essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
The air is suddenly sweet-smoked and humming,
and I’m back in the incense-wreathed
Lanes of 90s Brighton
They have agreed that this is an emergency. Signs need not be heeded in an emergency, they’re quite sure.
The plane goes to the gym every morning
before work and holds that plank.
Now I’m a chrysalis,
neither caterpillar boy
nor butterfly man.
Fried dough dishes are a universal constant.
The colour revealed itself like crab meat
only a wound, something to lick clean
From Prince Harry’s TMI memoir to Barbara Kingslover’s Appalachian bildungsroman, the team at Porridge share their favourite novels and non-fiction reads of 2023.
I imagined the horse bolting so it did,
skidded along the canyon’s edge while I watched.
There
cars are white,
the sun is not for bathing under.
She would never allow a condiment
without a saucer or a spoon,
tea without a pot,
a pop sock and skirt.
She travels the world, storms the Venice Biennale, exhibits at the Guggenheim, Tate, Pompidou – you name it, parties with the grimy glitterati in LA, Madrid, São Paulo, breaks a Sotheby’s sale record and dazzles the fawning curators and collectors at every chandeliered benefit dinner.
I covered my eyes and my
tears tasted of metal.
