Hello! Just stopping by to say that due to the kind encouragement of local indie press Analog Submission, you can now preorder a new chapbook of my verse online at: https://www.analogsubmission.com/product/little-irritants-by-darcy-isla
This is a limited run of only 25 copies, and they’re already going, so get in there quickly if you’d like a copy. Some of these ones will most likely be taken off the blog after the chapbook goes out.
Take a peek at the link above for some angry, irritable, punk poems with sand in their pants and stones in their boots.
And here are a couple of variants of the cover:
Good morning, happy whatever-day-it-is-when-you-read-this. The rain is pouring down here in York today and the trees are willing Autumn on to deliver their yearly release.
It’s been a while since I created and shared anything new on here. But I’ve been stretching my writing muscles in reviewing on other platforms, and performing in plays and other such nonsense.
This is a quick announcement to day that you can now buy physical, hold-in-your-hand-and-give-to-your-friends collections of my writing on Etsy at https://etsy.me/2LcKcsG
There are currently three items available: Victoriana-inspired love notes, break-up stories, and a collection of 100 poems that I wrote in two days. I’m working on a listing of all three as a package deal too, which will hopefully be up soon.
Even being back here in the post writer in WordPress makes me feel warm and welcome and heard. I missed this.
Please take a look and consider supporting my work, so I can continue to write. Spoons and time are hard to come by. But words are buxom, pressing. The magic of the world needs documenting.
I’m unsure yet, but I think I’d like to maintain this archive of my work online that is accessible for free. My printed books will be for those who have the means to supoort my work, and wish to hold something tangible, smooth, immediately present, to read with their hands and to show and tell with in the good old-fashioned way.
Thank you all, whomever is still here, for your continued commitment and support. You make the transient arts arts possible.
See you soon…
I haven’t found it yet
But there is a tunnel in our garden
That leads to your flat in Brighton near the Lanes
Near the special sausage shop
Near the retro-vintage warehouse and the piers,
Old and new, and that restaurant
Designed to look like opera boxes
All these things are within my reach.
The cat could even come with me.
No thank you
Speak to my secretary
I’m sure I have said all I have to say on the matter
I won’t give them even a scrap of it,
That darkness belongs to me and I won’t let go of it no matter what they come at me with
Sacred and locked up, only I get to feed it
And I am sure that it is best that way
Mostly under the covers, an obvious place
Alongside ridiculously oversized cuddlies
They all had names
One was a long flat dog with long flat ears that lay alongside me on my top bunk
Can’t remember what he was called
We did all sorts under the covers, when we were small
Mostly to scare each other
Discussed what bodies we had
Enrolled in thousands of careers and areas of expertise
Solved the world’s problems
Conspired on how to ignore our grown-ups’ flaws
She came to me on roller blades. In her audition, I wondered if anyone else was as blinded as I was. I fetched her coffee for several weeks, collecting her grateful flashed grins and stowing them in my jacket, next to my chest. There was always a second, at least, for her to look at me before someone called for her attention again. Everything was always moving, but she knew how to pause. “Where’s yours?” she said once, at some time in the morning that you only share with foxes and a crew you won’t know in six months. Later, we drag the dregs in order to stay in each other’s company, suspending the moment, steam rising between us, a smoke signal in the middle of the American diner. We walk quickly against the cold, quietly buzzing, boots clopping in a way that means we don’t have to say it. I show her where mine is at some time of the night that I now only share with her.
I think about what kind of gift I would give her if I dared. An image comes into my mind of a glossy paperback with a rough stick wedged through it. Not placed inside but stuck through the cover and the pages, piercing them, almost sewn in like thread, right across the middle in a vertical line. Impossible, the inexplicable violence of it completely at odds with what it means about us, her, my feelings towards her, and yet it feels like the only right answer. Earthy, and all that mothers. Who’s to answer for our such wild notions? I picture her taking it from me, looking at it seriously, and at me, eyes asking, This Is For Me, From You, This Is The Answer? I almost nod, she almost reciprocates, taking the book. The air between us presses like a vacuum, compressing us into a still scene, each part of my intention crumbled like charcoal and dried into paint. She does not touch the stick, but we both feel it as if it were caught through our bodies. We are both here, but are we ready?