Sophie Robinson's Poetry
previously published in Projector Magazine
Sophie Robinson’s poetry makes me the best kind of depressed. I sit insentient wondering about suicide (not mine) and why people do it, or try to. What do you do after failing to commit suicide (when you actually meant it)? Your only option would be to build a time machine and ask your parents kindly not to have a baby as that baby would be you and you’re fucked up, like Philip Larkin fucked up, and it would just be for the best if you guys didn’t have me. // Yeah, I’ll stay for a drink if you both put your clothes back on, you can ask me anything and I’ll answer honestly if you promise not to conceive me. I feel weird using your real names – okay to call you M & D? Mum, you get fat. Sorry. So do you, Dad, but you’re not exactly slim now. You’ve got erectile dysfunction as well. I dunno what you’re laughing at, Mum, I saw that absolute monster you keep in your bottom drawer. I almost mistook it for a kitchen utensil. How big is your y’know? Sure, I’ll change the subject. I did all right, got Bs and Cs, but I was bullied so that probably didn’t help. I did tell you, you just said hit them harder. LOL look at me. It’s fine, honestly. // Turns out that’s as long as it took for me not to be conceived*. As logically sound as time travel may be, no one made it clear – textbook Millennial – of what would happen after the fact. I no longer exist and never have. There’s no trace of me. All that is left is this unattached consciousness – i.e. what is “writing” this now. A scramble of thoughts desperate to reattach itself. The realm in which I now “exist” is not bound by time or the laws which govern the natural world. I spend all of my “time” imagining life, the buildings, people, trees, birds, sun, moon and stars. I envisage each detail as vividly as my imagination will allow, recreating my body as I wanted it to look and deposit my consciousness into it. I wander around this world-not-world awing at the minute pieces that my subconscious has filled in, but soon I grow tired. The people aren’t real – why aren’t they moving? Haven’t they got jobs to do, places to go, people to see? The sun doesn’t set; I can imagine the moon’s phases but it would take too much processing power for either of them to rise and set autonomously. It would reduce the remainder to a two-dimensional farce. I set the sun and head home. My husband and kids are reading fairy tales with cups of cocoa, by the fire in the living room. I go into my – our – bedroom and look into the mirror. I don’t recognise myself. Maybe I should’ve kept my imperfections.
previously published in Projector Magazin
Having a good relationship with your neighbour is satisfying, but not as satisfying as the sound of your dog’s shit hitting their greenhouse. Hoover your lawn in summer, or autumn, if you must, but never in winter or spring. Aged nine I gave my crush a fridge magnet which read I dropped a tear into the ocean today. When they find it I'll stop loving you. My parents thought me gay for a while. I wondered whether I was gay too, but decided I wasn’t when my dad told me that it wouldn’t be okay if I was. What happened to Morrissey? I used to fantasise about killing myself in the bath while listening to his music. He’s ruined that for me: killing myself in the bath. Being sensitive is great until it’s not. Fences – hideous. Double glazing might save you a fortune on your energy bills, but I prefer single-glazed windows. Not only are they more stylish, but they can be broken with the smallest of rocks, and make an excellent noise when they are. Wood > plastic. I dyed my hair with bleach aged ten – what a prick. Put a loaf of bread in a bush, it will turn black and birds will not eat it. If it was up to the sergeant, he’d give me a piece of rope and lock me in a room. Our neighbour says: you really should put a collar on your dog; you can’t leave your bin outside your gate as the path is a public right of way; you ought to be careful with keeping those rabbits outdoors; your cat keeps coming into my garden. I apologised and bought her a greenhouse.
Andrew the Wood Pigeon
For Andrew Percival, Who, On Account of a Pellet in the Lung, Died Near the A224 Orpington Bypass, in Early August, 1998.
The wood pigeon’s feathers are grey but its breast is pink and, cooked properly in red wine, is the most succulent of birds.
The wood pigeon is not a furious animal; my apologies if you believed otherwise.
The wood pigeon can count up to thirty-eight but cannot count down – from any number.
The wood pigeon watches when you sleep, making note of the way you tuck your hand between your legs and cocoon your body in the duvet.
When I was a child a wood pigeon spared my life. He knighted me Lord of the Coppice, and squirrels have bowed to me ever since.
The wood pigeon is not religious, but does celebrate Christmas, though he does not sacrifice a turkey; neither does he eat nut roast.
The wood pigeon’s favourite pastime is to knit blankets for spiders during the rainy season.
our awn in summer – or never in or. nine, i a mane ocean in. i was a, i was a me, i was. or is music
in ruin. save our, i sine. noise urn anno. niece in a room. our coarse on our can’, our in our
as a is a unicorn. come in.
Sam Fuller’s work positions itself on the boundary between prose and poetry, combining vivid imagery with a self-referential style. His prose poetry addresses many topics from environmentalism to childhood inadequacy. He is a Creative Writing graduate from the University of Greenwich and is currently writing his first novel, Smile.