Tag Archives: Eleanor Perry

Alfheim: Movement and Light 2/4 The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

10 Jul

nine realms8

The Nine Realms

9 months, 19 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

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Alfheim

(the realm of the Elves)

Featuring:

Tom Murphy and Eleanor Perry

 

Alfheim

by Tom Murphy

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inside the fence
I know you as I walk towards me
seeing everything through your eye
I see it on my face
as you step into the firelight
we smile the same smile
as you look at me
and see the toll you’ve still to pay
you see the sons we will sire
the daughter we lost
the eye you have yet to lose

in my pocket
I have the apple I will offer you
before you offer yourself
the ninth knot

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washrag nouns

by Eleanor Perry

Snipped washrag

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Find out more about Tom and Eleanor here:

Tom Murphy

https://twitter.com/sandcave

 

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

 

As always, thank you for your interest.

 

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Midgard: Survival and Destruction 1/4 The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

11 Jun

nine realms8

The Nine Realms

9 months, 19 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

.

Midgard

(the realm of the people)

Featuring:

Ross Beattie, Eleanor Perry

and Jim C. Mackintosh

 

 

Midgard

by Ross Beattie

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I wait for your arrival at the end of it all.
Come poison all that remains. 
It has been written that life can begin again, from the two hidden in the darkness. 
I don’t want this to be true, I want there to be silence, I want this to end. 
No more reminders, no more memories. Just perfect peace, how I dreamed it would be. 
If life restarts then we will only truly be faced again with the inevitable fate, the only thing that’s ever mattered. 
Finality,
Infinite,
Silence.

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MP3 to come

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after ganglia

by Eleanor Perry

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after ganglia 2

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Terra Nullius

by Jim C. Mackintosh

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crimson red flowers, thousands
a spreading bleed of them
a hole in the rot of humanity
at odds with the bastard landscape
in which they flourish – terra nullius
the jarring sharp edged midden
of blistered tangle and rusted life
that is not death but hope abandoned
to exist in its own unravel of nothing
where to survive is to be invisible
to those who cannot be seen,
who exist and cultivate the till
of the cinder, dust and bones /
the discard of mankind too busy
to notice the struggle of the weak
shaken to their core by the rumble
of Gods and Snobs passing by
sucking the juice from the earth
preening their way to the bridge
caring not a breath for the unseen
‘nothing but rubbish, poisonous
and pointless’
to be ignored by all
the important pilgrims queued
to cross the rainbow, tossing a penny
or a scrap until the dawn of horizons
when the path quietly, softly narrows
when the invisible become the visible
and the road to the bridge
becomes the landscape
and the bridge becomes the rainbow
it’s foundations bound to the stalks
of millions of crimson red flowers
visible from all the corners
of the nine realms shining

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Find out more about Ross, Eleanor and Jim here:

Ross Beattie

blackpoemblues.weebly.com

https://twitter.com/blackpoemblues

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

Jim C. Mackintosh

http://jimcmackintosh.bandcamp.com

https://twitter.com/JimCMackintosh

 

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As always, thank you for your interest.

 

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Muspelheim: Sparks and Flames 2/4 The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

20 May

nine realms8

The Nine Realms

9 months, 23 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

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 Muspelheim

(the realm of fire)

Featuring:

Eleanor Perry, Jim C. Mackintosh

and Nat Hall

 

 

Capture Concept of thickness

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Under the Damage Tree

by Jim Mackintosh

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what is this brooding shape
fire licking across my vision
I smell it in the ice : shimmering tongues

in the destroyer’s raging silhouette
whose leaping flames freeze to the sky
in the impassable surrender to fire

a frozen corpse under the damage tree
cracked by the kiss of Surtr’s shine
his shadow bleeding over the moon

too late to stop the sway of travellers
mirrored in the crunch of brittle death
jammed to the parapet of Bitfrost

time straining against the reins
burning the days to come
quickening the battle’s build

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Fiery Us

by Nat Hall

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Look at the eye of the dragon.

