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Two Poems by Brit Parks

Brit Parks is an American poet, writer, artist, and scholar living in Europe. Parks engages her poetry, theory, and art poetics as a study of language itself whilst discussing abstracts of ephemerality, materialism, and vulnerable myths. GLASS LIMBS, her full-length poetry book, was released in 2021. Her forthcoming book, STONE AMNESIA, will feature a collection of poetry and art poetics. She has published upwards of forty poems in international print publications, including five in the book SMEAR, edited by Greta Bellamacina, three in The London Magazine, and twelve in ALBION AN ISLAND ON THE VERGE OF MADNESS, by New River Press. Among other performances, she read her poetry at Shakespeare and Company Paris in 2019 and at Café Central in Menorca, Spain, in 2023. In 2020, she was commissioned to write a poem for the Monuments Men Foundation to honour the 75th anniversary of WWII. Her art poetics are featured in the Japanese photography book MONO by Hiroko Matsubara and Sofia Fanego as well as in Issue 3 of the London-based DOESN’T EXIST MAGAZINE.



VICENS NIGHTINGALE SYNDROME


we solicit a numeral

fleur and ask it

to be a pet, our pet

to never wilt

the elimination of

melancholy invented


in porcelain fevers

the ballet of your wood

squared eyes is

my new companion


a parapet of

sunken oil bending to

teeth starters


A spill forth of

your strings

the disillusion

of limbs has

us verseing

They built stone

teatros and listened

for hours to the

same woes, to

the same quadrant

of love entoured


We are a remembrance

of her as we

hear her walking

dancing instead

instill


Sullen mouth

of a bother

your chambers

are gas, the

kind that stays

in a hallucination

of aire, the kind

that has fallen

in love with

stealing your breath

they hollowed out

your bones, no

one has a sorry as

you are not her

she is sleeping,

look in the mausoleum

first


I BORROW YOU


in my bed secret i am straight i am my casting, coated in a silence

the slather of my bones is hollow the wood inches of my toes are not my feet

i borrow you

i ask for a mercy i know i am the falling cross of an unborn saint in here we are wooden mysteries of wax melted waiting for a savior

i borrow you

i am now my own collar i am now my own help the swollen mouth of my own making

i borrow you

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