Akademicheskaya Metro Station Sixty-four meters underground: vaulted ceilings whiter than eggshells, chrome shinier than any American diner. Pride of Lenin, who, mummified, did not see it open but extolled its nominal achievement by plaque five meters tall. On the escalator, my hand in a grey fingerless glove finds yours. A second couple kiss…
bathroom bucolic a pupil, dollop of toothpaste pink blue yellow cotton balls in the static light a gracious not swarming not fermenting pale May Ottavia Silvestri is a political science student that lives in Milan, Italy. In her free time she studies Mandarin and volunteers in a tiny cat shelter (hi Melinda, you’re my favourite…
In the Turkish supermarket, you search through baby peaches and it makes me feel closer to you.
Carnivorous Butterwort A pale-purple tint – a sort of violet of little petals attracting flies, ants in fresh beeches shading the zigzag trail with glossy moss. The floral colour implies saintly piety to God or deities at which an insect could quail in the East. Ecru moths cruise and scurry. Near Acheron just a halt….
It is June and the foxgloves are in bloom.
In two days it shall be my birthday.
words pass overhead
spoken broken in dialogue slang where South
is said “SOUF”
We sing the songs filled with sadness,
Songs with lyrics written in silence
any blotched greenery has
the potential to burst
forth into flower.
braid me yes plait me
no plate me
don’t make me
On the riverbank. In the corridor. In the
laugh ache. In the small hours. On the
station platform. In the stomach churn
on the way home.
I ask my body ‘what is life?’ it says ‘dance’
because dance is a way the body finds liberation
through lyrics, solace in songs, an overeager mosaic
of marinated moments & coralled colours colliding.
make it prescient like fried curly hair
and bold image
warhol-bright so your eyes explode
in a glimpse of ba-ba-boom