Passionfruit #5

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passionfru it A LABOUR OF LOVE


CONTENTS Right Then, Kate Horowitz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.6 It’s not about forcing happiness, Daniel Menzies . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.7 eleven kinds of loneliness and the third person state, Lucy Porter . . . . p.8 Portraits, Addison Wroolie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.10 Paintings, Amy Donnelly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.12 Poem 4 u, Artie Carden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.14 The Scent of Loss, Ai Ana Richardson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.15 The park, Mike Gallagher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.16 In the belly growling, Scott Shields . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.17 You, me, and everyone else, Nana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.18 How to be yourself, Gervonte Franklin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.21 Stills, Finn Harvor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.23 Aldeburgh, Alexander Bayon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.28 Photo Dump, Yunra Hishett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.29 Greatest Loss, Ben J Spriggs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.32 Poem, Julia Cirignano . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.33 Loss, Kevin J O’Conner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.34 My Great Uncle, Peter Todd . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.36 /topple double/smouldering impetus, Candid Utopia . . . . . . . . . . . . p.37 thanks burger king, Animation Cancel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.38 Mixtape, chaka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.39 Montreal, Danica Smith. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.40 lady black hole, kon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.41 The Outsiders, allnightsong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.42 Red Raincoats, Tierney C-P . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.45 Irish Goodbye, CP Walker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.46 holy, hyenabutter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.47 Letter from the editor, Ishani Jasmin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.48


CONTRIBUTORS Yunra Hishnett Lonelypond Daniel Menzies Kate Horowitz Lucy Porter Addison Wroolie Artie Carden Ana Richardson Mike Gallagher Scott Shields Nana Gervonte Franklin Finn Harvor Peter Todd Animation Cancel Candid Utopia Amy Donnelly Kon Danica Smith chaka allnightsong Tierney C-P CP Walker




Right Then Kate Horowitz

Ransacking the grass at the edge of the parking lot, the loveliest jay I’ve ever seen. His features, so fine. His blues, so bright. He cocks his crest at my idling car : I sigh behind the wheel. He screams. Another bird flutters down. She is smaller than her mate, her neck feathers mute and iridescent as shade-grown violets. Two hops and he is gone into the brambles. She follows : Right then. That’s when I miss you.


Daniel Menzies




Addison’s

Portraits







lonelypond


in the belly growling The Wolf Song - Amanda Palmer, Jason Webley Organs - Of Monsters and Men Stone Cold Classic (Remix) - AKA George Stone Statue - Katie Kuffel Marathon - Doomtree I’m So Sorry - Aldous Harding Less’ Talk - Mike Mictlan Hourglass - Aby Wolf The Box Song - Amanda Palmer, Jason Webley Baby Teeth - Katie Duffel Perfect Places - Lorde

Yunra Hishnett


Y,u m&

& &v&ry,n& &ls&




how to be yourself In order to become your authentic self and speak your authentic truth, you must take care of thy self. Self-care is the action of not only giving attention to but loving and appreciating yourself. Your insecurities are things that you have not given attention to. To be secure with yourself, take the time to give attention to yourself and your needs. You are your most important priority. You have to love yourself before anyone loves you. you have to love yourself before you can give love to someone else. Take care of yourself to become your authentic self.



Stills

Finn harvor






Aldeburgh Alexander Bayon We drove across Suffolk for a beer festival, then a Chinese takeaway on the beach. Half asleep, I saw the tide roll my body and a shoal of greasy cartons against the drift to empty Dunwich: eight churches and a Gilden Gate pulled under by St Lucia or that 1362 tempest chronicled as ‘de grote Mandrenke’. Nearly twenty years and ten since we met up last, but there are nights I still hear the shingle grinding beneath me, the leisurely raise and drag of the sea.


PHOTO DUMP YUNRA HISHETT




greatest loss by ben j spriggs i was afraid this was to happenfor love to overtake even my basic senses, my habits and thoughts being sculpted like clay. why was i afraid of love? who i've been courting all my short life here. maybe it is because i forget who i really am, sometimes, and losing what little identity i have feels like the greatest loss.


I’M SO COLD, I WISH I COULD DIP MYSELF IN THE WARMTH OF SOMEONE W H O UNDERSTANDS




PETER TODD

MY GREAT UNCLE my great uncle died last wednesday night.

my phone buzzed as I sat slumped in the library attempting to finish my last deadline of the semester and, before I even checked what it could be, my stomach shrank, and my guts dropped through the floor. to some, a great uncle may be a distant, anonymous relative, though the truth to me is quite the opposite. without meaning to, over the years, the quiet pride and unwavering belief he took in my father, my sister and myself have fostered a connection far closer than could possibly be expressed on the twisted branches of our family tree. at first, I put the phone down and continue with my work. it was only when I had finished and submitted that the news resolved in realisation. a realisation that really wrenched my chest and stung my eyes - I would never see him again. I had taken his company for granted for so long that my head filled to the brim with all the times I sat in his living room as a child, wishing that I could be somewhere - anywhere - else. since the moment I caved into a friend’s arms, spilling each and every detail engrained on the inside of my skull, I have found myself sporadically crying. sometimes because I remember the way he watched my sister play at his piano, sometimes regretting the time I could have spent with him, once because I heard my mother’s voice for the first time in several weeks, and sometimes for absolutely no reason at all. I have found hot showers to be both therapeutic and conducive to crying something about the way the water burns my scalp, eyes and chest aligns with the thoughts bubbling behind my eyes and brings forward the elusive tears that have been hiding away for far too long. in the warm afterglow of the scalding water on my skin, I feel empty at last, even if only for a little while. I lock the door, crawl into bed and lie in the dark, alone, holding myself until I need to get up again.