Emerald
shining inside night,
from neck to
crown,
leaping red,
scalding scales 
lost inside orange,
in between
flames
and
Valhalla;
out of
earth’s plume,
world’s underworld, 
where lava flows,
fire giants,
fire demons
obey the land & their master,
the arsonist,
maker of sparks,
glow, ash-filled  sky –
the one
a seer
saw in a dream or
a nightmare.
Now lay your shield down
with your axe,
stand at the 
edge of
the
ocean,
your sheepskin
boots tied inside kelp,
and mind
the 
eye
of 
the
dragon.

© Nat Hall 2015 

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Find out more about Eleanor, Jim and Nat here:

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

Jim C. Mackintosh

bigbaffy.com

https://twitter.com/JimCMackintosh

Nat Hall

nordicblackbird.weebly.com

 https://twitter.com/nordicblackbird

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As always, thank you for your interest.

 

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Helheim: ‘Death & Hollows’ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

23 Apr

nine realms8

The Nine Realms

9 months, 23 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Helheim (The Realm through which men must pass to reach Nifelheim)

Featuring:

Eleanor Perry, James Knight and Tom Murphy

 

6.

whip shrug figurations

by Eleanor Perry

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we dig grisly at the slagheap ridge | where stark
proteins broke in the ash | there are high-voltage
moths and tumours in the masonry | brash ga-ga-
ganglia lolling in twists and graphs | and that tweed
squirm in the kitchen, darting and novelizing, all
sleaze and gravel shudder | we need to wake up
next to the aluminium industry | pull hungry and
hip reckless | our hardboard tetrahedral gods –
bright and shining with their clerical safeguards |
this is rock-n-surf | there are no other meat splinters
in the fissuring hour of the liver | and I have put the
whole galaxy into spilth and multicode | these back-
lands full of weird mimiviruses frothing in the gaps |
high-balling in the green of telemarketing | where I
quietly slang viridians

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Hel

by James Knight

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Switch on
Switch off

Silvered faces
Inside the mirror

Do come in
Make yourself at home

WTF! I can’t see a thing
Only my face
I look like a fucking weirdo
What’s going on with my eyes?

Switch on
Switch off

Fold yourself up, put yourself in my hand
Wait

Switch on
Switch off

It’s simply not true to claim that we’re the party of privilege
We stand for honest, decent, hard-working

Switch on
Switch off

Drive more website traffic
In fact, our data shows that using a
Drives 43% more engagement

Silvered faces
At home

My eyes

Put yourself in my hand

Switch on
Switch off
Switch on
Switch

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Part 6

Helheim

by Tom Murphy

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the creepy motherfucker never unchancy
reeled and hollered
as I removed the breath from his throat

snow crunched and swirled
I crunched and swirled
he grew cooler

there was a boast
an insult or two
breaths he should have kept to himself

blood was spilled of course
coursing unbound
feezing on the ground

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Find out more about Eleanor, James and Tom here:

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

James Knight

thebirdking.com

https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

 Tom Murphy

https://twitter.com/sandcave

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As always, thank you for your interest.

 

The Nine Realms Indiegogo Campaign:

http://igg.me/at/the9realms

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Nidavellir: ‘ Darkness and Gold’ 3/4′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

11 Mar

nine realms8

The Nine Realms

9 months, 19 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 musicians, 1 Viking boat : a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Nidavellir (The Realm of the Dwarves)

Featuring:

Eleanor Perry,  Lenka Monk and James Knight

 

4.
paste nuptial

by Eleanor Perry

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in bird circles, empty is called miracle |
buttonholes are swallowed in the form
of letters | shiver gneiss, black fatted
in the vein | both moon and human | but
this is where you wrap your bright bones
in seaweed | and grieve upwards from
the huckles | gathered in a silt of listless

elegy | where austerity is called vessel |
and the glum dead are not bored of their
telephones |but what tender spokes do
not grow bleach-soft under muck and error,
remembering their habit of upright cups |
each giant corpse is an instant body of water

and it’s not important that we drink tizer
chasers| or that the sun is called shard
in these lipscuffed, dainty wastes of time;
in the barren pulse of teeth | weather is
always the best exit, assuming you have
come loose, or are strung out over the
fallen drift worrying about your own call
habits.

