Kit Ingram

ALT A book cover with a parchment-style beige background. At the top, the title X Coranto is printed in large black serif font. Below, a paragraph of descriptive text explains the book as “a stitched map of detritus” blending headlines, confessions, and stories, encouraging the reader to “pull the seams” and “unwind” its threads. The author’s name, Written by Kit Ingram, follows in bold. In the lower half, an intricate black illustration features a stylised skull flanked by floral and ornamental motifs, including roses, scrolls, and smaller skulls. At the bottom, Broken Sleep Books, 2025 is printed in a serif font.

ALT A plain white book on a plain white background. The book cover reads 'Submissions Open', 'Full-length poetry collections', '1st April - 31st May'

ALT Plain black book cover, with the title (The Demon Tracts), Author (Kristjan Norge), and press (Broken Sleep Books) in a dark yellow font.

ALT Introduction BY MID-SUMMER OF 1961, Norwegian-Shetlandic poet, Kristján Norge, had become entirely convinced he was the ‘imago agens’ or performing memorial catalyst of a demon. By the close of the year, he had vanished altogether from the Hebridean death station, Eilean a’ Bháis, leaving behind what came to be collated as The Lighthouse Papers and an abstruse amnesiac system, Ravage, now archived in the Scottish Poetry Library. The following pages, which Norge titled The Demon Tracts, are excerpted from his ‘loggbok’ and track the final months of his decline. A peculiar satellite work to Ravage, The Demon Tracts charts Norge's experience with the 'Sluagh nam Marbh', a malevolent wind of voices which traditionally blasted the Highlands and Islands of Scottish folklore. Norge insisted his encounter with the Sluagh was real and The Demon Tracts apparently testifies to this feral experience. Though feral, the tracts are organised — following the fingernail sliver of new moon

ALT Book cover, ALL EMPTY VESSELS written across the front, breaking after each third letter, 4 lit matches obscure some parts of the letters.

ALT I Gentle or not, you lost me at Raven. Every time a Bird’s beak acts as a doorbell, a librarian shreds a book on Avian Flu. Lenore never loved you enough to be Virginia, barely enough to not confuse you with a racing pigeon. Edgar, I’ve been dreaming I’m you again, dreaming of our poor soul fed to a petting zoo where the children confuse crows for magpies, confuse trinkets for enough gold to buy a house and set our family up for life. We’ve earned the wrath of birds and poetry won’t save us; birds don’t care for sonnets. The man on the moon is stabbing himself nightly, inflicting tiny cuts so when the knife storm arrives he may be immune. Write about that, Edgar, write about that in your syphilitic state. Nobody remembers your final words but I can hazard a guess; eyes bent to the heavens, back arched in the drunken throes of a life seeping away, did you call out for an albatross? Did you see the blood pool on the moon’s craters, hear a heart beating somewhere three houses over

ALT The Village Acres When I think about you, father, I think about the field where we shot those rats with a walnut stocked gun. The spark of metal pellets off a dusty stable floor. Yellow cloud, yellow front teeth, a curl of dark red from a gurning mouth. To somehow be at peace, this quick knotting up of flesh. Yellow as the honeybees bunched above your shirt as you ran down the acre. Young birch tree planted in the middle learning to thrive in the immediacy of death. The chop of a battered shovel saddened by your frown. Stood in the brackish heat of a late summer sun, I hear the shriek of insects wild under straw, watch the shapes stooped in the dust of the poultry run. This heavy world sloshing in a rusty pail carried at arm’s length, your misunderstanding displayed on palms way too tentative to hold a child.

ALT BROKEN SLEEP BOOKS READINGS FROM 'DREAM LATIN' an anthology of writing about the subconcious, published by Broken Sleep Books in partnership with Aberystwyth University's Centre for Creativity and Wellbeing Dream Latin is an anthology which allows the subconscious to be a vehicle for reflection, not just of who we are, but also of who we might be. Here, in poetry, stories and essay, the unconscious is revealed as a place of fear, a place of hope, a place of longing, and a place of freedom. https://thebookshopbythesca.co.uk/events THURSDAY 22ND FEBRUARY: 1900 (7:00PM) START Free Entry. Refreshments provided

ALT Plain green-black book cover. Title is Broken Sleep Books 2023

ALT Red book cover. A photo of a red and skyline, with the entire photo turned shades of red. 4 lines (red, white, red, yellow) emerge from the distance and vertically head up to the sky.

ALT Bones and other bits of architecture crack and buckle. He collapses, reaches for the Bombay Sapphire (‘Sunset’ edition) empty – whoosh – he drank it as the moon watched, its eye half blackened by night, then blued by a noon sky ringing with birds. He craves morning, the robins and thrushes trilling before the sun heaves over the horizon. He’s no misanthrope, but his hate grows when the arguing through the walls of this terraced house spikes his anxiety. Maybe he’s the cause. Hence the audio punishments, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn blaring ad infinitum. Once, before he stopped talking to strangers, he met the gardener sawing the hands off the neighbours’ tree. She asked if she could clear the debris from his yard (her clients, actuaries the risk, untenable) and he said not to worry – he’d make a sculpture of these crooked fingers reaching up to the light. *

ALT Sex workers tricked his sleepy lane into a thoroughfare – the Victorian cottages, a break from the greasy adjoining streets, the warehouses sick in the ashen light of moon. He thought these laugh peddlers would wait for an audience, but they scutter in jerky movements as if hidden strings yank their limbs. Sometimes a figure will glance at his window and mistake his palm on the pane for a wave and not desperation for the light of celestial bodies. He worries about vitamin D deficiency, so pops tablets from the blister pack, chases them down with milk. Something obscene about all the choking. He’d rather die with gin on his lips, an assassin’s ghost sliding over him with a silenced gun. * Sometimes pushed down the stairs by a laughing child or chained to a rock, his organs beaked out by an eagle with cold gold eyes.