Shannon Fox

the beauty of cash in a cashless age is the only thing

that brings me comfort when paying for a chinese takeaway. i could hide my porous
face in steamed custard cream buns for weeks before realising a pound or two had
disappeared from my purse – but then the mourning would begin. we hold onto
cash around here, not for monetary reasons, but rather the sentimentality of when
a fiver had the simple meaning of ‘can you grab me a double southern comfort and
lemonade?’. i never really liked that drink anyway. it just reminded me of better
times when a drink was a drink and not a price i was unaware i was paying.

forgive me i am overwhelmed.

the grocery procession

there are too many poems set in a supermarket.
i don’t know who decided this was the place to be but
walt whitman and i could walk through the aisles hand in hand
and have nothing to say to each other because ginsberg mopped up the last of it.  

maybe i’m projecting.   

the light may be slightly bright.  

you give me a list;
it gives you something to say.

you have it a little better than me.

wash your face, i feel it.

Shannon Fox is a Mancunian poet who spent the last five years pretending to understand poetry in St Andrews. While she does still write frequently, she now spends most of her time in Cardiff pretending to understand psychology instead.