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Bottled 

by Lenka Monk

(Inspired by story of Dvalin, his brothers and Freyja)

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The first sip a fleeting glance.
And the thirst grows with every look, every taste.
Unyielding temptations inviting, invading.
Screaming, tearing, and gnawing the insides.

No one is immune under the influence.
The sips so quickly become gulps.
And there it is! The grinning luring want.
It seduces, yearns the possession of something
Just out of reach.

Yet, so tantalisingly close.
Already nestled around the heart.
Whatever happened to boundaries?
There are none.
In that moment they dissolved in the bottle of greed.

So drink it all without a backwards glance,
Until only emptiness stares back.
The glass shatters, spills out and floods.
Drains the senses,
Burns through layers of dignity.

Shame stained dawn crawls into hiding.
Although the want is purring, satisfied for a while.
It binds its time, till its next venture,
leaving the broken pieces embedded more deeply than before.

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The Dwarfs

by James Knight

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Larval coils In wet earth Awaiting spring
Time’s tectonic pulse
The mourners wore bird masks And cackled as the coffin was lowered
A troubling thought A gleam In the darkness
Best not to think about it
Hahaha yes I suppose you’re right they do look a bit like maggots especially that one haha it’s a funny old world isn’t it
Croaking Crow King Dancing in your blood

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MP3 to come

 

 You can read the overview of Nidavellir hereand read some Jotunheim poems here

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Find out more about Eleanor, Lenka and James:

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

Lenka Monk

Contact ArtiPeeps. 

James Knight

thebirdking.com

 https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

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As always, thank you for your interest.

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Jotunheim: ‘ Strength & Might’ 2/3′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

5 Feb

World Tree Norse

The Nine Realms

9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of  Jotunheim

Featuring:

Jim C. Mackintosh, Eleanor Perry,  Nat Hall

and Lenka Monk

 

The Bauble

by Jim C. Mackintosh

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To know the knowing’s beyond now
Deeds not thought and words yet spoken,
What price to sooth the furrowed brow?
Of vows past, and bargains broken;
Reminders fused on blunt shoulders
Guarding wisdom’s depths with boulders 
Of questions, tricks and consequence
To trap the fears of men; not God sense
The cowardly grasp of fickle fate
Vague shadows of futures cast
Trusting elements of the past
Diamond sighted hostages late
Amongst the debris of battles torn
From the victor’s off-spring never born.
 
Mimir, knower of things beyond
By root, where the Well ripples deep,
Waiting for the one mortal bond
To take the cup from his keep
And face the consequence of debt
Sacrificed, drowned with no regret;
No vane hope of being restored
By the weeping sorrows, ignored
In the tilt of trees, ravens taunt
The backs of cowards departing,
Past the rock-giants mocking;
Whilst beyond the sunless haunt
The wanderer approaches still
Planning with determined will –
 
To stand at the foot hills of Mimir;
A Well of Wisdom in that place
Mortality beyond fate or fear
Engraved across sage Odin’s face,
Led by hunger to know or die
Fierce is the will to give an eye,
To gain the sight beyond the stars
Caring not of pain or mortal scars
Free from cheap vanity’s distracts –
‘Will you drink at the gouging bleed?’
Bauble sunk, Odin quaffs the seed;
Absolutes swim in pure extracts.
No fear by look in one eyed stare
Battles planned in vision’s glare.

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3.

gift teeth

by Eleanor Perry

some frame-works
go to the dogs ] and
I’ll let them, since
I know thefts ] and flush:
strands, leeches ] New
York Times gummed to
bitten gold

in winter bloat ] coastal
flank drifts ships in thick
tonnage streams ] the
godly soak, the aluminium
rails ] I am a department ]
just like the sun all burnt
to glass ] plugged into

thinner swelling glints ] gore-
bent in rehab ] and I’ve
learned that all roads lead
to multi-management ] and
many of us are not happy in
the black ] leeches deep
within the bones

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MP3 to come

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Legend

by Nat Hall

Recall the dream.

Inside his
eyes, blue starry
night.

