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Sowvtx* ure beauty distracts the real thrill seeker, Attracted to fault in desPeration Dangerously drawn by imperfections Sickly addicted to delving deePer Human mind knows no pleasure sweeter than manipulating to win in confrontation the shameless power like no physical sensation Me - fish in water, you - tuna in brine. Weaker'

so Dante may well be right that bliss is not in the greeting (Unless it is d-elivered with teeth on your collar bone') It is more likely in comPlication It is then not beauty, or virtue, that I'm seeking, I can picture beauty and get off on my own. It is the ecstasy of validation.


llig llreakfast Eyes hall'-open, hair matted on one side A forgotten nightrnare in a barely conscious mind. Slowly she ruoves, and the duvet follows; Twisting, curling and finally bundling into a sigh.

Suddenly she freezes. Sight explodes into a million pieces. As the long and short of it began to tick, A single thought, tragic; "Another nrissed breakfast: the second this week." Regret creeps in through the slightly ajar

window Smelling of bacon. eggs. salt and sorrow" Yeah. Mornings of my life lulwlys this shallow.


Wash, clean, change your face. Not outstanding, but try not to look out of place. Comb your wires; or do you need an electrician? Look at your skin, it looks like it's undergone f ission.

Slip into a patronizing sweatshirt. Tell the world you're an intellect on a mission. Shoes, watch, keys


anythin-s else? Ah, money. That's all that counts.

As f'eet hits concrete in a perpetual rhythm,

"Eating in, please." And

She seats herself at the window, While a silent movie begins below : Men and womel1 hurry past in Hrgh Definitioil Diff-erent directions. yet same decisions.

Here comes Amnesty International, Clipboard and vest : repellent to all. Enough to jolt the movie into fast forward, "Sorry sir, but I've got to rush to work." Schoolchildren soon start to fill the gaps, Jumping, tunning, waiting for a mess. Soon they'11 learn to make their own, And what it's like to be alone.

The tray is cleared, Along rvith the morning" And she walks home, f illed with Breaklast and Lon,ein-q.

Eyes stray to the (still) invisible destir-ration. A llock oigiggling swans glide across, rendering their observers at a motnentary loss. Fann Shar Linn

Without warning, she swerves to the left and pulls open a door, Causing her antonym lo \tumble to tlte floot'.

Muted apologies, put-on indifference Then she quickly joins the line and waits for her tlr


No deliberation necessary today, The choice has been made -

No tiny print nor provocative image to lead her astray.

"Big Breakfast please, and I would like tea." "Take away or eating in?" The difference between both a mere canier bag, Or a potential hazard to the whole clan.

she pays.

Missing When you are not there, warm, when I wake up; When you are not there with wet hair looking

Down into the porridge, with your hands curled Around


big spoon for you and a little spoon for me;

When you are not there when the ponidge is ready; When you are not there reading invisibly Next to me, with your legs folded in; When you are not there to drink seven cups of tea To eat pears, to rub your squidgey nose and to look at me; When you are not there to fit your hand in the jar When mine's too big, when the gherkins are

Lurking too far down in the



When you are not there to make Dior smell good; When you are not there to walk half a step ahead, To tell me what you've read, to point a little index finger To the quirky things that make you laugh


When you are not there to splash That laugh through my day; When you are not there to whisper across my pillow; When I cannot hold your earlobe, Or feel the downy softness where the back

Of your neck meets the back of your head, Whon I carinot rest my left hand on your left hip,

And feel you falling asleep


When you are not there, but there youove left a little dip in the bed, and when the pillow still remembers your head -

When you are not there you are here in my head -

And when I look too hard I feel the emptiness,

And I stand with these shadows that you have left,

The sharp little shards of empty darhress Where you should be, pouring light into

Me through your eyes'


trt.6, ""t ,rlings; I alwaYs do But never notice


That make me wonder about Whether I am starting to lose it (my sanity) Hypochondria runs in the familY But so does a disposition to madness of sorts

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"l wish I was a shooting star, and I could fly away from this place."

Gilbert looked down at the boy leaning idly against backwards, arms spread almost eagled as the blue eyes gazed earnest at the sky, before glancing back up at thing himself, exhaling slowly as his eyes sought and found his moon face. His little piece of peace, before"Charlie." He didn't say anything else. "Ha, that would stump them! Wooosh! Then l'd be so precious, so much more then even...even gold!, and they would all be jealous of me, and want me, and parade after me asking questions and writing books, and filming me for TV and stuff."

Well, it was clear that if he didn't start talking, the kid would, and that would make him distinctly uncomfortable. And be damn annoying. And if the kid found out that he had found something special in this place, a small isolated bit of the garden where the others would ever come, then maybe he'd decide he'd never leave. "!Ve... all do, at some point or another." Cloth rustled, a sedated blue glistening briefly in the yellow of the lights radiation back from the complex as the young man leaned farther back beside the boy, head tilting into an arc and sending dark strands of his hair brushing against soft blades of grass beneath. The low sigh left his lips softly, quiet with the whisper of the words "you've just got to ride it through." "That's good enough for you to say. You've experienced it, haven't you?"

The boys face had turned fully towards his, the broad, indolent smile that had spread his lips through the passing years faltering a little, careful eyes watching his face. And there was the crux. "...experienced what? The pain of having something, something important, something that you can never quite replace, and having it ripped away from you? Haa, in those terms, then yes, I have experienced something." The younger boys lips twisted into a scowl, the ridiculously blue glancing over angrily to glare at him under that hat; but he let it roll off him, lips twisting into a smile, as he breathed deeper into the grass, the growing-scent. Clean, fresh, beautiful. New. A new start, a new life.