/topple double/smouldering impetus Shadow Journal - Max Richter She’s a B Girl - Tetuzi Akiyama Colour - The Filmcast Cycle Helmet Blues - Oistraka Her Feet Got Stuck - Modra And In The Air - Negative Eh Brown Trumps White - Common Eider, King Eider ) - Onna Her Fate - Loren Connors Untitled XI - CJA маршірують в день і вночі - Foa Hoka Silent Folk Song - Lovely Midget The Heartbeat’s Heartbeat - Matthew Revert Sheep Meadow (Improvised Violin Extensions) - Malcolm Goldstein Zero - Hiatus The Storm - Michael Morley H.R. Head #2 - Matthew P. Hopkins Fuck Lacan! - Slavoj Zizek - Cobalt A City On A Hill Cannot Be Hidden - MCMS There Is Always Tomorrow - Croatian Amor


THANKS BURGER KING animation cancel glint of bronze comes by morning finding ineptitude i write “My thoughts and prayers are with” burger king retweets it thanks burger king i am now archived among beautiful poems such as; Loving fries and then eating them is a pretty complicated relationship. We’re all just sesame seeds on this crazy burger bun we call life Work hard Be nice to people Share your fries


chaka’s

MIXTAPE The Dirty Mac - Yer Blues Tim Timebomb & Friends - Old Friend Craig Finn - God in Chicago John K. Samson - Pamphleteer Rolling Stones - Dead Flowers Queen - All Dead All Dead Pink Floyd - One of My Turns/Don't Leave Me Now Simone Felice - Don't Wake The Scarecrow R.E.M. & Neil Young - Country Feedback Frank Turner - Plain Sailing Weather Amanda Palmer - Machete Flogging Molly - Float Lou Reed & Laurie Anderson - Hang On To Your Emotions


Montreal Danica Smith

but I do not speak – I respond.

You are not the only one who makes me feel small.

I do not feel firsthand But as an aftereffect.

I’ve felt isolation growing like the coming frosts for a while now, breathe it in the smoke from the strangers blocking the cracked sidewalks

The buildings do not grow taller but I shrink through my shoes and into the streets unseen, unnoticed,

but I walk alone. I may look to the skies every morning and night but the only colors I see are digital and closer than any horizon I could hope to reach – I feel in pixels and through Skype screens because all character exists close as a fingertip, and yet still beyond my own boundaries. I thought I could make a universe out of the streetlights and those who stand waiting with me

numb. I thought I came to you for more than this.


lady black hole kon

Human no more. Just the glaringly open wound, stale and bloody bull’s eye, infinite full circle I always was, eventually. My strength is my greatest weakness these days. I used to dissolve at touch, now i’m filled to the brim with disgustingly artificial pride. Nothing sublime to our story: you molded me, then turned me to stone. Leaving behind something stronger than what you came upon. Don’t dare me. I refuse to feel any gratitude, will never forgive your taking my softness with you.



THE OUTSI DERS



red raincoats tierney c p I had a dream last night that the world was dying, blood coagulating in her veins like milk that someone left out on the counter and forgot about Peach fuzz growing on her belly, the first sign of starvation, the first sign that everything is not alright, we might not survive this In my dream, everyone left all their clothes and houses and Jeep Cherokees on the front lawns And we all jumped in the river to find a way out Because the only way we know how to fix things is by running away, like we might take back the fingerprints smeared on the river, blood and oil tracked in from the garden Better luck next time, all the songs go, let’s find a new sinkhole to root around in Let’s find a new slow-cooking death to wear like red raincoats In my dream, we were born with umbilical cords like tree roots buried deep in the dirt and we were crying when our fathers cut into the wood, heedless of splinters It is winter and we need to burn, they all said, it is winter and we are dying but You will heal from this, they told us. We did not heal. Do you ever think about how mayflies are born and then die within twenty-four hours How the minutes spread themselves over like sun-warmed molasses, like a century, wrapped up in a day, in a blink, a low exhale Any life can be long if you just ration it out enough, if you just pave yourself over every second until the space between start and end is all taken up Do you ever think about how we might be mayflies, there and then gone again and the world may mourn our passing but she’ll get over it soon enough There is a bitter comfort in that, the same taste that always came with doing what you weren’t supposed to as a kid, and sometimes you got away with it, Sometimes you didn’t, and it never felt worth it in the end Do you ever think about how when they stole our mother’s country, they stole the words too, shaving them down to fit inside places they weren’t built for How every time we speak, theft unhinges our mouths and tongues, strange and foreign And we filed the police report, but there is no inventory


Irish G,,dby& c.p. walker

I had a disappearing act once. in a flash, I could leave a party, a group, a class, a town unnoticed, replaceable invisible with a turn of my shoulder disconnected with a touch of a button (or better yet, the push of a door handle) the time would come in a room, I could picture myself vanishing and changing nothing, thats when I’d do it. Quietly pluck my bag from a corner and fade away having cleared the clutter in the room I miss being able to do that I miss going unnoticed I’m not sure why


holy hyenabutter I want to call it holy, the war waged in parking lots, between bars and down deep inside my clothes. I want to call it holy every time I pass the empty house and its half-million words locked up and silent now. I want to call it holy–a word that can outweigh my every petty sin when I hear you singing in the static of the run-out groove, a phantom limb that kicks and twitches. But a heavy word like holy is bitter honey on the tongue, a sweetness like a scorch. I want to call it holy and bawl and wallow. I want a cheapness I can carry


LETTER FROM THE EDITOR


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x Ishani