Livvy J Hopper


Livvy J Hooper is a poet and short fiction writer, artist, and budding journalist based in South East London.

Shortlisted for the Jane Martin Poetry Prize in 2014, she self-published her first collection of poems and illustrations - Grey Animals: Gourmet Edition - while studying for her undergraduate degree that same year and writing for Cultured Vultures Webzine.



LinkedIn: in/livvyjhooper

Twitter: @finchfm

View as PDF: Livvy J Hooper - Poetry

A Coffee at Hotel Ibis 

an open lobby looms upside down in coffee tables

oil-soaked candle wicks decanting light

through noise;


dogless bones sit cracking bottles and teeth

drifting through sterile beds

and the homely;


builders are controlling light and air with sculptures

wire-globes hung like chandeliers

twisting glass;


slatted interior balconies zoopraxiscope men

around electricity-soaked pillars

and mirrored walls;


waiting rooms and bars are copulating for audiences

that sit brittle like thread wound

through springs;


static travellers throw coins at substituted glasses

blinking newsreaders and tickers

telling time;


taking a soft-seated momentary lapse in judgement

as a precursor to the rattling journey

women wait.

city simpatico 

dismantled hooks and parsed negatives strung

with ice hang limbs from accumulated architecture

processing some evident truth while

silhouettes of two­-legged detritus suck the stone.


stained towers and spiked skylines

drape clouds around their glass shoulders

trawling rhythm for company the topped out

saddle of the city sunk.


films with no screens and cautious storms

wring blood from metal droplets

as a kiss splashed art onto ribs

you ate the meat torn from bone


feet creaking around verbs and

alchemy soaking into strangers’ faces

the crack in outer shells crowned to death

for profit and peeling scalps.


entangled vices and tonal ticking

spreads across the walkways dry like heated veins

healing your rump and shank with

the cutouts of discovered sound.


Lying starched on starched white, disinfectant wine 

and concrete pudding cups lining fake window sills; 


through black spider grids, grey­maned snoozers lilt 

between linoleum reflections and clipboard shutters, 


holding vigils and tiny hands in rebellious sleep, 

hearing tick then bleep and distant porter clatter. 


Stashed in the wrong ward, small warmth tucked under 

I-­promise­-no-­one-­died-­on­-these sheets, just below that 


crane­-borne screen bleating money gulf into blank eyes, 

books banked on carbon-­copy cabinets, rippled cups. 


Wilting now into sleep, or pin­-cushioned into 

muscular droop, dreams and time conflate visits; 


hurried wheeling under blank fluorescence, blurring 

strips of light while red paste slides back into ears and 


eye line drifts onto the spilt self, spattered on cardboard collar 

the stripped Rorschach bloom discarded poorly in peripheral 


or; a scheduled lid­lift after blood is threaded stiff, 

one hand counting out consciousness, the other 


counting it back in: wrist wired shut with it, 

nodule taped to paralysis and stinging lines. 


Applying pale goop to stitched eyes in a private bathroom, 

nurse leaning outside the door; or the taste of metallic pus 


sweating out a swollen tongue behind

a cherry-­red wishbone sigil taken on the chin.