Two poems
I remember sitting on the floor and saw
after your morning pee: the dangling of a ding-dong bell.
It used to be a mere dark slit, when we were still small.
If I open my mouth now and look into the mirror there’s another bell
in my sore throat. It’s swollen.
When I visited you for the last time that Winter,
the air was too dry and your skin flayed and fell.
You didn’t want to go out and we spent the weekend making sure
all things were charged. You were still bad-mouthed.
By Tammy Ho Lai-Ming.
Painted black
At the Forbidden Planet blog, Pádraig Ó M éalóid talks to Alan Moore about the much-anticipated second volume of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Century – 1969, a companion interview, if you like, to the 3:AM interview in March: “Other things that I remember from the 1960s was how all the psychedelic culture, yes, it crossed […]