sext 

the story goes

that when they spied the kraken’s head

sailors set off home-made flares

for the fleet on the horizon

legend has it

that when he had abandoned ship

and the captain washed up far from home

he lit beacons every night

for the shadows of passing ships

coffee, sandwich

a buzz in your pocket

I light my match

my last pinch of dry powder

I watch the waves for a sign


trepanning

archaeologists learn more from middens than 

from monuments

more from scattered pits and shattered clay 

than gold and marble

the worn teeth and the mended skull

tell a tender story of their own

you and I won’t recoil

from the sliding trash-heap we’ve made here together

our record runs bone deep


Katy Naylor lives by the sea, on the south coast of England. She makes games and writes in the time that falls between the cracks.

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