London

London

by Bobb Attard

with an illustration by Tigrowna

i remember


lying in bed on a sunday afternoon, loud techno on to mask off my painful sounding vocal tics


distracting myself with the view of the topless graffiti artists from outside my bedroom window;


admiring their art and sometimes their bodies


while fantasising about a future where I’m standing comfortably in public. 


numb hatred towards the capitalist monster that has been slowly eating so many places, memories and people that i held dearly. 


the frustration on the first week of the month when a major chunk of my money was sniffed out of my bank account like cocaine at an East London house party.


the discomfort within my own skin that has been aggravated throughout the last year. 


somehow on my brief return, the veil seems to have been either blown away by the wind or perhaps misplaced on a night out.

i know that


somehow on my brief return, the veil seems to have been either blown away by the wind or perhaps misplaced on a night out.


i didn’t even know i was wearing it, until i realised it wasn’t there anymore.


the realisation of how even more uncomfortable i am now, 
and that I’m actively seeking more discomfort disguised as curiosity or experience, 
or perhaps it’s a search for temporary fulfilment of a fantasy where I’m materialistically comfortable. 


there’s a comfortable feeling of nakedness here, 


away from the catholic shame that still subliminally affects my environment. 


the unapologetic queerness that i breathe out, almost as if I’ve been holding my breath since June (obviously excluding splattered moments of comfort here and there)


the feeling of personal identity in a place where i once felt lost 


and the wonderful feeling of community in a place where it doesn’t seem to exist through the naked eye. 


the lack of anger towards being misunderstood about mundane trivialities that essentially make us who we are. 


the diversity that paradoxically may or may not be the product of a system that i despise so much. 


the hatred towards a city that destroyed me.


the love towards a city that built me.

Bobb Attard (b. Malta, 1988) is a visual artist, portrait photographer and closeted writer who spent his most adult life in London and is currently based in Zagreb.


Tigrowna: Queer drawing and printing with passion.

Shifting Traditions

Call for Submissions

DEADLINE: 30.12.2019

You do not live in the same environment that you were born into. Your surroundings have changed, your body has changed, the way you are perceived, the way you are treated, the way you perceive and treat yourself is subject to constant change.

Whether you’ve stayed in the same place, but the political system, and family relations, or the climate changed around you, or whether you live with the memory of a place or situation you have left a long time ago or just yesterday – there are certain aspects of past and present within you or shared with the people around you that come together in harmony, struggle, or somehow don’t come together at all. They are traditions in transition.

POEM I DON’T WANT TO WRITE

POEM I DON’T WANT TO WRITE

by aabbchot aabbaadd aabbswallow // illustration by Jespa Jacob Smith /// I’m trapped in my silence, – I don’t tell anyone about my alarm, – I know why I am in this situation, – thoughts constantly recur, remind me. I’ve developed and actioned plans,…

Call: Shifting Traditions

Call: Shifting Traditions

Submission deadline: December 31st, 2019
We accept fictional and biographical work. Submissions can be written, drawn, photo essays, made into a film, song, or installation. Please get in touch if you have a certain idea, but are not sure if it fits the topic or if the form will work.