"You've at least experienced something. I keep waiting for my life to begin. From one family to the next, awesome- but for too short periods, I have no family, no identity. And until I start to actually become a son, then what can I say I am? I'm nothing." This kid was not going to go away, it seemed. At least, not without something more. Well, what was it he wanted? Groaning lightly, Gilbert stretched his head back, arms extending like a cat, before he had moved back to a sitting position, his movements clean as he leaned forward to stare at this damn kid. Short, scruffy blond hair, short, from what he could see from under a hideous blue cap; boy, or girl, he could not tell, although with the whole 'sailor' boy outfit he guessed he was trying to prove he was a boy. However successful that might be. He stifled a laugh, his lips forming a grin as he leaned back, eyes flicking down the boy once more. Well. "...Then, what do you think you are, now?" "Huh..? Didn't ljust say that? Stupid! Nothing, nothing at all, nout, weren't you listenin-" The boy gave a stifled yelp as Gilbert made sure his grip around the boys mouth was damn tight enough, the sky blue eyes flicking quickly from the hand to Gilberts annoyed gaze, before apparently missing the hint and trying to speak again. Damn idiot. Gilbert tightened his grip, grimace deepening as he used his other hand to grab the kids damn head and shake him a bit until he got the message. "Just shut up a minute, child- boy. Just what the hell do you think you are saying? You aren't living? Then just what the hell are you waiting for?" Feeling fabric quivering beneath him, Gilbert looked back to the boy under his hands, the childish face closed, devoid of the normally idiotically open expression. Openly naive, happy expression.

Guilt hit him like a hammer against his sternum, sucking out his breath, his chest chillingly cold and empty in the lack of air. The boy was quiet; big, blue eyes swimming - the fright in those tears didn't phase him, but the sudden shock and realization that seemed to twist the boys expression left him stinging as if he had been hit. Uncomfortable, he turned away, listening to the boy, for if he tried to make any more of that mouth, but no sound came out, the sounds of the night pervading the area with ease. ln all honesty, it didn't matter much anyway, because when he finally left, none of this emotional bull crap would matter, would it? The remainder of his eighteen years shrunk behind him; swallowed by the vast numbers of years of freedom that teased, like the small bright lights in the sky, sweetly, so close lo reality now.

The strained angle of his arm softened, his fingers relaxing, the sound of Charlie's boots scraping against dirt loud against the nights silence, until the boy had

successfully found his feet, and with a wobbling gaze that never quite left him, had found the path and beat down it. Against the small, yelping sounds as the boy struggled to keep upright, Gilbert's hand met the other back on his lap. He lowered himself back down to the grass slowly, eyes returning to the view - thoughts already looking forward again to his future. Blindly, without his notice, his eyes strained to settle on those pin points of light that had once punctuated the sky - Gilbert ignored

the strained tightness in his chest, and the foreboding that stretched and curled, warning that somehow, something had been done that was unchangeable, and wrong, and he let his eyes close, his consciousness fading into sleep.



Great stars flicker and hang in freezing sheets, tide cresting in a foam of light.

People born from the soles

I have been lying awake and feeling my bones splayed fingers over tendons, the cup of horsehair scalloped like an Indian comb.

of your feet. Arms hooking to abscesses, tweezers as forceps, limbs littered like ash on the sheets. Counting the dripping new entities cluttering up your room.

Eyes dulled coins, gasping fish, glutted to the gills with scouring sand.

Vengeful Saturn, hold your creations helpless and wriggling

The street is a hum. I will wake in the morning a tooled skull, your voices spattered over the crown, a lolling tongue snapped in the dark of silence.

and bite down, blood on blood, in the eye of morning which eclipses you.

m your palm like worms,

XSKYLIGHT* Thelowingofanimalfury,madrage,sofTowsdrunkandsouredandscattered at midnight, blaring screeches brazenand tremblitrg *iA"r"gged on the street on asphalt and feet of wrath and pity, piin and pit-y, elbows scorched dragging,doorsu,,",'ti.,"t'standingblankandimmovableliketombstonesas as borrowed tears which the hurled bottles break and trickle, their tracks

*iua,ybeforethesunraisescurtainonthescartissueofthescene'Anot bluning' preferring tigtrt rain falls, softening the edges, chaste and filled to the gutterbrim to see. The cries subsist. The street grows static, lulled back to islet with the hum of aropf"tr on humpeJ mehl, cat carapaaes


Knot of cartilage in a leg of lamb, greased like a piston, rotating fist in the wet heat of the flesh cooked greY and stringY. Cloudy scale over the eye of a fish, a film fixed in the glare of the oven, warped and cleft, bringing blindness. Tiny tongue of a gopher roasted whole, nub of muscle slid between receding jaws, charred to a deathmask grin. Fleck of blood in the bleary yolk of a spitting egg over flame. *REPENTX

Make night thg convent, place down the Chalky, rock offerings, fields of guilt, Make fires of tfue day's undertaking.

tur F


As time closes in for us on the hill, I

will remember you

For what you offered up To a man of wanting heart.

And for what you withheld I am not one to judge. You have seen so much.

How many before me Have slaked from the fountain

Inspiration Taken under the veil oflove,

And stolen away with A piece*of the heart?

Gravity pulls me into earth, and heaving. I am pulled into hot breath,

rank sweat, the reek of body secreting, sour.

For now I also have pain As I turn




I let the flood in, before I bring ocean to my wounds ing death-holes in boats and doing nothing

A blac


So you all grow older withot*1ne, ,':'. suflrmer Have a change of heart, move houSe in the

l,eave me to imagine in the dark Hip-bones, knee-caPs, thighs Outgrown bodY-Parts

finger and thumb' What's left is enough, you can rub it between It takes time to shrink wounds' To dry blood' feet' To knock hard seasons from the soles of your

I let the bog hold me until I'm readY You don't Know

Before the

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rr-uule rn tnls empty space

come and take over

In every

of water, there is something each feeling and try to touch


ight, Midnight, Twilight, remembering it and for eing still


I Outside you all gow older, Have a change of heart, move house in the But underneath, faces build on centuries of lost Canine, wisdom, raw molars, rotting Jaws crisscrossing like jackdaws in woods.

Lost count of how long we've been here. Can't tell a daybreak from a duskfall.

someone you once knew

ing and

)/^^Yt All I know is that I love you, enough To deepfreeze,to rust, to plug my ears with dust Wrapped up in bedcovers of earthy water, We dream the mud of the bog, the dud of the wetlands In our blood; stranded corpses scared in the pest house Of young love, drowning in dirt, untouched, un-dug up. Somehow the animals don't find us; can't claw what's left With fake nails and blindness. Can't even smell us.

