Retourner

Hello! I am so sorry for being horrendously absent over the past two months, but my final uni exams are over and the crazy post-exam celebrations are winding down so I can finally be active here again!

As always, please send me your DLR suggestions via a note, more info on that here: DLR Swing Admin

Also, here are a few pics from May Week (which is in June, typical Cambridge) which is basically a week of crazy ott parties that go on till 5 am and include things like comedians, musicians, hot air balloons, dodgems, a lot of food, a lot of alcohol and very sore feet - I went to two May Balls and two June Events this week and am now terrifically tired and also still star-struck haha



Peace out for now, but first a few of my favourite writings I somehow managed to read between the revision and the drinking
the warrior supplicatesburn
the rest
of me
but spare
my
skull.
cake it
with jewels.
soak it
in dyes,
pour water from it
onto withered greens.
glue candles to the
inside with their own wax,
make it a bowl
for things
too easily
lost. biopsyhe works rhythmically
over the still girl on the table.
the surgeon’s incisions are steady,
practiced
as scalpel hews flesh from hip to hip
and near-tender, his hands and wrists
were it not for all the blood –
she wakes in fluorescence from
half-slumber
to the flutter of a phantom limb,
some precious unnamed thing
shorn from her
and discarded.
the amputation is final.
she often counts backwards
from ten, awaiting anesthesia
that does not come. l'amour a distancewe love like vagrants,
ours a truck stop romance,
ours all the vagaries of
runaway time:
us a roadside motel,
us a highway map,
us a crumpled collection
of interstate lines.
ours a vagabondish worship
of the distances we drive.
and all the violence of longing,
is that yours or is it mine?
and the vacancies in my body,
are they yours
or are they mine? on roadkillyou ask about the lost angels,
something about the way a bird falls when broken.
you ask if there's a heaven for the hounds.
you've seen them, you say. the mouths. how they lick
the bones clean, lips smacking though they may be.
and of course there’s no need for leftovers; yesterday the boys
came and stripped bare what they wanted.
but it’s not always a feast, you say. sometimes they come
in the night and there’s not enough food. sometimes the flock
devours itself from the inside out. paratacticnever been quiet as embers,
i murmur even when night sits
still in its casket.
clutch me like tacit turns of speech,
absent enunciations resound in my skull
for days.
cursed you for phasing me, drew this beachfront
full of lines. parallel shines
are the most traced.
never keep chirals. their tender
burns easily through righteousness,
will, and sanskrit. to walk through gloamingthis is the treasure we seek:
wings out of tune with the world
& names to be swallowed like berries,
dark forest stains on the fingers.
oh to have forest stains on these fingers
this is the treasure we hold:
the forest has always been here.
~
and here, i was a weary wanderer
and my fire held no magic, we were no wild things, we watched
as the silence picked up our broken pieces to examine
our weakness, as we could not break it in return,
wisdom in vain.


in whispers,
i run back and take
all that is left and i believe in the magic
that always warmed my skin

now, i keep a jar of ashes.
and here, let me place it
gently next to your pillow, a touch and a whisper,
a gift for good dreams. i still remember
the should have been beauty and the beauty that was.
and now, sometimes,
i am a robin.
(as wild as the city lets anything be,
not fearing fences, not finding the open sky
but baptised by the moon between pines.)<da:thumb id="600712118"/> MarsfallMars always falls.
Carry a day, play a part;
All hands add laws,
And all ways shall part -
Sharply.
What a man calls a fact
Falls apart, gladly
Mars always falls;
What man calls art
Shall stand – as parts.