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Orla Foster

There's Ones For That


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This zine starts with me getting hit by a bus and goes downhill from there. I don’t know who I’m pitching this at exactly, but if I didn’t print another thing my head would only be full of Google calendar notifications or frozen pizza, and that’s no kind of life. What are these poems even about? I don’t know, women’s magazines, train journeys, weird workshops, English people in airports. It’s pretty short, you could probably read the whole thing on a train too.