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- The Great Excavation
- coming out in no particular order
- This town; a breathing crocodile, is a sad town…
- My grandfather on a sandglass
- what the little girl meant to say when the long-haired journalist asked: where are you from?
- The man who wrote bad poetry
- The dilemma of a poem
- a poem you read from right to left
- The federal constitution
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- coming out in no particular order eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2019/04/18/com… 18 hours ago
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Tag Archives: Gareth Culshaw
The stone walls stubborn themselves against the foreground. We empty out what we know and leave the mould to carry on creeping. The windows are openings to a past we must leave behind. The cracks that scarred what we saw. … Continue reading
There’s a wall, twelve feet from our house. It’s the boundary wall that keeps the estate from spilling into local hands. The wall fills the living room window, like a bully’s palm in the face of a child. To see … Continue reading
There’s a house on the corner it looks to have been pushed back to allow the road through. Sheep and rooks are scattered like disturbed pieces on a board game. The world is in the in-between and my view is … Continue reading
The new house is much smaller, like the world has been cut in half. In the living room you can hear socks on the landing scuff the fresh carpet. And door latches click the silence like the first step on … Continue reading
The town hangs onto the language like a wood with wind. Shop signs tattoo the road, twist your eyes and tongue. Passers-by and shop owners talk the vowels like river rapids. Cars pull up with revs from another country. Number … Continue reading
When we knocked the shed down we gave light to underneath the holly. Two chairs, a table, crumpets, smoking tea, sunlight from morning till evening. Quietness amongst the gardens with the occasional child giggling. A cat walked along a fence. … Continue reading