Silent Hour sits with a notebook on its lap or in front of a computer. Its pen is fine-tipped and black, its current notebook is also black and almost finished, and the computer is rather old.

Silent Hour is mostly night.

There is a window in Silent Hour’s room. A blue neon light appears from time to time across the street. It comes from a recording studio, whose owner seems to also prefer the night. Silent Hour misses the light when it’s not on.

Silent Hour is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. It reads, writes, watches.

It is thread wrapped around a spinning wheel.

It howls with the wolves with whom it wants to be.

Silent Hour is me.


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Basilike Pappa, As Rain Inside The Brain

Proud to be on Dodging The Rain today. Thank you, Neil Slevin!

DODGING THE RAIN

MELINDA’S LONG SCARF SYNDROME

Melinda stores memories inside chickens – uncaring birds.
Buys groceries.
Eats. Cleans. Makes a cup of tea.
Sitting by her window she knits long scarves. Hobbies are a good thing.
It all feels like calling home and speaking in a foreign accent, or like a strange cat sitting on her armchair.

Melinda used to have her rooms full of nightingales. Sometimes she flashed them at people. Well, she is only human.
But counting nightingales before they sing all their songs is a cheater.

It comes as a missed train, as rain inside the brain; as unequal exchange, torn page, minimum wage. It comes as derealization, depersonalization, as minding the gap but still getting your foot stuck in it; as varicose vein, chest pain, not so sweet martha lorraine. It comes as blue, to paint blue the heart; as human factor, x-factor, max factor. It comes as…

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Bee Jams – Jimmi Campkin

I must. I love it.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

Sitting uneasily on the remains of an old washer-dryer, I look up to the sky and toast the world.  At my feet, dead yellow grass paws pathetically at my shoes.  I light another cigarette and blow smoke into the day.  It is nice to feel involved in some small way with this wider conscious, even if their habituality leaves me feeling isolated and pointless.  

This old washer is hollow now; just four flimsy pieces of metal with the innards long since ripped out.  To my immediate right, a pair of sneakers hang in the thin air of this syphilitic town.  The Boy had finally reached his crescendo, despite our best efforts.  Even now I didn’t dare look up at the floating, lifeless body looking down on me.  Rarely did he gain the upper hand, but here we are – The Boy swinging from a tree and me left to explain…

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My poemword in Sonic Boom

Sonic Boom is a literary and arts journal that publishes experimental poetry, flash fiction, visual art and Japanese short forms of poetry.  I am very happy my first poemword ever is included in their Paper Lanterns section for Issue 15.

You can read it  here

And do check out the rest of the poets in the issue — they do wonders with words.

Take my heart into deep water – Basilike Pappa

On Free Verse Revolution again. Love, grill restaurants and deep waters.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

You’d think it would be the fragrance of flowers, the symbolism of doves, or the euphoriaof spice, but it wasa grill restaurant that made me think of us this morning as I was waiting to cross the street. There was nothing special about it except for the hen that proudly posed as its emblem, presenting the world with a platter of roasted chicken. ‘Here is someone who would offer themselves to be eaten,’ I thought. And then I imagined myself being eaten by you. My body torn by your teeth, my blood dripping from your chin, streaming down the marble falls of your flesh. 

Last night the air in my room had been heavy with the carnal scent of our new knowledge. You fell asleep in my bed. But sleep wouldn’t come to me; it stayed away from my clenched teeth. Behind my closed eyelids, tails and scales…

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