And here is a little of what is contained within:
BROOKLYN COPELAND
No Sons of Liberty
But he did not RSVP.
This was December, glittering cold.
His valise was lady-like. His pockets deep
and bulging with poachlings.
A cough of words
under his breath: no condition
for a Harbour party.
Had he tried to warn us in our sleep?
He was a wolf, but we were not his sheep.
We were foxes,
flicking our thin black wrists
over the map-man’s politics.
For fun, gekkered in the boxing ring.
Our vixens, two years American-
Brahmin, for fun, wore Wampum beads.
Did he know us, our wolf-cousin,
from some transatlantic dream? We
could not place his accent.
True, we ought to have handcuffed and stuffed
him. Asked his name
in the very least.
We ought to have checked our awe
and affection, and served him
Boston Tea. And we would have,
in a heartbeat,
had he only RSVP’d.
~
RAB GREEN
The Man and the Head Cold
Delirious and squinty, giggling with sickness, think nothing to telling stories, toss consequence like food aid – who lands on their feet? who lands on their back? Cast bones best of five, pick fox meat from hen’s teeth, swap futures for superstars and retards. And the lesson to learn, is “Yir aw fucked an wunderful”.
Take a lemsip and rest. Fall back in line. From evolution. To the alphabet.
~
Art by BEK GALLOWAY
~
Screenshot from Foxleigh battles Death in all Its forms part 3 (Death manifested as charred seraphim piloted pedal powered gyrocopter), a game by CLIFF HAMMETT
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