Popshot Magazine
The Lighthouse
by Allison Louis Walker
by Allison Louis Walker
Adrift she comes
hills and valleys,
orchards undone,
laid bare her crevices,
her amphibious mind worn smooth.
Frayed and tattered,
she is angels on threads,
flashing the sun to the sky ---
little glimpses.
Torrented, turbulent
in glassy iridescence
buoyed by the iron wings of desire.
From her bended elbow fly kingfishers,
their thorny crowns
good luck, hope, a sanctuary
cradled in her secret hollows,
tender places slick
with the sheen of industry.
Both bound and boundless
from her mouth flows memory
sound lit like rain, release recumbent
breath caught between chime and reflection.
She's wings of a feather,
light ephemeral,
her nudity of being
pouring luminous limpid
into permeable me.
Illustration for an exhibition between Popshot and Art in the Underbelly
hills and valleys,
orchards undone,
laid bare her crevices,
her amphibious mind worn smooth.
Frayed and tattered,
she is angels on threads,
flashing the sun to the sky ---
little glimpses.
Torrented, turbulent
in glassy iridescence
buoyed by the iron wings of desire.
From her bended elbow fly kingfishers,
their thorny crowns
good luck, hope, a sanctuary
cradled in her secret hollows,
tender places slick
with the sheen of industry.
Both bound and boundless
from her mouth flows memory
sound lit like rain, release recumbent
breath caught between chime and reflection.
She's wings of a feather,
light ephemeral,
her nudity of being
pouring luminous limpid
into permeable me.
Illustration for an exhibition between Popshot and Art in the Underbelly
When I Say I Have Come to Love You
by Gregory Heath
by Gregory Heath
EMULSION
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