expandable pets

Daily writing prompt
Dogs or cats?

Lately they’d been doing this thing of pretending they were walking the dog. Which dog? Obviously the dog. The dog would appear alongside them kind of grown from original emoji like those tiny dinosaurs, flowers or anime characters you used to get in stockings at Christmas, the ones you add water to then they expand with superabsorbent polymer to become a whole other thing. Idk what the dog was expanding with, some air of affection. It was lonely to walk around the abandoned railway lines and through underpasses and along by the retail park and up by the meadowing verge of the motorway. It was lonely to eat litter. It was lonely to squish shadows into predators and gull cries into opulent music. Having a dog you were present and obvious. People stopped to say the dog was beautiful and so were you, pet.

Cats cry in the mouths of children and follow them home. They take the canal route without listening to father and collect tiny yellow flowers so to eat bitter all the more sweetly. Cats had a feel for waywardness. Poised for the kill. Whispered: don’t work. Cats hated the water and their orientation was always away from the canal and towards the city. Cats took upon the gulls at night, like the mushroom controlling the ants, and this is how they learned how to fly. You’re a child right? Ofc you’ll follow.

See how much I could borrow

homesick for impossible places
I found a £15,000 house for sale on Zoopla
in the town I grew up for eighteen years
not really a house but a cosy one bed
on Castle Street, council tax band unavailable
Scott says that’s a sign the property is cursed
I have no idea about freehold tenure 
but I’m a bitch at auctions
last sold for £24,000 in 2014 
you have to assume the place was on fire
insane wallpaper stripped
to the tune of severe black mould
all slutty lilac underneath
lots of free rubble
demons living in the wiring
and slugs come out the plug sockets
I could afford to buy this flat
which is twice the size of my current home
if I paid it off at £82 a month
over 25 years 
working my ass off as a journalist 
by which point 
I would have ensconced myself
in the licentious ivy of the outside 

who can smell the tiny garden

drawing w/ Santiago Taberna

I awoke to a singular bleep that seemed to come from the membrane between wakefulness and sleep, a state where perceptual phenomena cannot be traced to either realm. I checked my carbon monoxide alarm, inspected the boiler (for what, idk, a desperate mechanical groan). Side effect of anosmia is you don’t know if you are going to perish by smoke (this came to light when the building next door to mine was on fire, there were trucks of firefighters hosing it down with water, I couldn’t smell anything even with the window open), let alone gas. Carbon monoxide is pretty much odourless anyway. You have to rely on your landlord’s possibly obsolete detection technology. I flung open all the windows. I had Covid again last week and tried to remember the last two times I was quarantined in the same flat: long phone calls pacing around, screaming every time I had to sit down because of the muscle pain in my legs, watching German television shows about drug-loving teenagers, getting the same results.

I don’t understand what’s happened to my sense of smell. The doctor prescribed regular Beconase nasal spray, the shit I’ve been using all my life for hayfever. Daily use over several months led to nosebleeds and headaches. I tried salt water rinsing, voluptuous inhalations of the steam exhaled by menthol crystals. Yesterday, I was walking through Shawlands and stopped to rub lavender between my thumb and forefinger. Brought fingers to my nose with the tenderness of someone first applying the buttercup method, somewhere else. I could smell the lavender. Just about.

When I was small, we’d sneak in the back way to a big National Trust park where you could go to the Walled Garden. Mum would point at the various herbs and name them. She’d say to rub them between your thumb and forefinger and we’d do that to save picking them and being caught. Sometimes I’d press them between pages of notebooks. Mint, basil, rosemary, thyme. We had a lot of lemongrass in the garden. I would steep it for tea. I would go through puberty and try to smoke it.

Maybe it’s the smells with memories that remain. I should’ve drunk more coffee as a baby.

Is there a method for coaxing cellular repair? I buy cut-price little boxes of salad cress from Asda and plunged my nose in them. I pick up an antique book about keeping illustrious shrubberies, and the seller advises me that the kinds of pesticides mentioned in the book should remain in the early twentieth century. My heart aches. I’m a very tiny garden.

