DiegoNathan Rodney JonesApr 171 min readBy Nathan Rodney-Jonesfour walls are four wallsare slipping out of colourwe are all cardboardblurring our running linesthe thinker does not thinkthey are thinkingall the porthole paraphernaliayou could line this purgatorywith each elephant's grey backocean blue herons flying sunrisesand fag-ends you sit init is the last timethese walls knew these wallsknew you for a whileyou climb the bed - restyour weary eyes out to drywill stand and be lost in the street -
I Know That FaceBy August Edna I sat in my room, one of thousands in the student-allocated premises near to the university. It was cold outside, pre-Christmas, diagonals of sleet propelled onto my floor. I had left
