Holly

My own breakfast test feel a lover's trauma don't i feel blessed sailing as we speak with a raging lymphoma all her troubles leak howl like the wind complaints amorphous a drowning sound that sinks like lead a real performance pictures in my head jukebox in the kitchen everything roars seeks wine at 8 am like she’s never been born chocolate with toast operate another form act the holy one.

Hera

If its children and dogs just be what you are in a warm hazy fog that's what you want from the river Alt sea roses in your font but help me realise what's going on in someone else's dreams close to here pictures bear a lonely scar for all my needs dancing on egg shells fires everywhere marked by your iron bell plant a seed bring me what i want time at least beneath a fading star

Hannah

Paintings are my scene museums have a lonely grace hearing screams I stare out of canvas that's really my fame the world my caravan from summer nights or gas fired winter places how often do I lie heaven for you to look upon the scent of my face you are like M Duchamp who before me rushes buttered names like waves his Fountain flushes unshaven waiters bring cognac to my table orange in measured spaces my oiled frame.

Lacey May

In a spartan cafe' reclaimed from the sea let me tarry blonde or wispy dark like a coming enemy shadows make marks dawn the falling rain saddened at the infirmary echo of empty cradle doctor's sad smile more than we can ever be love gone by miles on hospital alleyways the absence of heartbeat sound of a dismal train it whistles the length of St Anthony’s quay loss brings no certainty to sorrow again

Lara - begins the broken stanza series of 250 poems going forward after Naked Lunch.

The turn of lovely days scourge her great freedom a river estuary the streets and diners awaken a sense of ease solace out of time not her real home stupid walk these yellow streets wrath of Madam Cupid where debts get paid beneath cool trees blue drinks hang on trays Our lady holds her heart in the cold light seasons whenever luck departs no matter what bell rings the river will release a sister from another city across broken seas.

Lise +10 poems down is on cunard file

Is there more to come 

your Da all scorn

does me down

trees and yellow flowers
wine and thorns

trips to country Mass

but its harvest time

you talk of New York                                                

my lucky find                                                                          

we danced with ease                              

through fields of corn                                           

in that post war scene                                    

your mother screached 

like a hurricane storm

but you were sweet                                    
as autumn dawned
we kissed at Cherbourg                            
seasons drawn                
on fine blue mornings