We survive under the landscape. Dog-flesh, skeletons gone But still there somehow underneath the peated eiderdown Of the dead years when we don't speak. Repeatedly pulling earth over our shoulders We are neither water nor land, storm or stillness, Like fishes that sleepwalk on mountains, horses that don't drown.




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In a dampbed we wait between realms




II Winter came like a cough caught in chests The ground froze around us Wheezy, breathless, still becoming bog, we half-lived, Half-forgot. A rib-cage here and there. A front tooth. Not a lot. Not everything I touch is lasting. Not even bogland Not even men He got up and walked away washing his clothes Scooping the dirt from his eyes, unsheathing himself from Bogteeth like a wet dog after rain

Only I remained. A set of eyelids sewn shut. Dreaming of mudsling, The land being torn up NI Spring. We are scalped heads. Lonely bodies, Separately skulled. I couldn't pull myself up behind him. Disturb the sewage of The flood of quietness around me.



Ruth Mair

Review of Fosterine Guilt- KCL creative writins societv novel 2010 Fostering Guilt, the collaborative novel written by the Kings College creative writing society, is a type

of project that has not been undertaken by any other such groups, but has certainly paid off in its creation of a very readable story. The book tells the story of a group of people connected to an orphanage, "5t Aloysius"', in North London, that burned down when they were there as children, and the memories and emotions brought to the surface by its renovation when they are adults. The format of each chapter being told by a different character is effective in really giving each of the ten writers a chance to stand out, while the collaborative efforts of the society have prevented the novel from becoming fragmented, or turning into a collection of short individual stories. The stories told by the ex-orphanage members range from diary-like realism, detailing their adult lives, to fantasy style stories that openly reference Stephen King, along with some traditional fiction drama too. The novel, in its story-telling efforts, is generally effective, and quite enjoyable to read, which, given the difficulties often faced in this form of collaborative writing, is a remarkable achievement. The choice of allowing each author to have a chapter as their arena for expression is one that has

worked wellfor most of the novel. Although there are some points at which the storyline becomes incoherent or confusing, this may instead be more the product of a plot line that is intended to be complex, due to the nature of the story, and the importance of the confused memories and emotions of each of the orphan's stories. Having each author's contribution stand as an individual chapter has allowed the society to overcome some of the issues of writing a collaborative novel, and given equal weight to all members of the society involved. Although at times, this serves to highlight the most talented writers, the book is not fragmented, and the group editing techniques used by the society allowed not only for individual writers to stand out, but the voice of the Broup as a whole to be heard through the novel too. The fact that this book can is so unmistakably a novel (rather than a

collection of short stories) is indicative of the maturity and group awareness of the society that wrote it. They have been able to pulloff what many well-known authors have been unable to do successfully, in creating a collaborative novel that showcases different writers strengths while

maintaining a strong plot and cohesive voice too. The main strength of Fostering Guilt is that the plot line is such that it makes quite compelling

reading; I found myself racing through each chapter in order to find out what the next would reveal, and as in any good story, this made reading it all the more enjoyable. The fact that as a novel it was not overwhelmed by the collaborative form of its creation is a sign of its success as a novel. lf one ignores the fact that the book was written by a group of different writers, with their own distinctive styles and preferences for genres, then the distinction between each author and chapter is not

something that detracts from such a consuming storyline. Fostering Guilt, as a highly ambitious and unusual project for a group of students, and is one that

really must be commended for its success, not only as a difficult venture but also simply as a very good and very readable novel, that manages to span genres and written styles while maintaining a consuming storyline, and mature writing style. Although the distinction between authors for each

chapter serves at times to allow those more comfortable with the commercial fiction style to stand out more, the fact that these writers were able to work together to create such a cohesive novel is a sign of the talent of the whole group. Aside from anything, the fact that the storyline, one that

should really have been entirely a slave to the individual authors' styles, has been able to stand out

Ruth Mair

too, is something that shows the success of this project. lt is clear that the majority of the contributors to the novel have the potential to become mainstream fiction writers in the future, and as such, the merits of this novelshould not be underplayed, not only as a complex and ambitious project for a group of students, but also as a new form of challenge for young writers wishing to display and hone their talents.


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Yorgos Loizos, Olynpio UN - 17 Se tember

enTng re?61?i6ilT0 June 6-8p

Entitled Olympia, after the automaton described in ETA Hoffmann's short story Der Sondmonn ( l8l5), Yorgos Loizos' first solo exhibition consists of a series of handcrafted photographic works. Created using surrealist techniques including solarization and the photogram, these editions evoke the notion of the uncanny through a use of imagery that is both familiar and odd, and by blurring perceptions of the animate and the inanimate. Featuring fragments of a mannequin doll and sculptures of cityscapes, each composition was formed as a constructed, studio based, vista of space. Washed in a bain-marie of chemical liquids and exposed to 'accidental' .l ight leaks, the works describe impossible spaces inhabited by doll bodies. As part of SSE Space's enlouragement of cross-disciplinary collaboration, members of The Young Writer's "ctivu to submit short responses to individual works. Society, UCL have been invited Yorgos Loizos BA(hons) DipArch lYArch(Dist) TFE/TCG Yorgos Loizos is a London based artist and designer, He received a Master of Architecture with Distinction from the Bartlett School of Architecture in 2009, and was previously educated as an architect at the Edinburgh College of Art (2004) and the Ecole Sp6ciale d'Architecture in Paris (2007), where he taught as a teaching assistant of Sir Peter Cook His work explores themes such as the uncanny, the double, the animate and inanimate, desire, and alchemy to create spatial possibilities with the use of chemical photography, handcrafted and digital model making, as well as hand drawing, painting and low-tech interactive installations. His work has been shown in London, Paris, Edinburgh and Athens and he is a regular guest critic at design schools in the UK, izos SSE Space

SSE Space is a platform for cross-disciplinary collaboration, placing emphasis between the fields of art and architecture. Set within the interior of Store Street Espresso in central London, SSE Space was built by architecture graduates, conceived as a space to showcase works inspired or influenced by themes in architectural theory. A self-perpetuating project, the works are sold with minimal commission and all profits are used to fund ephemeral and site-specific architectural prolects. SSE Space opened

in October

20 I 0 and shows

quarterly exhibitions.

