Three Poems 
Sarah Chapman

Speaking to the Dead

You tell me off _ I scowl
And leave the table with the

Soggy and pale
The birds fly backwards
the birds fly into eachother
and the heaters

Stare down at you _
a large yogurt is being
thrown away
you pay to speak to
the dead but the rivals

and you
offer me mini eggs I break
them and see inside them you
are in france, handsome
and calling after your wife
who is in a field
with your son
hear about it and

you cling from the sofa
at my knickers
my father is a marble tomb
I want him to be as he was
Thirteen sleeping with his neighbour
The cat and me are both
Hungry—he sits eating tuna
4th can today
I bought him new trainers
£50 student discount
blue navy trousers
slippers, of course
collecting recycling to talk
with the bin men, who say
Alright mate, then leave


Her neighbour screamed
at the return of her cat
waiting on the fence with love
of distain
and love, returning from the pool
I hear the connecting of a date
expanding on the unsolved light
jelly bags,
blue popcorn walls accidental art in working class
cutting of food for the food
these lines are bursting
we are sitting in the living room
& the window slides open and

there is art in working class what a pretentious thing to say.

i am at the V&A    
eating a mint club
eastenders credits play
from my boyfriend’s phone
who is moping on the bed
suddenly a beautiful woman child appears
about 11-12- and pushes up at an extinct turtle
little boys appear, and all italian following
her hip swung jeans and long dark hair
they scatter from dodo eggs and beetle
poo and she not looking at anything
but their rose coloured antonine atwoline
fill their weary heads with a blood

from their traveller

when I cum
I feel like I go inside myself
And don’t come out for weeks
You play with my nipples
As they cry away from
I’ll try again when
my boyfriend’s head
Starts to look like a dairy milk
In the milkyway he always
wears crocs and sainsbury’s
And not even the original

Chocolate Milk/Dinner Party

Hey just come out of a recruitment agency networking event – aged a couple years in the room then panicked + left – had to wear pointy shoes

Did you know ronan keating didn’t write his own songs

I love her insect dancing
Where she stands with the coconut milk
Crying over her dead cat
Floating like a mars bar at midnight
In front of her kitchen window
Someone calls my name
Like dan, dan, dan
Her boss offers her one half of his twix
And she drops out

three days before press night
She drops out three days before
Press night

Sarah Chapman lives in London. Her poetry has appeared in SSYK, Black & Blue, 3:AMInk Sweat &Tears amongst others. Her debut chapbook Sky + was published in 2015.



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Hotel is a magazine 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. The magazine is bi-annual, the online archive is updated periodically.

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