The Ladies’ Pond
by Alison Marr
The swimming ladies of the Highgate pond are various.
Some are old and lean with hard thin arms breaking November ice,
Others are buxom with low slung breasts shifting as they move.
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SMOKE BOOK PROJECTS
by David Riddell
What’s this? I’m… I’m falling. That’s what I’m doing. Must be. Wasn’t expecting this. Totally outside my experience. Don’t think I did anything to precipitate it, not that I can think of. Well now. I’ve done some daft stuff, but – nothing like this. I wonder what’s going on? [read more…]
Please Do Not Touch The Walrus No. 8
A fantastic new series in which we attempt to catalogue some of the amazing things you can’t do in our fabulous capital city. Today: practising any form of golf in Russia Dock. [see more…]
Old Canary Wharf Pier
some photos of the old pier…
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St Paul’s Cathedral gleams, Southwark Bridge looms, and a middle-aged man – grey suit, substantial build – unsteadily dribbles a small purple balloon with silver ribbons down the empty, moonlit, riverside walkway.
Bin
by Christina Petrie
My broken devices
Stand in municipal juices.
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Threnody on the Suicide of a Parking Meter in Dagenham Brook, E10
by Matt Haynes
O dark devourer of the driver’s coin,
What broken dreams was this leap meant to fix?
What hope-denuded skyline did enjoin
You to cast off on this East London Styx?
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by Nicolette Loizou
Totally without friends, Giles would frequent the Venue on his own and I was so pretentious and unloved that I thought we could form something of a nihilist pair. He thought so too. On our first night together he scraped all my hair from my face and said, “Well, you’ve got nice eyes.” He had a special chair in the club under which he would stash hummus and pitta bread just in case he got hungry. [read more…]
Please Do Not Touch The Walrus No. 7
A fantastic new series in which we attempt to catalogue some of the amazing things you can’t do in our fabulous capital city. Today: climbing on the horse in Spring Gardens. [see more…]
by Jess Sully
I waltz with a Spiders-From-Mars-era Bowie who only falls over once on his stack heels; at the end of the song we bow to each other solemnly, then I race onward to dance arm-in-arm with men, women, a giraffe. “Let’s get wasted on rum and ginger!” Slipping on the beer-sodden floor, clambering straight back up, tights subtly laddered. By a mysterious osmosis, we end up at the front at the same time, waving our white sunhats in the air with joy. [read more…]