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 ONE poem

 & THREE sonnets



For whomst doth the zinnias surge
in their HDR blush amidst the dead                
compatriots from Mexico to Wuxi
to Voss / nature parching in scrutiny

There’s blood beneath every layer of skin

And it’s all about beauty / ostrich feathers
microscope slides and platelets forming
a foliage print behind my crackèd screen
stand still: / in the I of the catastrophe


    (in CHRONOLOGICAL order)


I wrote graces to asthenia and          
then deleted all from my life studies.
Tomorrow I will shave my hair to 4
mm and dye them blue paying homage        
to Chris Wylie. Show more. Answer. Rebrand          
me for ‘life-threatening circumstances,’
introversion’s my personal hymn for
war, exacerbated thru that eight-page
leaflet, market risks of a Wall-Street-grand
SSRI. That kind of brilliance is
clear, but not penetrated anymore,
it’s not a requisite for me to wage. 
        Hide answers. Do not manipulate me 
        unless my happiness is the result


By sitting in the middle seat, always                         
flying nobound, music intermittence,                                   
white noise from the white engine, the window      
covered by his head, the land by serial                                 
clouds expunging, sleep is wave transference                      
between fragments and remnant. All limbo             
keeps displacing all, layover’s dial                             
to acquire afresh some break for me, waylays                     
awareness ‘til the second—crescendo                                 
gashing every feel—there’s no denial,                                  
the slumbers soften this breakdown, essays            
so scientific, words with no defiance.                       
            You move to top-five livability                                  
            I wait my turn, hone my emocracy


The light is so good, the leaves,
this warm for some 10 minutes. This song is
about the erosion of the detailed
memory of a person, how permanent
the impression is that they leave in you, haled,
constant gnawing of audio segments as
post-processing in no man’s plan. Survey
black arteries from above, from the third's point
of view, globules run thru them, unbridled.
I miss you like my solutions, abris,
but the keygens’ age is over honey
throw readability to the she-wolves.
            Downplay communication, nature’s tint,
            paint your eyes over, mine, thus live with me

Luca BEVACQUA lives in Edinburgh. He is the author of ECHOLALIA (If a Leaf Falls Press) and co-author of 100 LINGUISTICS POEMS (Gauss PDF). Some of his poems can be found in SPAM zine, Anthropocene and The Babel Tower Notice Board.

See @lucaisoffline



(left) Wisconsin, 1958
© The Estate of Harry Callahan

(right) Aix-en-Provence, 1957
© The Estate of Harry Callahan


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Partner to a press called Tenement, Hotel is a publications series for new approaches to fiction, non fiction & poetry & features work from established & emerging talent. Hotel provides the space for experimental reflection on literature’s status as art & cultural mediator. 

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