bits of Monday 26th

Report by David.

Eyelids like wet towels
Wax melting on the skull vault;
a purring razor.

Shane reading from Word Legs: 30 Irish poets under 30
Downloadable ebook for next to nothing here:

Always carry the disease with you – may you never get well!
Songs about drowning
A letter from Henry James: Don’t melt too much; Content yourself with the terrible algebra of your own problems.

Marie Baby & Light Leaks previewed their concert Thursday 5th April

Mandoline: the great clock of your life is slowing down, 
and the small clocks are running wild..
Ian collapsed raindrops.
Merve from SpokenWord Istanbul:

by Pablo Sotinel

The sound your sheets make
as you shift in your sleep
remind me of waves against
the body of a ship.
You are keeping me awake, and I hate you for that
And yes, I am blaming you
Not the lack of alcohol or of orgasm
(which, are also kind of your fault anyway)
But your heat, your barely audible snoring and moaning.
I hope to God you’re having that nightmare about Chewbacca that you told me about.
Above me, a mosquito flies in and out of earshot
The fucker’s already bitten me twice, on my left big toe, and my right eyelid. I had no idea there was place in insects’ brain for cruelty.
I wonder what would happen if I tried to kick you out of my bed at this very moment.
Would you be terrified by my insults, and run down, wearing only one shoe and clutching to your crotch the few clothes you managed to grab on your way out, crouching, lost and ashamed?
Would you tell me to just go back to sleep, knowing I couldn’t push you off with all of my strength?
Would you even wake up?
I’m stung for a third time, right inside my belly button. Is there such a thing as mosquitoes with eating disorders? Maybe it’s throwing up all my blood somewhere in my bedroom. I hope it’s on your face, and it’s this kind of thought that makes me realize: I need. To go. To sleep.
When I wake up, you’re already gone to work, as we had talked about. Inside my pillowcase, the perf
ect shape of your face is carved, ephemerally preserved.

Lucile’s zine launch:

Béa reads a letter from Henry James

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