In this edition, we have a truly eclectic selection of poems from Greta Bellamacina and Lex Avis. Enjoy!


Your torso
Undream thy
Dissolve day crashing lips
Knocking-Buds, unborn.
To be great is to be unknown
To know neither leaf nor tree.
Child less bigger, mind less grown.
Arms, a mystical guest
To an unshy bed-rest. Love text. Love tweet (is this love)
Repost, reword. Erase. Capital letter, and, but.
Night host’s a silence.
Fears blow, bites
And is gone under thy wheel. So I cycle
Your tone till dawn,
Slotting star wise, I accept.
Wire my head to your helium pray.
I kneel, you kneel.
No level is deep enough.
Owl wise, beyond breathing
Any skies, dig me
Kiss me, unbe only
Thy friend.

Greta Bellamacina

Poetry London Summer 2013


It’s late; or perhaps I should claim the primitivism
of the morning, the summer musk overhung by the stale
heady rush of opium and cinnamon and
sandalwood, which rises in hoary whorls to paint the peeling paint
and stain black clay fingertips that cup the dregs.
I could splay the hearts of those who’ve slivered mine;
Feast on lips tainted by my paints; withered by my gorging,
My gluttony for tar smashed tongues; bent back into corners
And glutting to the veins and tweaks and tasting sex like cigarettes.
All the satin berry fallacies and falcate claws-
The echo of a handprint by the tiles.
Skin scraping denim scraping skin-
a muscle-twist and noiseless
bone-grind echo in the dark.
crash to the inevitable,
hints of fruit and paintlessness,
infused with smokeless lizards;
invisible fingerprints on a naked canvas.
A yellow belch.
Plastic swingin’. Red-ribbon spewing and
Kissing-salt grain-grinding ruby-slippered-lips.
Smoke-in-a-vase, tremble-limbed and skipping heartbeats
in a kiss.
I shall not succumb
to his charming charmless ways.
Oh, but I’ll yield again,
just as soon as his obtuse unsubtle subtleties burst hence.
Since then, I’ve learned I have no head for flatteries.

Lex Avis


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