the evening party ︎︎︎ a collection of writings, poems and photographs by the anonymous author ︎︎︎  2019—present ︎︎︎ Index of entries ︎︎︎ Email ︎︎︎ Instagram ︎︎︎ ‘Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.’ —The Evening Party, Virginia Woolf


A part of certain sunshine
fell & I saw it
! hymns, hosanna !
through the barely there pine tree

it landed & reclines to doze
with the bullet-wounds of a
schefflera & lampshade,
spat on bedroom wall. Cords of

a blind caroused about
each other
all bleached enough
for Norse — ‘sun!’

while winter’s stuffy figurines
leapt up to take notice,
bear their breast & salivate
with lips & tiny arteries.

For a warmth moment
the oil portrait glowed:
(in textured echoes
of martens too fought to play)

her facial expression clutching
a collarbone, upon
the dinnertable gazed or
through the scent of leaves glad.

Sooner we abrupted coats
about our shoulders
& fled into it — throngs — smiling,
leaving windows cracked.