Upcoming events – June/July 2023

20th June, 7pm – Dyke Magic zine launch (Bonjour, Glasgow)

21st June, 6pm – Poetry & Food workshop with Colin Herd (The Alchemy Experiment, Glasgow)

22nd June, 9:30am – Performing your research: a poets theatre workshop at SGSAH Summer School (The Studio, Glasgow)

23rd June, 7pm – Launch for An Aura of Plasma Around the Sun with Briony Hughes, Ivy Allsop and Isaac Harris (The Alchemy Experiment, Glasgow)

2nd July, 4pm – Fundraiser for ‘Kindness Street Team’ with Pleasure Pool, Gabo, J. D. Twitch, Sofay, Leo Bussi, DJ Michael (Queen’s Park bandstand, Glasgow)

5th July, 7:30pm – Glasgow Review of Books (re)launch (The Old Hairdressers, Glasgow)

7th July, 9:45am – Somnolent Cartographies: The Sonic Ecologies of Sleep all-day workshop (Civic House, Glasgow)

An Aura of Plasma Around the Sun

£12.00

RELEASED 19TH JUNE 2023

FROM THE PUBLISHER:

Blending oneiric memoir, experimental fiction and glitched verse, An Aura of Plasma Around the Sun swirls narratives of adolescence, occulted textual topographies and Scotland’s pandemic lockdown. Sweet, funny, heartbreaking, clever and ridiculous, often sentence-by-sentence, Maria Sledmere doesn’t guide readers through these whirlwinds so much as throw them in. Yet her spliced reveries and decadent languages are always underpinned by a celebration of community, as radiant and permeating as the sun. 

198 x 129 mm / 254 pages with illustrations and photographs

Preorder from Hem Press

Thirty Love

I’m not turning thirty
I’m just two fifteen-year-olds living inside each other
trying to get high
in the foetal position, being 
summer denim of wanting to crash a pink car and
be done again

slightly out of sync
blossomability

many circus strays
coming apart at the seams
feeling gloam and yogic
the dog licking peanut butter from deep in the jar
of common nutrient
lightning burst out my early life
gone clown anon
bright and soundproof
strawberry motorway moon 
more on earth than ever

*

Covet the pearl zone 
for perfect touch, the greatest football hits of oblivion
screaming at each other why not 
call out the willowy you
being louche as hell
shedding the 
water weight

wearing grave emoji
things I can’t say
discard complete water works 
total my carless mind
in prairie physiology
crying wild lupine 
lucky girl

*

Roleplaying cuddlecore
applying emotional topcoat
I want to sabotage language at source
invincible in supercrush 
scoring a hat-trick 
forget chapped lips 
stop being the autodidact 
shoving vending machines into communism

“Yes,” said everything, “wait and see.”
Hope unlocked streets of it
seeing myself grown backwards 
spiral of childhood computer realism
beautifully archived cloud formation
having lemonade with them

*

I want to learn natural breath talent like
effortless summer quantum 
angel chancellery of Harriet Wheeler
the fractal age of being remembered
love thirty
simulates
living in time-
sensitive seedballs
winning the main affection
your aura an orange-tipped butterfly 
knows me imago-
formed at the middle
hot pyramidal orchid 
nutrient poor
never leaving your chrysalis 

I would give a whole voice, gold shining sounds
in the gorse mandy
glow up
for gemini life cycle 
link in biome
all nerve 
heavenly
electropolis
in bath spider soliloquy
how do I eat

*

Turning thirty
in permanent acoustic mutability
pushing my name down the stairs

it’s funny and sad 
like television lacunae
or oestradiol credit score

a feel good
pulse ballet of love inclination

*

Being mortal goldilocks 
awake forever warm and moreish
sometimes I forget
we held each other 
meadow-wise
blemished white lies and cowslip
nights of insane fertility 

gentler than a blood result mood boost
born in the year of In Utero

Saturn returns
sirens 
at the back of cinema 

*

When I can’t replicate 
being the same two ages 
everything will be 
okay 

and windswept so 
totally interesting 
pretty void bluet 

drinking a case of Sundays

prom waltzing myself 
back to bed in each stanza

one of us says to the other 
about that pain in our side
“who bruised you?” 

Dream chocolate bar

Daily writing prompt
Describe your dream chocolate bar.

Dreams are blood gossamer of the quantum, obviously. Trapping them for product didn’t prove easy to history but those motherfuckers always gonna try. We loved the sound of wrapping and unwrapping our dreams each night because we’d slept through the day of the day’s burnish, polishing I mean ourselves with sounds: popular and like rock or love electronique real easy. I caught almond-headed angel blessing in desiccated ouch. Glass ersatz of the coruscating plastic. My dream chocolate is 53% cocoa solid milk uptake, hot oat, sumptuous rolling out of time — plainsong of longer energy. A porridge bar coated in chocolate and studded with rat dropping hours and real man. Louche caramel alimony coming cloud sugar rupture. Heist of splendour. Marshmallow contemplators are god. Dream chocolate nurture my easy sleep knowing everything to look at it taking bites.