‘Nothing’s left to say between us / everything went / into the train that hid its whistle.’
Nothing’s left to say between us
everything went
into the train that hid its whistle
in the smoke that didn’t become a cloud
in the departure that gathered your limbs
Nothing’s left to say between us
so let your death be
the insight of dazzling silver
and let the sun of those cities
be a rose on your shoulders
Photograph by BigOakFlickr
‘The anglophone world, we have to infer, has run out of words for its own feelings.’
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Rosanna McLaughlin on what the internet thinks she wants.
‘I have a pathological addiction to the internet, which I indulge with the excuse of making art. It rarely translates to anything good and mostly leaves me overstimulated and afraid.’
Paul Dalla Rosa on excess and the internet.
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Two poems by Sylvia Legris.
‘I think I stayed with the text for as long as I needed to give meaning to my grief, crying not in Johanna’s absence but with her.’
Sigrid Rausing on transcribing, translating and editing Johanna Ekström’s final notebooks.
‘Love is a concept about which I have long been very sceptical. I have seen the damage that can be done, and can be justified, in the name of love.’
Fiction by Kevin Brazil.
‘The past is no longer behind me but in front.’
An extract from About Ed by Robert Glück.
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Vanessa Onwuemezi and Colin Herd discuss UFOs, relation, and the search for an inner sense of home.
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