http://slow.writerscafe.org/abbypullanpoems The original writings of author abbypullanlitandpoetry en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776003360 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 I'm so infatuated I cannot breathe through skin, Your cartographic face haunts morning's fractured light. I left you in bewilderment but why remains within.Each synapse fires memories till vertigo begins: Your scrunched smile, those fault line creases holding tight. I'm so infatuated I cannot breath.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2954513/ I wasn’t born I was belchedfrom a government throatwrapped in a napkin that said“best before austerity.”They taught me God lives in spreadsheetsand kneecaps are negotiable.They put sugar on the pills,then taxed the sugar,then sold the sicknessback to me in bottl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2951541/ The orange colossus belches steel from towers built of rage, his tweets like wasps that nest in rotting television screens, While Tehran's children count the seconds on history's burning page And mothers clutch their prayers like broken sewing machines.His fingers, fat as butcher.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2951540/ Mirror me.Glass is a cold sea against bare skin,and I am the tide that pulls you near.Your eyes, twin storms,scan the quiet shore searching,restless.Mirror me.My fingers curl like smoke,tracing secret watersbeneath moonlight skin.You shift...a moth caughtin the web of my silhouette.Mirror me.I .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2950781/ From my collection, avalible on Amazon: Blood & Bread: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bread-Blood-Voices-Struggle-Resilience/dp/B0DP7WCFGN/ref=sr_1_1?crid=25RM3M9ERPH75&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.8qm8GKx9dWzg_ZKJ-lBs http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2950466/ The Night ShiftThe security guard counts sheepthat leak from broken televisions,each one wearing tiny name tagslike refugees from someone else's sleep.His torch illuminates the ghosts of photocopiersprinting blank confessionswhilst the coffee machinedispenses liquid regretdropby measureddrop.At.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2950462/ The Drawer That SticksMy father's jumper still holds the shapeof arguments we never finished,its wool fibres knotted tightlike a child's stubborn shoelacesrefusing to come undone. I find his spare glasses wearing dust like tiny monocles,their lenses clouded with the breathof words he meant.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2950461/ I'm falling backwardsthrough the floor of myself,panic wet and shameful.I pinchuntil blood surfaces.The customer watches. I don't exist enough to care. "Cash or card?"My voice,hollow as a dropped tin can. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2950460/ The Museum of AlmostIn the archives of my mother's silence live all the girlfriends I never brought home, their laughter crystallised in amber, like pressed flowers between forbidden pages.Behind glass marked:"Do Not Touch," live all the kisses that happened in darkness, the hands that found mi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2950459/ You are the magnetic declination that renders my compass useless: true north spinning wild in the presence of your gravity.I have charted the topography of your sleeping form but cannot navigate the strange weather system of your silences.In my study, surrounded by atlases of places that no longer e.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2950458/ his poem captures apocalyptic anxiety through surreal domestic imagery - moths eating calendars, philosophical milk, roses with trust issues. The "f**k it" refrain embodies that particularly British r http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/abbypullanpoems/2949499/