Issue 21: Christian Coppa and William Hall

We Are in Sri Lanka

            After Made in Chelsea

Imagine being able to put your phone

On airplane mode. Imagine

We are in Sri Lanka,

Dipping our persons in amid

The glittering fragments

The junior boat captain(s)

Notating, dimly, the spaces between

Our personal scheme.

It seems inevitable for us

That congruence of such fantasies

Punctuates the work of abstraction

(How you felt in your capacity

As adult, and in

Sri Lanka)

And while that process

Does hold out the promise,

The understanding

Does so without shortcut,

A second, binocular Angle

To which we are slated from birth

Called mirth.

This isn’t a play-by-play

It’s a transaction history.

It is the legible gift of precipitation,

Those saying we should be ourselves

Might vie, once, twice

For in a life

There is nothing else but Tim Tams.

Liv speaks,

‘We are in Sri Lanka!’

The offspring of this night,

This right, this teasing

Shy of frith,

We are made ourselves again,

Matched by the equable showinesses

Of plenary heads.

You emote into the screen,

We are in Sri Lanka,

Knowing full well how this will be received,

Whose prefecture will be displaced,

Told to sniffle with signification,

Localizing, among all the change,

The summer projects of yesterday’s

Summers. Most complete.

Aren’t we – Liv?

Delete. Among the slightly

Altered visions,

Sounds of wind in, what,

Trees, the craft so longe to lerne

Traipses in, and disturbs

Our melting at the Savoy.

Or was it just that boy across the sillion,

That crosses our mind, apolitical,

And gives our word for the day?

Ideal relations, wouldn’t interflex

In the counterchange of boroughs

With words of selfish herit-age

To blame it all on me, refuse these ears:

                                                We can index

To solace awkward scenes in third-rate

Bars how wrong it is, how nice

                                A console of the fuck

The less should Tif had found we’re miles apart;

I litrely will forget the shit u made

In chelsea chacing nites we chose to

Have. intending to sun tan

Where the habsburg empire

Grafted to the wilder Sian,

The ensign Zion, the cuter Ell

The savaged Victoria line.

Monogamoute, i love you from the bottom

Of my cheating decks: i spin before the ethic of

Disastrous success, with each surcease

Sursouse. The hyper-tonic candie, apt

And cute,

For sea-knots of depth, we waunt gravely,

Bavarian cakes or Boston cremes

The great portent of shaggy rugs and fur-shawl

echoes of fore-shortened mind                                   

Who bends with the retriever

To regroup

The vibes to flirt

Prolonged by repetition

Of the first exposed to

Road-rage of bending pain:

Say what i feel?                       

Love is not premeditation

It felt apt and cute to say

It in Mihiki,                      you lost yours

To pre-set abs of the red-red limbnody

And that’s all one;

A Non-starter on the Thames

is hot espousal,

The absent segue, and us


A mirror-hall to

Squander hourly feuds

stressing what I

should be concentrating more

On what you did,

How we get into the hypertrophic zone,

And stay there.

Moonthe farrier of our flitting passions

Cruising 1860 butterflies

Or was it

A different pleasure entirely,

Fordham bridge,

Say, or Dunbar queering


The chat we must forgo till there’s a chance:

We need to talk, in tears sweet face or jet away

For two of us the camera gives leave space

My problem becomes you, too cared to note

The time exacerbates apart, the years have

Frigated winter passage through without fatigue

The city limits bind our circus haunt

cinnamon water the royal borough

is a bamboo shoot

O antifone; is that a bentley, Keven?

Not a concerto but a topographical aim.

Meanwhile adoring me                                                           

You feel your shame in bulk

hary baron was fucking correct,

Last thing i’d ever want to do, not plaised

To hurt; karma’s a bitch & im an idiot,

Logic of error flocks, where impudence abounds.                       

We have a fucking good relationship

It’s just not working;

                            a poem has many a function;

As the Ritz was once a destiny           


The petulant champion of sundaes would Hazel

Sit in the lobby with lemon-yellow sucking candies

 && the gentiles would weep,

Or was it still a different pleasure:

A pleasant charade,     the false in duple,

                             cucumbered with

humour of debate, inviolate decorums

You’re the ex for no reason,

on account of opal aciditatem

Rather exterior indent, cruise of novel


It was not the unrubbing of our two persons,

The Ernst frottage, it was

Blotting us from entire cities,

Or subcontinental light the grain of which

Depressed as much as it clarified

Your form against the grass, a

Picture plane.

The couples retreat

Into a third vantage, seen

From the predella, SANATH

Bathes in 58 hectares of

Interpersonal paradise:

The Yala, Udawalawe, HERE convey

Imaginative furtherance

I hope your stay has pleased

As much as it made vivid

Meanwhile, our exes dissemble

The unwished possibility of morbid

Inference that two are

IN FACT  flirting,


Tasty and persistent stratagems, tried

The ripeness stage of jackfruit:

It is young enough to surrender,

In one move, its vision of itself

Or autodecathect

In effect, this is a personality test

 we forget  that

In the line «though to itself it only live and die»

Is contained the overt artifice,

A prose both secret and secretable,

A diagram of every unknown heaven,

And we are 27.

And we are in Sri Lanka.

Si je lis avec plaisir cette phrase,

A fugitive rime, to the effect that love is hell

a well-trod flirtation deficient in actuality                       

will knell

Love is best.

Christian Coppa and William Hall are both PhD candidates at Cambridge. They met in or about coffee shops.

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