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brink of a happy life, or so it would seem. of a love triangle and what happens when those you love do not love you back. Simultaneously looking into the effects of the loss of a vital part of that triangle forever. I See Simon follows a young couple on the


Simon is a mysterious fellow. He is the man that everyone loves; Fleming's own 'women want him, men want to be him'. Through the conversations he has with his friends we get glances of the chinks in his armour of self-confidence and flamboyance. The Man is more naive. He retains the ideals that we all share when we are young that everything is going to be all right on the night. \Mhatever happens he takes it in his stride believing that, through the love of his wife, everything will come right in the end. That is until the ultimate horror creeps in. His Wife has created a bubble for herself in which to live to avoid being hurt. She has made the choice to marry this man who can keep her safe and who will Iove her tit hiq.-dyf4g day perhaps ignoring her own true feelings.

ffi;lltrreaudiencewhotheymustlikebutinsteadtogivethema hoice. As in life no one is perfect but it is their imperfections that provide the make for these characters.



Written and Directed by Edinburgh newcomers AlexandeiThomas and Peregrine Fellowes. The play stars Thea Beyleveld as Wife, Dominic Tobin in the titular role of Simon.

oltow on

an and Olive

@iSeeSimon. n



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on-based musician Ia


E-mail: Phone: 0779 584 4BB7


Zoo Venues Press

E-mail: Phone: 01803 849347 [to end



I have read somewhere that one of the defining characteristics or pomodernity is the sensation of experiencing -u1tipl" realities all on top of each other, and the feeling that millions oi symbols, images and meanings have been unloaded into the world without structure, without moderation. Dozens of different aesthetics are present all at once and are quoted, alluded to in mass culture with disregard for the need or even the idea of context' Look, a telephone cut from amagazine stuck on top of a photograph of an interior. Look, a historic building irrl-ondon peeking tt.orrg^h a gip between two sky scrapers. Look, a young woman in Istanbul *"irirrg-u' headscarf talking on an iphone, a rural migrant in Nairobi sending nioney by mobile phone to his mother, who has never seen anything beyond her village. Post modernity is in other words the constant serisation of

Tomorrow is victory Day, the 9th May, and palace square is being prepared for the celebrations. Parallel with the winter palace, on the same side of the square, three blocks of temporary seating have been erected in front of huge red banners. r94r - 1945. cccP. A hammer and sickle. on the opposite side, in front of the triumphal arch that divides the two wings of the General staff Building, a team is putting the finishing touches to a huge stage. on the front of it they are building a fake colonnade in a shade of green to match the palace, a heavy piece of classical fibreglass. At the back of the stage there is a big computer screen. Mostly it is black or bears a vague repeating pattern of indistinct shapes, but occasionally you see a mouse moving on it and icons appearing and being clicked on as they test everythins for

In the middle of the square is the Alexander Column, a single red granite block on top of which stands an angel with the face of Emperor Alexander I. "From a grateful Russia." A bas-relief around the column base sprinkles symbols of Russian glory;Nevsky's helmet, Prince Oleg's shield, Alexander's breastplate, Stalin's moustache. Other symbols of something or other are scattered through the square, not always deliberately. Temporary fencing has been put up aroun{ the base of the column, wider still than the original iron railings removed by the communists, then restored by the 90s gangster capitalists. On this second layer of distance two policemen are leaning, talking about something oI othef. To the east, where the square partly opens towards the Moika river, atound fifty dark green Soviet military vehicles are gathered. Mostly jeeps, a couple of trucks, and soldiers milling around them, waiting for the

Hundreds of tourists, groups and individuals, wander through the square. Cameras are held out in front and take the place of eyes. Wealthy Russian teenagers pose and take pictures of each other. One of the giils ?s NY. Men in 18th century costumes offer themselves as photo opportunities. Fake antique carriages clatter atound, circling the square - or squaring the itcle. Look, Saint Petersburg is lots of places at once.

ThgJ"" is shining, it is a beautiful day in rvray. wtren r come out into

the square from the Hermitage, the speakers by the stage are blastin$utwfrFnoise that sounds like a jet engine, Indeed, I think at first this is a simulated test for a fly past, an invisible feat of aeronauticar daring. Just as it becomes painful, it stops and they put on some music. I don't know the tune but the opening lines are "sonny, sonny...", or maybe it is

"sunny, sunny..." 9â&#x201A;Ź --

of Thunder Road, a song about redemption, I must resist the urge to try to explain how this is making me feel. As Baudelaire said, when words are too precise, music is the art that expresses most perfectly the emotions. "sunny...the dark times are gone, the bright days are here." Three teenagers lie flat on their backs near me, close their eyes, and smoke. A group of soldiers, three men and one woman, chase each other through the square, horsing around. For a moment they gather into a circle and, no word of a Iie, one of them dances while the others sing xKalinkax.






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pagc arru'rLle'vvrD r'v'rvtrvu' But now wmd catcnes fi-a-anddeliversmemories me as lfteeze' iin.t gather all together andas watch though unwrapped by violenrshivers inu"l"i $ it ttupp"", part and parcel to the cau'' dress Recollections in naf-tight of a disposable Victim to a once kind but now cruel caress' though it only s.erved 9i:tt:t::W $ t t"p, on the neckiace sight of my frame - now a fleshy,wr:"1t1 $mtittg"o.oiiu"d of clarity but now the vision's stark' on..






wish I could just exist and subsist in mere silhouette, In the bottom of a glass or in the light of a cigarette. But the cherry burns atop my densely thick shadow, Stripped of all I've got, but wearing eYgryth4gl owl ,Thoughts tom in rips galoreThey seem oh-so thin, Clad in fraying trash, A garb ill-fit for all wea

Feeh much like it did bef, I'd shed my teenage skin, 'Been rebom from the ash And grown new feathers

Let me bum one more time lest I forget the feeling, Purge my being of everything and prevint the skin from healing. I won't need it any more, I'd sooner jump right out, And kiss goodbye to scar tissue with one loose-lipped pout. If beauty be dead, then let me be nil,GF: But if it takes forever, I'll find the time to kill. .-* I'm not too proud to beg for more hours to hold and keep, esides. what pride is this that makes us moan and weep? +:'-â&#x201A;Ź* Be still, my borrowed clich6, but these lungs are out of breath! .r]'Slip on another layer or else you'll catch your death.

