just ordered a copy of SALT magazine because it combines art, poetry and literature with extremely well articulated gender analysis, which is absolutely amazing and perfect. support this south london zine venture now by getting one for yourself at http://saltmagazine.bigcartel.com/.
the heat leaves a shadow that melts into my skin. I don’t care about my face anymore. I don’t dream. I ignore things that shine gold-like in the distance. summer has dust in his eyes and a tongue that licks my body dry. immersed in sound and vision, I imagine staying forever. when I close my eyes I see shoals of colours approaching, electric threads in the sky.
ropes of light across her body, changing, breaking. a floating mark. squares of blue above, like a glimpse that lasts and turns you, folds you inside until there’s no lowered sounds or passing time. the sky thickens into oily rivers and slowly overflows. she looks through black patterns of blue.
quirky romance clichés in courier new or handwriting seems to be the latest example of people’s brains behaving less like central nervous systems and more like fruit or blocks of concrete.
a lack of taste or skill or ability. a constant lack of money. no ambition or layers of self-imposed performance anxiety under which she sleeps for days. the lack of text, texts, texture. watch others watch yourself watch them. she stares at blank papers until fractures appear. a lack. lcak. I swallow it whole.
a row of houses with yellow mouths and gleaming teeth inside. light like fluid that holds and protects. inside, I could
do all those things.
a room of my own with books along the walls and calls that cut through the night. I decide, get up, follow through. I turn to you and I scream for the sake of reactions. there’s nothing else. just snakes of ink in the bath and deep blue colours outside. I move through it, looking in.