Oliver Reed There is a picture of you behind the bar where we eat French sausage and are drunk and I think I know since a child, your huge hairy face, that I love you very purely. Always have You smoulder a mobile furnace — one never thinks, on the screen, that there on the other side is an embryo, a living lusting flesh, being put out of play because you’ve got a mask on, Oliver Reed face of the Old Game, birthed in the crotchet of rape I lift a little finger And taste the Merguez juice from my chin. Waiting for Dinner My brain is woolen and so is this small glass, a lace for the hour, a writing bribe Has it beat you out of words? Or got you drunk, frantic or melancholy. Four lemons and a pair low tide, un-known purple hands — I’ve stared into the promise well for eight years now, asked for money politely each day. Art is a joke only the rich find funny, an eating contest: embodied responses to faking it, in a dark but profitable world. I take out a hair pin And get to work against a wooden scene. Everyone I know has one finger in the revolution and the other in their own eye — singing I’m an optimist, honest, I ate my twin in the womb
Hannah Regel is a poet and artist based in London. She holds a BA in Art Practice from Goldsmiths College and a MFA in Sculpture from the Slade School of Fine Art. Her writing has been published in Eros Journal, Two Serious Ladies, Leste Magazine, Montez Press Interjection Calendar, The Literateur, Form IV and The Laboratory for Aesthetics and Ecology. Her first collection of poetry, When I Was Alive, was published in December 2017 by Montez Press. She is also the coeditor of the feminist journal SALT.