Earlier I had wanted to do something emblematic. I felt as though a nuclear winter were upon us, and that I could render a branch a Kalashnikov if I held it close to my chest. I felt as though, if I were trudging through snow, there would be sludge for the johnny-come-lately, but pristine flakes for the early birds, who would walk lightly as Kings and not justly. All this, as we cheered. C

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the necessity of an encampment became apparent and I soon found myself hunting for kindling. A lighter later and a bench was en route to ashes, and sat beside it letting my eyes rest by the heat, I heard the fire build walls around me. As it cracked and split, the infernal palace fell unnoticed. The greatest day of this hunk of wood's life, completely ignored as its daily users stay huddled up behind closed curtains while it performs its last great work as a eulogy to public seating. Now they'll only see it smoulder throughout the night.


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)P Being assailed by naysayets, I ran and hid in a sidestreet. I decided to lay upon the ground, as I was sure that if I turned another corner there would only be a dead-end. I titled my head up to see how far I had come from the main bulk of people, of course it was not a long way at all. Still here it was narrow and there very wide, and I took it to be a kind of cloister where I could gather my thoughts.

As before all of this I had lived as if in a submarine, where I would roam about and engage in minor skirmishes, and at that depth, victories were in abundance. I had fallen in love there with a beautiful voice, which emanated from the ivory white grill of an old ham radio, which was first my Mother then my Wife, as it nurtured then enthused me. Stepping out into the cold light of day though, if it is said 'we are so', we are so, and if it is said 'we could have been otherwise', then likewise, 'we could have been otherwise', symbolism is lost entirely.

sa â&#x201A;Ź

Somnolence The eyes close, Knowing the act to follow, The facial slit opening and closing like a healing gash, Daily rehearsals make this scene most comfortable. Those few seconds before sleep, The acute detail of which will be erased on waking. Slow bellows, the lungs keep the fire of life scorching, lf only every moment was this comfortable, the moment before a sweet,

Temporary relief.

what happens, when my eyes will close, My eyes, set into my face, Circular marble sandwiched between some soft limestone. The face of the cliff, Sharp dropping unevenness. I know

Blankets move up and down my body, The night time sea rolling up and down the inclined shingle, Where water meets land, An old tactile embrace. Shelter and warmth. From those growing thoughts, No longer seeds, But flowering spears full of venom and spite, Those thoughts of self knowledge, For a few hours, Will not exist in this gloomy vault, Full of borrowed treasures.

Aga ?,eza AL;


i. Inside, the house is a mess. Dishes stacked; rows and rows of bottles staring pucker-mouthed at the ceiling. A shiny metal bowl, slick with grease and ash. Once full of popiorn, it now holds kemels, cigarette butts and grains of salt. That doesn't stop one of the guyi from sticking his finger into the sandy mess and licking it off, in the quiet way that I notice.

il. Remember, remember, the fi/ih o.f November. When I lay on the sharp-springed bed that hides the empty suitcases underneath. They are waiting to collect my life agultt. The fireworks cracked and gasped in the distance. Nearer, then farther.


I \

Their parties are more subdued than I expected. They all sing along to Radiohead and Suede in scalded voices. They do crossword puzzles on the leather couches. Drinks are spilled when the night is done, leaving sticky hardwood floors. I can't help but feel I am participating in some great cultural happening, or at least that am among people who deeply believe they are. They, with their fur coats and leather shoes, messy hair and bangles. They believe in what they know young people arc supposed to believe Impulsivity, gracelessness, music, materials. They sing along with their rimmed eyes casting about, making sure everyone else is doing the same. The besi of tirres and the woist of timei.

I .

ry. But those times seem to be running out. I try not to count the days and think about what little time I have left. The bars and unforgiving boxes of the calendar stare at me each tirne I enter my room. They don't like being forgotten. Nor do they enjoy being shamelessly abused-I tease days out into weeks, weeks into rnonths. How dare I. I will be held accountable for this sin, this idyll, someday. The suitcases under my bed will be filled again. T



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So, it was no longer Autumn, and whilst a freezing mess of self-sustaining biology Danced carelessly at the edge of an spinning silver ball, Several like myself found ourselves taking photographs down from the wall, And putting them away, melancholy. We couldn't calibrate our sense of touch. Not with coffee, not with poetry. Not with anything. I tried to turn it into something useful - we had no right To feel so cheated, so I wrote. And evening passed and morning came' And that wis the two million, one hundred And ninety six thousand, two hundred and Fifty first day,

6-J6e thought snaps to anatomy, something I revere, and I'm sure that you do too, Fingertips, in particular, and the underside, where the knuckles fold, And how the muscles knit around it, and dark red spiced wine, tangible in the th roat,

And purple, a'nd a low humming noise. A slim paperback book, a bundle of sticks, Stick figures, I love you all. I would write you love-Poems, If I could bring myself to do so. But I find words don't weave themselves willingly into such clouds and tones.

It is not a useful thing for them to do. I need speech to be the hammering of nails, Details:

Tales of tracks, How you went there And back along the rails, And when some lonely hack, The writer, comes in from the hail, Tries to distract himself from a searing like brass Tacks and fails And you say "Oh God." Well, there are three reactions possible, when that happens: One might simply shut oneself out - close the door behind the eyes, and in the chest, But ours is a modest argument - too trivial to follow itself through When the conclusion Is sticky, and Involving uninviting splitting. Or we could immerse ourselves in God Ah, but the two of us broke up. Psychological suicide Nope, that key broke in the lock, so that door no longer opens. No, that won't do. Finally, then, sensation. Convince yourself that merely Having a feeling at all is reason enough. To be feeling is better than to not be feeling Cgntinued breath is thus subordinate To some vague positive impression, The crook of my elbow, and a sense of the shape Of someone else's head Amount to a vindication. Death and God are beaten by a half-suspicion Now proved half-true That maybe a face, split ear to ear But maybe by a smile, with eyes beaming at me, better than moons, Is justification for my wet shoes, a sense of guilt, the weather, And the fact that this is the best of it, and that I ouqht to be ashamed So I will tell you something of the way I feel. Only first I need to Kneel before the vanished Gods of trial and error And pray, like a machine, feigning sapience: "We know Feeling doesn't matter, 'I can no longer pretend that it is more

Than evolution's trick, A sorry thing. A poor device to trick this machine of ours

Into acting automatic." Yet even saYing that, I have something left to write so Something isn't right.

