Independent of the eye-stinging secondhand smoke, today has been hot garbage for me, both of my husbands, and the mother of my godchild, which is not how anyone should spend Alan Turing's yahrzeit. Have a ghost poem for him which I had not previously encountered: Linda Bierds, "Evolution." I am forty-one years old, not yet close enough to my birthday to have outlived him, unimaginably closer than when I was sixteen. When Christopher Morcom was my age, he had been dead for twenty-three years.
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Active Entries
- 1: Chinatown, London Underground, you know it all sounds good to me
- 2: I'm singing out this poem all the way back home
- 3: Pa vez o pellaat da vag, ha ma c'hoantaez c'hoazh?
- 4: Take us roaming in the gloaming, your Ross rifle by your side
- 5: I spoke of crimes and of my friends in the same breath
- 6: You've got to live the life you're fighting for
- 7: Neuial a ran dre ar ruzenn
- 8: We have come to dance this dance to please the company
- 9: Thousands of ghosts in the daylight
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