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A set of seven love letters that were pinned up around Lisbon over the summer of 2017, and then compiled into a publication

THIS is a love letter

written from a misplaced sense of

duty // lack // inspiration // calm,

an intermingled sense of guilt that seems to

overpower all other forms: existence

and its milky sweaty bile

THIS morning

I woke up, remembered how

you’d told me I was like a person from a novel, except you used a different word and it wasn't the first time I have chosen to forget ---

sometimes when I wake I want it to be

raining so I don't have to get out of bed;

describe my eyes half closed and not half open.

my sheets need washing

they are green not blue.

I think of you now at the airport;

you buy overpriced coffee

in an irate manner

even though you know

in advance

that this will happen every time you fly

are you wearing socks today

and what colour is your soul

You used to imagine a lifetime project award for

destroying all instruments

held in student bedsit hoards while we

affected languor

sipping whisky or maybe other

unidentifiable sedimented forms,

brown liquor and yet however

whatever drink the sentiment


at the time I found this cruel

and didn’t comprehend the mizzle-shinned

demise of etiquette or why it

mattered to the figures dressed in linen

but apparently you hate bonfires and

techniques for washing faces never change. THIS

is a love letter intended to incite,

excite the cells with sense of misplaced

longing for the sea, abandoned in a

rock pool somewhere analogue, unspecified and digital:

another summer by the beach.

It was/ is cold and hot and there’s a faded towel striped in white and green

wrapped loosely round your frame -- protruding skinny knees -- fingers tightly grip the shaft, 

third plastic spade you break this week and

you throw everything away

almost like you know regret will come,

and tears so many tears

but do it anyway.

That summer you got bitten

by a clam and this expiration

set its teeth so early that it’s

almost doing time.


clad supervisor snatches, cracks of glee amidst the treacle grind and bestial moans from which your lungs are made.

This weekend I lied.


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