It’s like a banana

And arctic monologues.
I don’t feel that nervous.
I’m having funding.
He’s gobbled up the showing and
melted into a quandary.
What the “helper” was he, thorax?
He planned to build it like a plant.
A forge. A billboard. A gullet.

Colin Herd was born in Stirling in 1985 and now lives in Edinburgh. He is a poet, fiction writer and critic. His first collection of poems too ok was published by BlazeVOX in 2011. A pamphlet, like, was published by The Knives Forks and Spoons Press in 2011 and a second full-length collection is forthcoming from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press. He has published over 60 reviews and articles on art and literature in publications including Aesthetica, 3:AM Magazine, PN Review and The Independent. He has read and performed his work widely, including at Rich Mix Arts Centre, The Fruitmarket Gallery, Gay’s the Word Bookshop, Edinburgh University, Lancaster University and the Edinburgh International Book Festival.

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It’s like a ban

And arctic monoliths.
I don’t feel that nervous.
I’m having fundamentals.
He’s gobbled up the shower and
melted into a qualm.
What the “helmsman” was he, thong?
He planned to build it like a planning.
A forfeit. A bill. A gull.

Colin Herd was born in Stirling in 1985 and now lives in Edinburgh. He is a poet, fiction writer and critic. His first collection of poems too ok was published by BlazeVOX in 2011. A pamphlet, like, was published by The Knives Forks and Spoons Press in 2011 and a second full-length collection is forthcoming from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press. He has published over 60 reviews and articles on art and literature in publications including Aesthetica, 3:AM Magazine, PN Review and The Independent. He has read and performed his work widely, including at Rich Mix Arts Centre, The Fruitmarket Gallery, Gay’s the Word Bookshop, Edinburgh University, Lancaster University and the Edinburgh International Book Festival.

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It’s like a bamboo

And arctic monographs.
I don’t feel that nervous.
I’m having fund.
He’s gobbled up the showdown and
melted into a quality.
What the “helmet” was he, thistle?
He planned to build it like a planner.
A foreword. A bile. A gulf.

Colin Herd was born in Stirling in 1985 and now lives in Edinburgh. He is a poet, fiction writer and critic. His first collection of poems too ok was published by BlazeVOX in 2011. A pamphlet, like, was published by The Knives Forks and Spoons Press in 2011 and a second full-length collection is forthcoming from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press. He has published over 60 reviews and articles on art and literature in publications including Aesthetica, 3:AM Magazine, PN Review and The Independent. He has read and performed his work widely, including at Rich Mix Arts Centre, The Fruitmarket Gallery, Gay’s the Word Bookshop, Edinburgh University, Lancaster University and the Edinburgh International Book Festival.

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It’s like a balustrade

And arctic monograms.
I don’t feel that nervous.
I’m having functionary.
He’s gobbled up the showcase and
melted into a qualifier.
What the “helm” was he, thirst?
He planned to build it like a plank.
A foretaste. A bilberry. A gulch.

Colin Herd was born in Stirling in 1985 and now lives in Edinburgh. He is a poet, fiction writer and critic. His first collection of poems too ok was published by BlazeVOX in 2011. A pamphlet, like, was published by The Knives Forks and Spoons Press in 2011 and a second full-length collection is forthcoming from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press. He has published over 60 reviews and articles on art and literature in publications including Aesthetica, 3:AM Magazine, PN Review and The Independent. He has read and performed his work widely, including at Rich Mix Arts Centre, The Fruitmarket Gallery, Gay’s the Word Bookshop, Edinburgh University, Lancaster University and the Edinburgh International Book Festival.

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It’s like a balm

And arctic monocles.
I don’t feel that nervous.
I’m having function.
He’s gobbled up the shovelful and
melted into a qualification.
What the “hello” was he, think-tank?
He planned to build it like a planetarium.
A forester. A bikini. A guitarist.

Colin Herd was born in Stirling in 1985 and now lives in Edinburgh. He is a poet, fiction writer and critic. His first collection of poems too ok was published by BlazeVOX in 2011. A pamphlet, like, was published by The Knives Forks and Spoons Press in 2011 and a second full-length collection is forthcoming from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press. He has published over 60 reviews and articles on art and literature in publications including Aesthetica, 3:AM Magazine, PN Review and The Independent. He has read and performed his work widely, including at Rich Mix Arts Centre, The Fruitmarket Gallery, Gay’s the Word Bookshop, Edinburgh University, Lancaster University and the Edinburgh International Book Festival.

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It’s like a ballroom

And arctic monkeys.
I don’t feel that nervous.
I’m having fun.
He’s gobbled up the shovel
And melted into a quagmire.
What the hell was he thinking?
He planned to build it like a planet.
A forest. A bike. A guitar.

Colin Herd was born in Stirling in 1985 and now lives in Edinburgh. He is a poet, fiction writer and critic. His first collection of poems too ok was published by BlazeVOX in 2011. A pamphlet, like, was published by The Knives Forks and Spoons Press in 2011 and a second full-length collection is forthcoming from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press. He has published over 60 reviews and articles on art and literature in publications including Aesthetica, 3:AM Magazine, PN Review and The Independent. He has read and performed his work widely, including at Rich Mix Arts Centre, The Fruitmarket Gallery, Gay’s the Word Bookshop, Edinburgh University, Lancaster University and the Edinburgh International Book Festival.

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What I Did To You

You first saw me in the gutter
and then again under the bars
of the sewage grate – the shimmer
of my grime caught your eye. Leech-like,
you’d been searching for a new life. You wished
to pilfer a few lives with your long fingers,
try them on, cycle through each until you found
one you liked. Crouching at the grate, you drew
me from the waste in silver slivers and draped
me over yourself. Streaked by an oily rainbow,
our portrait shined in a nearby scum pool.
Ragged boy adorned with ragged man –
both of us a composition of wet strips of cloth and skin –
your surly grin, my sodden body hanging, arched
over your shoulder, imitation of your smile’s curve.
You slurred our image with your feet
while splashing home, where, under a half-moon, you sewed
me into your clothes. Your fingers bled over my thread
cage but you let the blood run and dry in my sludge,
creating a crust the color of raw, rock-wrenched garnet.
This allowed you to lie about emerging from bloodbaths
when you wore me through the streets, almond eyes
weak sieves to cruder passersby about whom I whispered
they know your lie and don’t care. It wasn’t long
before my influence had you yielding
beneath your sown shell and my raspy murmurs
became your prison, as, caged inside each other,
we traveled. I assumed your voice
while you walked on, homesick and searching
for solace from my presence in pastures, others’ eyes, stars.

Helene Lovett is a writer from New Orleans. She has previously been published in The Cadaverine. She may be seen spiritedly swatting mosquitoes on her front porch on Sunday evenings or jogging through the damp air in a loving battle against the humidity of her home.

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