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People and landscapes are inextricable form one another. landscapes make people,

it is a question of how people make

As well as asking


landscapes. As Christopher

Tilley suggests in his essay 'A Phenomenology of Landscape Space, place, Landscape and Perception', "space is both constituted and constitutive". Here, the term space means

a social product "always centered in relatipn to human action"

(Tilley lgg4), From this

we can assert that the way landscape is perceived and represented is dependent on the culture it is created byt and in turn the architecture of these highly ,politicized' landscapes reinforces specific cultural ideologies.

In short, landscape becomes a form of

the "codification of history itself'(Pamela Stewart, Andrew Strathern, 2003).

Thus, landscape becomes involved in a process of individualizingpeople (Bender 2002), and separating people into recognizable categories produced by the society that 'owns, a

particular landscape. These categories, such as nature and culture, gender and class are introduced to individuals from birth. People are taught to negotiate space/place (Ibid), and from this develop notions of the self: the individual in relation to the landscape.

In this essay I will focus on the ideas of landscape in relation to gender, and the ways in which gender roles are re-enforced by humanized space, which are bognd up with ,,a set of relational places linked by paths, movements and narrative,' (Tilley lgg4).

The Western concept of landscape is said to be tied up with postmodern ideas of consumption. The notion that all things can be understood and logically concluded (Boyne 1998). western gaze "surveys" landscape (Bender 2002), ,,always behind, beyond, far offl' (Wylie 2004). Gaze, and conditions of gazing, therefore arise as an integral component for understanding why and how certain perceived cultural practices are constantly reinforced in relation to landscape: "conditions of gazing to the depths


and folds of a immanent plane from which distinctive selves and landscapes arise and

with which they are always intertwined" (John Wylie).

I would like to explore these

notions of gazing and the construction of the gendered self in relation to Laura Mulvey's essay 'The Sexual Subject-A Screen Reader in Sexuality', where she explores the fascination of

film in relation to "pre-existing fascinations" with gaze (Mulvey Ig75).


However, initially

I will explore

how gender roles are re-enforced by the very way in

which people inhabit landscape, with Bourdieu's 'The Berber House'.

"Inhabited space" creates "social Being-in-th"-*orld' (Tilley lgg4).This is the idea that the way in which people dwell in a landscape creates a sense of "thereness", "the self

in and of the world" (Ibid). Lr Bourdieu's study of 'The Berber House', he observers how the organization of space in the home mfurors the perceived disclosure of Being

opposition between the nature and culture (Ibid), and in turn, how preconceived gendered associations to these terms (male, culture/ female, nature) creates a division between the qq-4es

in the dwelling.

part of the house is also opposed to ttre higTJE-art as the feminine is to the masculine: besides the fact that the division of the work between the sexes, which is based upon the same principle of division as the organization of space, entrusts to the woman the responsibility of most objects which belong to the dark part of the house water-transport, and the carrying of wood and manure, for instance - the opposition between the upper part and the lower part reproduces within the space of the house the opposition set up between the inside and the outside. This is the opposition between male 4nd female space (Bourdieu 1973).

This could be taken as an example of how landscape becomes bound up with personal and cultural identity, and how that identity moulds the creation of a conscious ego aware

of their place in relation to their surrounds (Tilley lgg4). Dwelling "forms a primordial part of that which it is to be human, this necessarily requires a consideration of the body as the privileged vantage point from which the us back to the ides


world is apprehended" (Ibid). This brings

'the gaze': that "looking is the perceptual actualization of landscape

and self, of materialities and sensibilities" (Wylie 2004). This process of "actualization",

Wylie suggests, leads to the development of "hierarchical distinctions" betwoen subject and

object.It is this idea of hierarchy and subject/object gazethatLauraMulvey explores

in her essay 'The Sexual Subject-A Screen Reader in Sexuality'. Just as the construction

of space in the Berber house represents the "actualization" (Wyile 2004 )of what it is to be male and female in Berber culfure, Mulvey identifies in Western



"reinforcing of

pre-existing patterns of fascination" that reveal "socially established interpretations of sexual difference which controls images, erotic ways of looking and spectacle" (Mulvey

L975). Mulvey goes onto outline what she sees as the traditional role of women in film

we can ("passive raw material for the active gaze of man" (Ibid)). Using Mulvey's thesis' people as the process of gazing upon a landscape, to that of "looking at other


and in the objects" (Ibid). Both involve the same "ordering" process (Wylie 2004)' a "sexual Western films that Mulvey studied in her essay, this order is characterizedby

(Mulvey lg15).She outlines that "pleasure in looking has been split between parallel between active/male and passive/female." (Ibid). This sets up an interesting


western mate/femal e 'gaTe' and

of 'ownership'

the 'gaze' that is caste over landscape. A similar notion

appears to be in play. The ownef of the gaze belonging to the ideological

gaze is not white western male. In films most common form, this role of the active male just played out, but also heightened' Mulvey references Lacan's 'Mirror Stage' as the

human body, moment when humans first grasp notions of likeness and recognition, "the presence of the the relationship between the human form and its surroundings, the visible

vital for the person in the world" (Ibid), and ultimately forms concepts of ego, which are understanding and building of landscapes. With this in mind, Mulvey assess


as a


ones for furthering west-centric, sexist modes of identification of the self in relation to


to that As the spectator identifies with the main male protagonist, he projects his look on coincides as protagonist male of his like, his screen surrogate, so that the power of the with the active power o1 the erotic look, both giving a satisfying sense of omnipotence...the active male figure demands a three-dimensional space corresponding to that of the mirror-recognition in which the alienated subject internalized his own (Mulvey) representation of this imaginary existence. He is a figure in a landscape'" a tool to Mulvey selects specific examples of films to demonstrate this idea of cinema as the notion encode a patriarchal system. Focusing on Alfred Hitchcock films, she explores

such that male dominance is asserted by institutionalized ideas of power. In films


'Vertigo' the lead protagonist will have a 'respectable' job, (in this case a lawyer' normally followed by a policeman) instantly provoking a "process of identification processes of 'ordering' associated with ideological correctness" (Ibid). Here we see this of right (male) again being played out, not just ordering by sex, but ordering by notions (female). Although in Vertigo, the male protagonist at times veers from what

or wrong

he is still placed would be considered normal 'heroic' behavior (obsession and stalking), as a within a "symbolic ordef" (Ibid) where his actions are backed not only by his status

male, and his legal right, but by his gaze that is shared by the v

// r


a gaze that results

in a sense of ownership, in accordance with how western people view landscape (Bender 2002).