He,
primeval,
born of venom,
fire & ice,
icy rivers from
grassless void to the abyss,
fed from the milk of
Auðhumla,
hermaphroditic
without
doubt,
is a
giant
without limits –
power of life well beyond death:
let him bear Earth inside
his flesh,
sea
from
his sweat,
mountains from bones,
trees from his hair,
sky from his
skull –
such
atmospheric grey
matter,
now let gods
sculpt clouds from his
brain, a home for
men from his
eyebrows.
And
if
the
sun was not
enough,
In the name of ice,
icicles, cold
hellery,
hail,
gales and storms,
bow to each
stone in
the
cosmos.

© Nat Hall 2015

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Ymir

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Locksmith

by Lenka Monk

(Inspired by a story of Menglöð & Svipdagr)

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I know the true meaning of wait and miss.
When no kind of magic can bridge the abyss.
When every second feels like an age,
When someone else holds a key to my cage.

The memories they torture, they burn
The yearning increases with every step, every turn.
The thoughts of you sharper than a razor blade
No wheels of time can ever make them fade.

You may be gone, but your steps still echo in the hall.
The scent of you still clings to every fabric, every wall.
The images so colourful, so vivid in my mind,
To where our bodies still lay, forever entwined.

That was the last time I saw something that made me feel.
That was the last time I heard something that was still real.
That was the last time I spoke of no upheaval.
Now without you, all I see, hear or speak seems evil.

I linger here barely alive on this frozen dais,
Life’s thievery without remorse and its wicked ways.
I count my heartbeats for you, no matter the pain.
I know you’ll come back to me…yours I remain.

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You can read the overview of Jotenheim  here , and read some Vanaheim poems here

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Find out more about Jim, Eleanor, Nat and Lenka:

Jim C. Mackintosh

bigbaffy.com

https://twitter.com/JimCMackintosh

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

Nat Hall

nordicblackbird.weebly.com

https://twitter.com/nordicblackbird

Lenka Monk

Contact ArtiPeeps

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As always, thank you for your interest.

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Vanaheim: ‘ Magic & Wonder’ 2/4′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

5 Jan

World Tree Norse

The Nine Realms

9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Vanaheim

Featuring:

Richard Biddle, Shirley Golden, Eleanor Perry

and Tom Murphy

 

Mjölnir*

by Richard Biddle

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I’m Blackjack, the splintering demon
I’m Crumble-Crunch, the shattering spirit
I’m Master-Batterer, the god spike
I’m The Convincer

I’m Bludgeon, the thump engine
I’m Bear-Down, the clobber bomb
I’m Nightstick, the pulveriser
I’m The Divine Beater

I’m Conk-Buster, the thrash contraption
I’m Fragmentize, the king of knock
I’m Quarterstaff, the wallop machine
I’m The Creator-Of-Dust

I’m Lord Cudgel, the blunt
I’m Boomerang, the whomper
I’m Father Pummel, the bang shape
I’m The Almighty Contraption

I’m Billy Battle, the whack gadget
I’m Cosh, the form persuader
I’m Finish-The-Job, the power pestle
I’m The Appliance-Of-Pain

I’m Hickory Wallop, the trouncing baton
I’m Break-Up, the holy apparatus
I’m Crush, the truncheon of defeat
I’m The Deity Mace

I’m Smash Being, the hammerer of all
I’m Gizmo Hit, the machine of strike
I’m Pounding Device, the fashioner of atoms
I’m The Demigod of Battering-Rams

I’m Tap-Tap-Tap, the all-knowing utensil
I’m Murder Mallet, the totem of kill
I’m Head Swatter, the staff of non-compliance
I’m The Absolute Club

I’m Drive-It-Home, the homicidal implementing machine
I’m Whatchamacallit, the idol of heavy
I’m Prime Mover, the omnipotent weapon of means
I’m Total Annihilation

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*Mjölnir is usually interpreted as meaning “That which smashes”, derived from the verb mölva “To smash” (cognate with English meal, mill); comparable derivations from the same root meaning “hammer” are Slavic molot and Latin malleus (whence English mallet).

