1: Clara Atkinson
1: Billy Lucas
1: Jessie Palmer
1: Meredith Kenton
Dear my closest and most valued companion,
I have been thinking a lot about energy.
About words that are thrown and the ripples than run out from them, teasing passers by with the unpromisable promise of meaning and sense. About the energy that comes from these words and the light they instil in their listeners. Now bear with me whilst I take these words and toss them around between sounds and sights, whilst I roll them across different images in different times and different ways. These words trail over the scintillating surface of people and indent new grooves in which new droplets of desires and dreams cling. These grooves catch the light and scatter onto the faces around. And in this turning and reflecting shadows are softened and laughter is heard. He asked ‘Be my muse?’ and she replied, ‘ok’. Sometimes these surfaces are beaten and worn and learn to resist. Where light once played it is now taken in towards the heavy heated centre of darkness and pain. Hovering steps and downcast eyes in the desolation of car parks and the abandonment of empty kitchens. It is in these plains of loss that these reflections lose their beauty and their power. And rightfully so. Imagery has no place here. The sensitive soul, therefore, remains a gift. Hiding under the folds of intonations and innovations is its own special light that warms and blinds and seems far greater than you.
I have been thinking a lot about energy. Or I haven’t really been thinking at all. Either way I must go, I have to get to the shops before closing and I’m desperately out of bread.
Send my love to the family.
Your dearest and most devoted friend.
1: Emily Wigoder
It’s illegal to light up inside
In the dark and the cold,
In between hushed hands,
A spark is created.
Hugged by curled fingers and nurtured into flame,
It touches the tip of the gunpowder trail
That hangs from dried lips, both cracking and pale,
Curling upwards with the ghost
Of a laugh from a joke he’s heard twice before.
Lips bitten and raw,
Hiding the teeth worn away by the twice-weekly rings
Of white powdered sins,
Shaking in the excuses and apologies and loss
Struck by the remorse that each new night brings.
But in that instant the spark,
That rush, and that warmth,
It feels almost like love
Two names scratched in the bark,
Of his childhood home,
Pushed to the back of his mind,
Because he knows that their lives were only meant to be entwined
For that brief gap in time,
And as the cigarette goes out
And the cold climbs inside,
That bright spark in him wavers and dies.
I could emit sparks too (they might not be as brief)
I’m in the mood for love:
I’m in the mood to split myself open searching
For the pieces of myself that press together
With someone else’s heart.
I want to taste that rush:
I want to taste the wanting of more
And the wanting of less, and that dizzying feel
Of lungs filling with sparks.
I want to emit those sparks:
I want those sparks to find someone else
As I find myself
In the stretching of time
And its falling apart
And its coming together to form something new
That spark of a something that’s barely thought through –
I’m in the mood for love.
1: Haroun Hameed
1: Anjelica Smerin