the evening party /

a collection of writings, poems and photographs by the anonymous author ︎︎︎  
2019—present ︎︎︎ Index of entries ︎︎︎ Email ︎︎︎

‘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

The Empty Beach

A fizzing hiss rising
to the low grey tongue licking
itself toward the shore—

quickly as quick as
the gust it rushes, roars soaring
while shackled sails quiver

& the first beats of
rain static battered the sand of
this morning’s storm

,which under shimmer ‘neath a
new lover—the gulls torn up shoved
through waves of wind

over droplets landing on
my cheeks before the empty beach
—exhausted sea smothered

& erased ,it all comes
down crashing in drenched swipes
the cold soaking through;

chasing me away
through diagonal lines, the tear &
the sting, the empty beach.