My soles are gelatinous, a mixture of blood, and yoke.
Zones one to three have become a long-distance relationship.
Underground, Hades and his sardine dead
reach their eleventh hour
When did writing
become such a warm meeting place?
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