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

She’s Away, Far

Then after they,
just blushing me

he says over circles—
us two & I

our friends to
their weekends

gone‘—years later
it still stings’

our last pint
five-day noise around

her on a sunbed

some other country
on holiday’

sometimes you
can’t help it ;

when he’s soft
she’s away, far

‘it hurts—you
move on

it’ll always kinda—
seeing her— a bit

’ hurt? I finish last ’ one
for the road?’

to his shrug’s
why-not silence.