, pressed against the windowpane of a small shop, a brief retreat from the bustle of the day, a private haven for her to catch her breath. She grasps her coat to form a seal, her paisley-mittened hands too frigid for clasps.
She contemplates a metamorphosis. Her transformation from spectator to participant. A swift pivot into life, with all of its twists; a quick weave
to bob her preoccupations. But the reticence that gnaws at her belly stalls her frozen beneath a dust of flurries so whimsical that they inspire a wave of hope and melancholy irrevocably intertwined.
When the image catches her eye, she loses herself, if only for a moment, in the gaze of the girl with the shiny brown hair. The girl who knowingly reflects the persistent clench that grips her own heart. She tugs her cap down over her ears and squints her eyes. Annabelle’s Daylight. She scans the scene that surrounds her before she exhales, a profound release of the breath she has carried since she first stepped out onto the glisten-
ing pavement. Perhaps the girl with the shiny brown hair might offer consolation for her own circumstance. A commiseration of characters who are yet to share their own stories. A mingling of protagonists from someone else’s tale.
She grasps her coat tighter as she reaches toward the door and exhales once more as she glides into the blanketing warmth. With a tentative stride, she approaches the girl with the shiny brown hair. Then, having finally secured her day’s respite, she scouts a seat off in the corner and begins to unravel her fears.
Shaira BreretonAT 0600 HOURS HE GETS UP, MAKES HIS BED, AND AVOIDS EVERY MIRROR IN HIS APARTMENT. THE TRAIN IS NEVER LATE, SO HE HAS NO EXCUSE TO NOT CATCH IT EXCEPT THAT HE WALKED TOO SLOW, HEAD UP, MOUTH AGAPE LIKE A BELIEVER IN CHURCH AS HE WATCHES SLIPS OF CLOUDS OR MAYBE JUST SMOG CREEP ACROSS THE GAPS BETWEEN SKYSCRAPER ROOVES. HE GETS TO HQ, LATE, AND WALKS RIGHT UP TO HIS SUPERIOR,
HANDS OVER HIS PLASMA GUN AND SAYS SORRY SIR, I JUST CAN’T DO IT NO MORE. THEN HE WALKS OUT INTO THE CITY CENTRE, THROUGH THE MOTHERBOARD OF STREETS, AND HE DOESN’T CARE IF THE BUS DRIVER IS AN ANDROID OR NOT OR IF THE DOG WALKED BY THE OLD MAN IS REAL
HE JUST COUNTS THE WINDOWS; HE LOOKS PEOPLE IN THE EYE TO SMILE AT THEM AND NOT TO WATCH FOR IF THEIR PUPILS DILATE. HE STAYS OUT ‘TIL LATE AND THEN HE CLIMBS ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP OF HIS APARTMENT BUILDING, UP TO THE ROOF, AND HE WATCHES THE MOON AS IT TRIES TO RISE ABOVE THE CROWD OF BLINKING BILLBOARDS.
Text: Grace Murray
Image: Sam Smith
Reality 2-24
Under a faceless sky Of snuffed out stars Society lies, Singular and ordered, In an omnipresent eye.
A steel-built city Of silver, slime and gold; Shining and as bold as Versailles. Time lags behind a tired sigh, Boots and rats take to the street,
Down below, under grit and concrete, A creature like contraption crawls in, Silent to the world above. Metal against metal, With darkness underfoot.
Something sinister takes root.
The birds can’t sing. The flowers can’t grow. Seasons died out a while ago
And left a cold wind blow.
Books burned. Money laundered. Solitary things wandered
Alone on the commute home.
The sun never rose high enough to see the view of it all. It couldn’t bare it. To see steel stand so tall,
Collected together by a taller brick wall. You’ll reach new heights in such a place. You’ll have time to waste In Cadillacs of chrome. So Welcome home. The Great Metropolis.
Text: Meg Wallace @_meggwallace
Image: Lucy Park @lucypark_
watching my neighbours like TV
I am watching my neighbours like I am watching TV/sitting by my window and they are having friends over for pres on Thursdays/and Saturdays checking their makeup in the window’s daylight falling in love with the right people and the wrong ones
Annick Weinandi @analogistingoing through break ups/having friends or secret hook ups knock on their windows at 3am guys in boxers girls in bras sometimes the same ones/sometimes others
I know what their tears look like but not their names
We are separated by an iron gate with Gaps between the bars. You Could slip through, if you wanted. You could climb the hill. (Though you all will, eventually) And look out at my sleeping sister. We aren’t very similar. Her streetlamps curve question marks and I am a full stop. But, In my metal ribcage I am Her patient heart, no colder than the rest of her.
On the east wind, my sister’s citizens
Are restless. Swelling down streets Like a deep breath. Running like a gasp. Strolling like a sigh. She breathes the living in and out. Mouth to mouth. My own kind are quieter. Her bright lights dazzle me, a taunting grin, Invites you in. My tombstones are crooked teeth, A mouth gaping at the sky, catching raindrops.
Image: Anna Rourke