Parallels can be drawn between Mulvey's and Bourdieu's observations in regards to

'what it is to be masculine' in relation to oneself in a landscape. In Bourdieu's Berber House, the opposition of male and female is in direct correlation with the opposition of

public and privet space, and the idea that to be male/female means to have different

with landscape "Thus, the house is organized according to a set of homologous oppositions: fire: water; cooked: raw; high: low; light: shadow...male: associations

female...culture: nature" (Bourdieu 1973). The male, therefore, is afforded the right to "gaze" (Wylie 2004) upon public landscape, to be a part of public life, and to negotiate himself in this context. Whereas the female is offered a much smaller internal landscape

to navigate. Just as Mulvey observers the male protagonist in western film as a vehicle

for the representation of institutional systems that separate the sexes, the Berber House too displays this perceived divide between male and female being played out in the very fabric of humanized space. These two examples, from very different ethnographic sources, are useful for exploring gendered relationships a representation

with land, and displaying how space - be it a built environment, or

of life on a screen

- cannot be removed

from human action. The very

way people interact with land, and view it, is constructed by specific social frameworks. Therefore landscapes are "not just views, but intimate encounters" (Bender 2002). However, the conclusions I have drawn concerning gender hierarchy as a simple subject/object

- nature/culture divide are perhaps too simple.

Perhaps what should be

explored in relation to landscape are "the conditions of possibility of gazing upon landscape" (Wylie 2004). Wylie explores the idea that landscapes are in fact not cultural constructs, nor do they belong to the object or the subject. He suggests that landscape, in

fact, "adheres within processes that subtend and afford these terms" (Ibid). Wylie articulates the endless complexities that are involved with the relationship between people and landscape, and wishes to "move away from the notion that landscape may be regarded primarily as a visual representation of cultural meaning" as this acts as "a veil

symbols and significations enshrouding a physical mantle" (Ibid). As Bender suggests


humans' interaction within landscapes are part of a "negotiated process, one open to question and with potential for change". With this in mind, what Wylie seem to be suggesting is that the very accounts of the social constructions of nature acts as a

"valorization of processes of discursive construction" that tends to "reptoduce a series of hierarchical distinctions between subject and object, culture and nature, the 'material' and the 'meaningful' ". Wylie wishes to move towards,a different conceptual basis for understanding culture in relation to landscape, whibh is not rooted in cultural bias. (Wylie 2004). This leads into a whole new discussion about the very manner in which peoples

relationship to landscape should be articulated.

Bibliography Bender,

8., "Landscape


and politics" in The material culture reader by Buchli, Victor,

Bourdieu, P., "The Berber House" in Rules and Meanings : The Anthropology of Everyday Knowledge : selected readings by Douglas, Mary, penguin Educati,on, 1973 Boyne, Roy, The Art of the Body in the Discourse of Postmodernity, Mike Featherstone, Mike Hepworth, Bryan S. Turner, (editors), The Body: social process and cultural Theory, Sage Publications Limited, London, 1988

Mulvey, Laura, The Sexual Subject, A Screen Reader in Sexuality, Routledge, London, New York, 1975 Stewart, Pamela, Strathern, Andrew, Landscape, Memory and History, Anthropological Perspectives, Pluto Press, London, 2003

Tilley, Christopher, A phenomenology of landscape: places, paths, and monuments, Berg, 1994

Wyile, John, Depths and Folds: On Landscape and the Gazing Subject, University of Sheffield, Sheffield, 2004

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Lucia's Silence ln the years she spent with her husband, Lucia was - it seemed to him characterised by a silence. ln the early months he would talk to her and appreciate the little bounce back conversations she gave in return, but it wasn't to last. Lucia's bounce became crash mat absorption, his phrases would fire flat into the deadened air, heavy and syrup thick.

She had a talent for killing off his words as they faltered from his lip trembles and throat quivers, not shooting them dead down or violent crushed, but smothering them with unresponsive pillow silence lowered down on his desperate lips with a word. He longed for violence for anger he prayed for her to just slap him kick him anything to show the blood still pumped in red river arteries that there was some life at least in her. He needed that life to affirm his own and every drip drenched wetness in her soaked him to the very bones of his self confidence, doused the little sparks that he tried to light from the damp little tinderbox of his words. lf her blood was on fire then his could be too, but a damp squib he stayed in her passionless silence. He felt the responsibility of every second of it and was desperate to cry just to fill the air with his pathetic sound sobs his wailing unbridled, but he didn't for fear of having to explain it to her, or, tar worse, for fear the at she would not listen to them, would sigh deeply, turn another page and let the cries sink slow absorbed into the still and viscous rapid air stifled and suffocated.



Like Elementary School I'll hang every rejection from you on the walls of my heart, Until they collapse under the weight; And then I'll forget, And let someone else hurt me. We stuck post-its to each others' backs I never stopped.


Alice Todav

Child trapped inside a body caught mid-fall, She keeps the monsters in her head at bay - with makeshift smiles and the words of wisdom of others. Alice today laughs because she's cried enough, loves because to hate scares her, acts out all the things she dreamed of being and hopes the public eats it up, spits it out, standing O. She inspires because she is uninspired, She dances because they told her not to; Our poster girl for happy in a Picasso sort of way, Alice today. She knows it's late for regrets, yet she's plagued by lateness; Too down the rabbit hole to get up. She hurts because there's no one else to hurt, She lives because she's failed at dying, She pokes sticks in ant hills Just to watch them scatter.

