As a living soul of the twenty-first century, if you take a glance at the opening lines of Beowulf, the Old English poem, the chances are that you won’t be able to understand it. If anything, you may perhaps recognise its famous first word, hƿæt. This is absolutely fine, I should add; Old English is an old…
We look up to her, I’ll teach you how
it works she says to the ram’s head, the birds eye
her mouth devouring snake heads
a frieze of lacemakers
intricately at work
beneath the bay’s
array of scintilla –
half six stampedes into our room
where we stretch across the kingsize,
urban sprawl nibbling at the greenbelt.
create measures to gauge the seriousness
of fragile moments
My name is June; you have to say it like ‘sex’
like it’s a pink toaster
Reheating Leftovers And there you wereletting the world know you’d betemporarily unavailableagainthinking, All I can do now iswait for the clocks to tickhalf past six because thenthe door is opened andstays open untilthe blood has been takenout of the bodiesgiven a brief stirput back in or your hate of the present brings you to the…
Beneath the light of a bashful demilune,
the water appears quite black, like blood on snow.
Tiffin clangs like bells,
collapses as it climbs,
tiffin holds okra, paneer,
sambar, and lemon rice.
The goats have come down
from the hills today.
fillets are thawing
for their pan-fried debut.
giddy with the scent
we pipette the peppermint
into the mixture