Lazy Gramophones Journals

Five Things is a series of short journal posts introducing each of the writers and artists involved in our up-coming Time project. Since the project's inception, the idea has been to create an environment where independent writers and artists could come together in order to share their work. The result of this endeavour is a collection of stories, images and poems based around the theme of... read more

Time is a vast collaborative book project containing short stories, poems and artwork by fifty-five contributors. Initially inspired by a discussion on gamebooks, this project has taken over three years to grow into a fully formed book. The importance of collaboration has always been central to Lazy Gramophone Press's ethos, especially the pairing of words and images. This project therefore, is... read more

A collection of sketches: simple and honest, these poems seek to placate experience and depict the eternity beyond our landscape. Written by Sam Rawlings, and with illustrations by Dan Prescott, Circle Time is an exploration into the nature of human experience. It focuses upon the way our emotional lives spiral as we grow older, the ways in which the echoes of our past are carried through... read more

Opening up all around above below me clear blue beautiful memories are finally being set free, at last released from the questioning violence the threatening self pity so cynical. Free to float peacefully amongst the slowly dancing leaves of trees amongst the heavy raindrops that occasionally paint lazily over our sunny days. Free now without any perception of possibility to be,... read more

Nothing profound sounds this polite and wiry. No cures allowed; They're all around everybody but nobody's telling Selling instead. Could live off this stuff Snort it when lost for words, When feelings pour towards the exit forgetting Resigned from upsetting only pretending to talk, Our intentions are falling; Lethargic from throats dry and sore From too much nothing. Resonant with... read more

That moment of confluence past, only a diligent reflection of the stars upon our clear skin contrasts these currents of feeling creeping between us. A voice drifts in the dark, cold as the moon quiet as the arch of a fin callous as the cracks appearing from within the beds of our lips; a sun-dried apathy. Stagnant puddles litter the fall of each balding crest the dissolution of... read more

Her blonde pours from the great doors and from the windows, falls from the lamps hung like my head at this hour, carves a path straight through the absence of light. Not a single car nor even a voice, only my shadows sow time tonight. The air rakes at my feet as I drag them through the invisible scores of braced eyes all been planted deep within our history. A mutany of mind.... read more

A yellow puddle adrift the persistence, lock of hair, of refuge accorded the blinking sky. My light of air. Town of teeth and darkness, another haunted morning, echoes of a thousand feet, black eyes and perfect manes, the sound of our pause, the sound of change. My weight a damn of silence against the roar of space. She stands with balanced lips, our seesaw aches. My... read more

Shouldn't we speak a little more softly afloat the breeze, in case words like memories conspire to break this, reclaim our hearts. Locks of chaos fall, dance upon her neck, arc of chin and that quick inhalation of breath; a labyrinth of limbs. Shouldn't we pay a little more attention cling a little tighter to this skimming stone's mast, for thoughts perchance to kiss, so often surpassed... read more