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"The Quiet Fizz Of Slow Joys", "The language of an asylum is a misunderstood fracture" & "Whatever You Thought" by Christian Ward

The Quiet Fizz Of Slow Joys

Grief is not downing another glass

of prosecco while the moonlight

excavates the quarry of a night sky.

Perhaps it's the cold hugging 

your hand while you struggle 

with the weight of something 

strong enough to crush a bottle 

caught in the temporary boundary 

between his hand on yours, 

and the rain muting your cries

as you remember how your shadows 

shoaled together, fizzing in joy.


The language of an asylum is a misunderstood fracture

The past is a rabbit

caught, head first, in a razor 

wire fence. The future 

is a bird of prey gleefully 

feasting on this opportune

moment, while the present 

is a harvest mouse

watching from the hushed

stage of wild grass,

knowing the act is over

and nothing can rewrite it. 


Whatever You Thought

Tea cooling on the windowsill 

forms your memory – the steam 

forming a mute outline 

of your body, complete with kinks

and imperfections unnoticeable 

to the immediate eye. It sinks

to your favourite spot on the sofa,

perfectly aligned to capture the sun

like a cat conspiring after territory.

Little has changed. The plants 

notice your absence, fanning out

their leaves to freely be themselves.

The curtains ruffle in unseen dances.

Whatever you brought shuffled away 

to the corners, lost itself among the dust

making plans for next year, got tangled 

in cobwebs, and dreamt of an empire

no-one cared about. 

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