An alternative suggestion compares the name to Russian молния (molniya) and the Welsh word mellt, both words are taken as meaning “lightning”. This second theory would make Mjölnir the weapon of the storm god identified with lightning, as in the lightning-bolt or vajra in other Indo-European mythologies.[4]

In the Old Norse texts, Mjölnir is identified as hamarr “a hammer”, a word that in Old Norse and some modern Norwegian dialects can mean “hammer” as well as “stone, rock, cliff”, ultimately derived from an Indo-European word for “stone, stone tool”, h₂éḱmō; as such it is cognate with Sanskrit aśman, meaning “stone, rock, stone tool; hammer” as well as “thunderbolt”.[5]

Mjøl in modern Norwegian (nynorsk) literally means “flour” or “powder”, so “Mjølner” (Norwegian spelling) can mean “Pulverizer” or “Grinder”.

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The Music-Speak of Kvasir

by Shirley Golden

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Born of Aesir and Vanir’s mouth-juices and truces, I am fashioned into this bone-cage, but no clothes quite fit. I’m sought far and wide, and I close my eyes and bear all burdens. I ponder predicaments, but only ever suggest and guide. For who am I to command another the best track to tread?

 The dwarfs invite me to their feast, and I accept in good faith. I sit at their tables of hammered gold. They mutter and lead me away from the merriment. They stab at my chest and heart; they collect three flagons of battle-sweat. They seal snug my mind-insight and take care not to brag of their prize. They stir in honey and make mead, creamy with music-speak, and they are so pleased with their hidden hoard. But such covetous pleasure is only ever short lived.

Now the giant, Suttung, keeps me, and his daughter, Gunnod, guards me. But she is seduced by Odin, and surrenders her secret stash. The wish-giver draws me into his food-cavern. And we take to the skies, soaring as an eagle over the mountains, and on to Asgard. Odin dives behind the stone-shield, but in his haste, a piece of me is expelled. He distributes my remains into assembled crocks.

The gods, aware of the spillage, deem it unworthy of retrieval: ‘the bad poets’ portion’ has no place in their realm. They discount the droplets as easily as a sprig of mistletoe, newly unfurled. They do not fret over the fate of the waste; for who would be foolish enough to use only the ill-conceived, unconsidered parts? But I yearn to draw the leakage back to my liquid heart.

It spreads, and stains, drips and trickles, flows and floods. With each age, it slops unchecked as ink spilled over page, print and screen. It streams into the lungs of new technologies where it is read, absorbed, given questionable gravitas. It seeps into the ether as dashed out titbits of text, words freely uploaded, dregs and haste; speak best not saved. The parts best served for poets’ growth. The parts best kept on the other side of the wall.

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2.

slick theory

by Eleanor Perry

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wolfhusks mock the pines the
scaly parts ] scrape out their
grit and jewel ] and bleached
thread is all that the mineral
will sing tricks for ] still the
quotas of star and stone are
only known in metrics ] or in
shrines.

they calculate the skin ] more
wolves and axes ] needles: this,
the latest speculation in reeling
particles ] til song or something
shudders from the pile ] to print
the value of each question ] oh
but there was so much heart
though

in the margins ] clay blue shells
worn and crashed like rubble
] in a lottery of constellation ]
wow, just look at how the carbon
scares ] plucked shimmering
from the balance sheet ] the
rockery ] to still the heart ] but
then, the heart is awkward.

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MP3 to come

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Vanaheim

by Tom Murphy

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inside the fence
as I hang
I remember I am my own little ghost

there is the wound
stitched up for now

there is the flagstone
beneath which lies molten rock
thick and limitless and orange

then there is the small empty thing
formless and light
and when certain words are spoken
I cough it up
but it leaves behind its emptiness
and the emptiness is a tiny speck of infinite burden
containing time and all the feelings of lost
as a reminder

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You can read the overview of Vanaheim here , and see some Asgard poems here

.

Find out more about Richard, Shirley, Eleanor and Tom:

Richard Biddle

writings43.blogspot.co.uk

https://twitter.com/littledeaths68

Shirley Golden

shirleygolden.net

https://twitter.com/shirl1001

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

Tom Murphy

https://twitter.com/sandcave

 

As always, thank you for your interest.

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