Poetry

What I Heard It is concentrated to a paste Thick enough to stick a knife in. A damp-sweet pungency you can’t help but smell. What is the smell? An experience so striking you shivered Hazy legs upon arms A high better than any other high Even after the floods

Some choice words and feelings from our Poet-in-Residence. Brace before reading...

King Shezzar's Dream They prostrate before the idol of a brass turkey Whose wings encase the city like an egg. Origami chieftains sway on their litters Carried by hunchbacked children Serving wine soaked Dodo meat crawling with ants. Gaze narrows at the crumbling multicoloured ziggurats Where the accused

I am The Martian Past the unseeable colours beyond It awaits in one pointed concentration A being separate from meaning, that is, was, and will be, and surpasses such names On the journey through the prismatic death mirrors, it recognised the fearful apparitions of the self, abandoning all linear notions