Report from Illusions in the form of a poem.

Christelle ambigrams

David S

I tried to steal phrases from almost everyone who read and combine them. Should give a kaleidoscopic poem tangentially related to the night. As Christelle says, content has been getting really good lately. Hope you’ll submit some of that to our mag, The Bastille, which is in large part about documenting what goes on at these nights and providing an outlet for it. See here. Monday 25th’s theme is Hometown. Thanks to Sabine for the photos. Cheers all.

I sprinkle cinnamon in cemeteries
tearing my memory off
my quicksilver soul.
Smoking uranium tips,
variations on a disenchanted world
in Sancho Panza’s medicine cabinet.

Typing too fast for my words,
lucky & jittery.
Breathing into the clouds, Ana & I,
our exhale drops us to the earth like rain.
Too still to be really me.

Con, connard, connasse
Parisians’ hearts beat to the rhythm of c’est pas ma faute,
naked after mardi gras…

o object of bent and used,
keeping the shape of time spent

Uprooted trees,
panicked and spent
by time’s fingers:
fireworks of the cranium
amid middle age bureaucracies

the dead don’t write back
the hopeless hidden heartbeats of green

lions roar
slept in your bed





Tom & Pearlann

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