14 . 2 . 2020 Buy { this book } Get drunk Read { this book } Cry Write a poem inspired *heavily* by what you have just read, you’re sad and happy all at once and it is Too Much Stalk your ex on facebook, then mail { this book } and your poem to them the last address you can remember Sleep Wake up Cringe Call your ex’s mam, apologise, leave your address so she can return { this book } It Was £10, Sandra Well spent
Spray your perfume here
Or theirs, if you still have it
6 8 9 10 11
HOT
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Meghan Darby Lujan Vivas Holly Temple Kate Louise Ben Bainbridge Meghan Smith Thomas Lee Griffiths Monica Nencini Rebecca Orr Faye Hadfield Tommy Stewart George Gibson Dolores Hayes Katie Hillier Praewa B. Bulthaweenan Freya Wysocki Izzy Kroese Daisy Griffiths
OR
1
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NOT
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Claye Bowler Liam Fallon Eva Gerretsen Richard Todd Lily Kroese Stephen Millar Tay McGraa Media Naranja Natasha Loydell Brie Kimble James Ventre Joe Preston & Eleanor Haswell Rory Spencer Colin Lievens Nina Durban Clara Fetiche Editions
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27
1. i look in my inbox empty, empty what do i expect no new message yet
goodbye to all the third years good luck in your future endeavours however the departure of all the eye candy has got me spittin feathers no more skin head scallies or red head romeos no more bleach haired babes to keep me on my toes say farewell to awkward eye contact and compliments in convenors and it’s not because I like your work but cos I want your penis
Lena Leonard (a cliche love poem part I) unsustainable circumstance meant summer was forced to retire, summat to do with climate change and the head of Harry Maguire, expiry dates are well and good, but nostalgia’s merely desire, higher up than 20 stories, held hands amidst the fire i swear you really did exist, your curves they cut the haze, your silhouette rips rainbow mist, blonde bob in the malaise, days and days and days in bed, it’s love that’s got us laid, trailblazers fuck and fuck it up, passion truly pays pray to God that he exists, then i’ll ask him straight and square were we in love, or just too pissed to be so self-aware? and if these prayers were to persist, could he take me back there? where there’s eternal sun, we fucked for fun without reason or care
you haunt my most fervent dreams, a montage of your best bits, in my nightmare’s, babe it seems, you collect the tab tips, and in cold sweats my pillow case is still drenched in your scent, i pivot round to hold your hip, but your body is absent that squeal when I would tickle your ribs, does pirouettes in my mind, your teal thong and generous lips, make me feel so inclined, to close my eyes, constantly, transcend to the times, drown in your eyes, to my surprise, you’d fall into mine Lena Leonard, a love letter, is surplus to requirements, but your relay race from my loins to brain, put my gaze into retirement, if silence is a virtue, then someone shut me up, cos I’ll shout to the hills that I love you, even if i don’t make the cut.
I’m trying to forget about
this girl, but
GOD IS TESTING ME. She haunts me everywhere I go. Everytime I see it, I say, f*** sake. Velvet lounge Velvety smooth silky chocolate Velvet underground Velvet gloves Don’t you dare.
Purpose I can can swallow a goldfish in one soft gulp for luck. I can write a formal letter to the Home Office confirming my friends love each other. I can put a jumper on, then a second jumper, and a third if my biggest one isn’t in the wash before I switch the heating on. Some people don’t need to hold a grizzly bear’s hand when they walk home from work but I do and anyway, nobody should ever be alone. It’s not something to be proud of. Nobody is ever jealous of me for anything. Should I grow my hair like a weeping willow? Later, when it’s dark and windy, I’d like to sing old theme tunes and somebody will have to guess the show.
A stupid poem Eva wrote in the library Here I sit with not a mote of wit, and even though I am of a poetic bent my thoughts on poetry are not well spent, regretting my night of burning wick to wick I try to write but all I can think of is dick.
Foundations a golden shovel (after Kate Nash) How can you not love me! When I would rip the bones out of a rare fish for you… must I give you my little heart to eat and beg you to lick the plate; so I’ll cry at Christmas. In so many ways, baring my feet on mother’s tiles, while she spoons lemons for boiled water because wanting to be loved is nothing special. I’m a blatant dupe, it’s all for show, so you’ll be back, without the bitter.
Joseph Hardon and Eleanor Shagswell have collaborated on a performance piece to be exhibited simultaneously online and in situ. Hardon and Shagswell assumed their artistic alter egos; a couple who are madly in love, just newly engaged in their local Wetherspoons. The work is a comment on existential working class culture and and an international global socio economic exploration of the white British class relationship with alcohol and chips.
instructions for a sound poem a a a a a a a after after after along and and and and any as at at band band be be be become being big bit boy boy brackets but but but cause cool cool could could didn’t do end end fact feel feel flirting flirting flirting flirts flirty for for get god gone good, has have have have having how I I I I I I I I I I I I if in is is it I’ll I’m I’m just just kiss kisses like like like like like like like lines makes might might mine music my my of oh oh oh oh one or people phrase put put put put queer queer quickly quite realised recording said said show signal soc soc some something sweaty that that that that that’s that’s that’s that’s the the the the then then then then then then they thing thing think this those to to Tuesday umm umm umm up up very voice what what whenever whereas who why yeah you you your your you’re
swans utterings of love can be unbearable they can drag, cling catch everywhere when escaping from our tongues through our gritted teeth tumbling over what could have been careful but, our words are chosen now in a best attempt to be plucked and pronounced like swans i have spent a lot of time imagining beautiful destructible things this will never not feel important such as the sky will never be forgiving in its expanse or its intoxication
warmth now, and hearing the impossible music again it is everywhere, it is almost everything hidden in dormant lines of gorgeousness the thin layer of something between our skin and our clothes where feelings continue to fester, grow, soften, disappear everytime i become aware of an ending i long for another there are so many ways we hurt ourselves with being tender that we don’t even notice them anymore does it matter i want to be held, contained, but i am only interested in things bigger than boundaries like oceans and passion and all the ways we try and predict our own pain even the light has laws, even the rain can be obedient, even our bodies can survive all the subconscious blows dealt from loved hands its marvellous isn’t it.