top of page

"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. 

3 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

"Her" "Y or N?" "The Tale of the Bottle" by Claudia Wysocky

“Her” All these lines. All these words. All these thoughts, scribbled across paper for a girl I do not see. (Not know.) Scribbled in ink, staining the paper. Staining my soul. …But she is— …she is bea

“A head full of flames” By gabriel victor deibel

“A head full of flames” A spell of rain Wash the smoke rings from my brain I hope, I know Let the floodgates overflow Through my veins What remains? Of dust and ash 'lectric wires, broken glass Concre

Comments


bottom of page