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It's hard to tell which was more quickly emptied Of life - her house or her mind' No one cried' We just watched as the memories fell out ': Of n"t house, like her mind, the dying rout: loop' She mixed up names' she walked the house on One time she stared in horror at the gloop That wasn't chicken or beef, but liver A meal on wheels - and she shivered ---.. As she focused through a failing eye On the film of gravy hiding the drY Chunks with foigetful brown. Granny stared down At her granny's plut", and she saw and she frowned As the forgetful tide slid down the shore To reveal bits of mind that were there before' She stared from the cliff that the tide had cut At her mind: a moment's claritY shut


Up the doubt of her insanitY. In that awful moment of claritY She knew that for one confusing second


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A wild flower ponders in the rain, Merely dies in the frost; is ugliest When wilting, half-awoken with colour's Breath, and prettiest when dead, Between heavy books pressed. When the city bores holes in heads, Light choked thin and glowing sallow, We sink in lounge To the world, dead.

We are scholars, shoemakers; sat atop The slatted wooden deck we are sun-gods, Smiling at the mystery of tide And changing places. A solitary starling perches branchwise, She plucks the air with tiniest larynx, Skipping murmurations to give thanks For a blanket mist of uncertain rain the thickness carries her cheep ref rain. Where might fault lie - must it always lie? I do wonder, but I don't for very long:

"You-don't need a weatherman to tell you which way the wind blows."

Her book was caught between their bodies And authentically discarded, And a mild honest victo'ry was recorded later on As resuming it, she says "Where was I?" Answered by reflection.

This visual currency gained mass verbally. So much yellow ballast describing itself onto my mind latqr As I dropped into the Northern Line, affording myself the luxury,



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Well, so much time passed and was pinched and tangled up and down, And the sky outside the window, and so their skin, was grey ,i*j- Reflecting on the closeness of a rainy day. -ir-*.!.- A pale shadow, the myth came to pieces Too soon, as the clouds parted nothing's damp nothing, -:- " On Revealed to them as they lurned over.







-I,AKE Rather, from this The betrayal of the motionless vr rrvre white vYr rrLv ry,yftale vYr r(rrLr .l=EE-Oryq




Boats passing in the afternoon,

Walking broadside, Exchanging clear, motionless messages Very sharp, very precise, the word with which you refer To 'it', the 'this', yoU know what it is. ,-q, -: She one WdY, 'o**{3w*St$' _', r . hei another,, parallel. rv. v,,v, .* THE MAL{ fi We are those that fart, or piss, or Passing buildings in the night,

seeming stationary against the solidity of everything around us, Perhaps not going to the same place, but perhaps We will walk side by side for a while, not for Company, but perhaps for something else, Even if sometime we are like the others, Going their opposite ways, up or down, Or coming apart - like words, Words apart. Then, back to the start And so the water rose with the intensity of a drug acting upon itself, or like when one lingers, gesturing, like him in the dooiway, listening -



I was tired of tracing morose patterns In the grain of the battered wood of the table Where the book was laid. I wandered to the canal. The air was clear in both directions as I mounted the towpath -

Looking down, I saw ripples spread Across the surface, but from what event, The arrival of what new refuse or what Thing below breaking the surface, To what centre the growing points, I do not know.

I remember seeing After the catastrophe People thrown apart To new arrangements But to what throwaway remark I turned my eye to the window I do not remember, Or I refuse to


- But nevertheless, it propelled me





To stumble into the street on Fortess Road After the sight of you - I called to you before You turned and saw me and we spoke, And I bought you into the cafe -

But peqhaPs these things need Remember their centre, Not a singularitY, Ngw Parallel, with form, Not touching, but dissolute At the mercy of waves Bigger, persistent ripples? I remember thinking

I do not know. Would continuity, a stable Entropy of vague water Need to think back to some Unknown thing Breaking the surface?

Or as Philip would have it, "Just because two statues hold hands, Doesn't mean love is eternal." Thus he suffixed the final page of The Whitsun Weddings And that's why l-stood up, disgusted, and made for the door, Dropping a coin from my hand to the table, Hoping to make it all the way home in the iull in the .py the door, someone else was saying"So he'd go into their room at night, And he'd take a hook," And when I finished adjusting my jumper, And had tacked my bag over my strouider and swung out Into the rain, that persistent setting -

This is accurate. I think this means that it is valid. I believe in 'validity in accuracy'. I think it is to do with choice of sr:ilr rr. 'r signs. o1o1't write pogms about a rhousand vrr y^" Xll:rll?1,i:.:lT other rvt tt ttt tyatr so, if the details that present themselves for our selection count for thinss. something


But the second part of the statement eludes me.


I feel like this is the important part but I don,t really knoir what to say. If someone heckled "poetry is misery,, I wouldnt have anything accurate to say in response. But it might prove useful later, and I might thank them for the sound.

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to me. Theawfulmanwithhisterribledichotomieshad nothing new to saY !'::-*'?:.***y k.i:: +,-*,,s I thought of an expanse of smooth grey' !-:-1----' V, a Stretched taut. It ended at A V in the air, like the flocking geese On a slide, projected with the talk of something



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-:-T?:txT.:Dwelling in history. Figures of earth We reconstruct or project from traces they made, Reared up as homunculi of swathes of Words and endless words, and the ones that are alive We mummify in papers and papers even as they move For a project, a projection, and for my two pence I would rather read what I

From an expanse of smooth plain 9r€y, And I commit the pathetic fallacy To paper, but it isn't, because it really was raining And I was trying to make a point about perspectives And vanishing points and the validity of accuracy when the clouds broke, And it flooded my mind, that is mine, and is Under my hands, on a blanket In a smooth green expanse beneath A grey slate, or on a metal slide That like an echo dish I see my face in, Reflected and changed in the huge metal circle that In my childhood, I understood and didn't question.



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The image of the weather no longer works, And the clouds break into pieces, vanishing to points. I gesture, lingering, dt Ludic Trixie, who is there, With the body of a sparrow and the head of a novelist, And I lie in an enormous bed, endless in all directions, And the sheets are flawless save where I Lie, like tensed knuckles, Like a fist of many tangled sheets Disrupting the grey smoothness of the bed-clothes.




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Still & Still Moving #3  
Still & Still Moving #3  

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