Literary Vegan

1. Flicking my hips underwater, I make a tail of my legs. To move through matter head first  fingers kissing — I am the cursive language  of the under blue not looking for awkward answers, like when I am upright just the rolling writing  of this realm  No age, either; it always feels the same,  every liquid letter.  2.  The stormcloud unleashes  a ghost tongue  out of its mouth; apparition indigo, peach — the houses underneath on the hill are neon answers to starshine a lone, dried leaf,  leeched of colour sails past the arc width  and settles on the grass with a scratch — 'endings' I think. But the rainbow licks at it too pouring holy violet light continuous. C. LJ Ireton 2025

Fingernails trace crystals, crushed,  swirled into wet wood. They dry the colour of coral cosmos under my eyelids. From petal to paper to petal. LJ Ireton c. 2025 (For Harriet Muncaster)

1. The morning spider web  makes a stained glass window of the world; fragments of life  in-between lines iridescent,  designed by a dot mind,  breaking the present into pieces to catch the future.  2. When the sun sinks, the sapphire birds come; circle the water and scoop one by one, ascending back on an infinity string  with full beaks. Who decides the sequence?  Outside of the group, orders are mysteries,  descending.  C. LJ Ireton, 2025

I curl myself  around felines wild at rest, their self-assured spines slow-dance in their sleep. Contentment  is always curved, round – a fur-covered word: serenity, with a tail. Even seconds can't resist; in the presence of cats they bend and ball themselves  into blankets. C. LJ Ireton 2025

There were waves today. But I was undeterred – I swam into the rise while it watched me,  then under the curve: unglamorous turquoise,  stirred with silt.  Standing, I could be pushed over, but I had already leapt, woven in – no floor to leave. I wondered if my spirit could mimic my limbs like this when waves surged on dry land; those that swell with no form, the force of unexpected feeling that is oblivious to the wind. C. LJ Ireton 2025

The heartbeat of the whale-throat sea  is slow, pushing a world's blood: blue heavy with history, into prophecy that licks into waves like a dragon's tongue frothy with wind and disbelief. But I believe – my red rhythm recognises something floating furious, my own pulse dances in the bigger beast's drum. And creature, we scream the dirt and silver of the storm, eroded limbs and salt-eyed strong breaking the line of water into a circle – myself into myself back up to the surface. C. LJ 2025 (Inspired by Six Wild Crowns)