No.121 by Scritch-Scratch
My Ears
I remember the night I first heard the sound of wings playing the piano.
The harp and the zither greeted my silent ears.
The moon rejoiced and sang an original song.
I had been waiting for this.
Knowing it would come one day.
The Song of Solomon told me one cold and frosty night.
The wind speaks to me in long silky verses.
Violins and harps sing me to sleep.
The sound of words and songs.
That have graced my ears.
Have not changed me to any extent.
They just made me smile.
Sandy Rochelle
USA
Genesis
His love for her smelled of cinnamon
Hers for him of a clear blue sky
Their days were sparky and sparkly
And their nights wicked and witchy
Yet, her eggs spurned his sperm
Sneezed cooties on his genes
Proud eggs fertilized on their own
Genesised a baby free of his cells
Balu Swami
Buckeye, AZ, USA
A Kid Or Two
Did not take long
For us to see who we are
Did not take long
Before you warmed up your car
As you pulled away
I started to shiver
I saw you laugh in your rear-view mirror
If you think breaking up is hard to do
Try doing it with a kid or two
As I still only have
My rusty Harley chopper
Now I get to hear about mommy’s
New boyfriends helicopter
Now we divide our children and pets
Instead of cocaine and cigarettes
Alan Berger
West Hollywood, California
Flying
A mean drunk some of the time
A body and mind of loveliness most of the time
Her love will never be mine
We all have our addictions
All are sublime
Some we kick
Most we can’t lick
Which is fine
She is mine
A beautiful person
With a heart hot as ice
Someone you would not want to mess with
Someone who does not think twice
The merit can wait
Until the right situation
Her
Love and hate
Come from the same plate
Yet
Time with her is like flying
Everything else is fast standing still
The pleasure and excitement
Of losing your will
You think you know someone, and you don’t
You think some ones loves you, and they won’t
And even through
They are too good at being coy
While what is behind it is underemployed
Being with her is like flying
Everything else is grinding
A waterfall and a cloud of beauty
Tunes my moral compass
To its call of duty
But it does not remain long
Until another fresh tune comes along
Then there is this girl
Who is and isn’t
You never know
Her exact existence
Any contemporary woman
Knows vanity when she sees it
How far can you go with the racket they call,” Believe in it” ?
Yet
There is the way that she cares
And the way she never will
I can stare at her forever and a day
As she goes out without me to play
I’m going to lay down for a little bit
And everything will be ok
When I pick it up again something will come my way
Man am I ever down
Different territory but the same old story
Man am I beat
Different address on the same one-way street
Man am I dead
No I’m not
I’ll begin again
You just wait till get my second wind
On my way
To return what I bought
Until I think
Of another afterthought
A lovely peachy person
All of the time
As long as the locations
Are only in my mind
Alan Berger
West Hollywood, California
Revelations
I had a dream last night
Was way deep in the sack
The heavens beheld a sight
On live T.V.
Jesus Christ came back
And who was the first person
That he wanted to see?
It was none other than me
We went for coffee
That was our path
Elvis came in
And wanted an autograph
He talked about dying
And how great it was to be free
We talked about lying
I said that was my specialty
He said if I was a liar
I was preaching to the choir
Then I met a girl
That made me feel alive
I was 80
She was 25
One or two things
Led to some others
I figured it was alright
Even if I was old enough
To her good looking
Slightly older brother
Then I woke up
And realized
What was real
And like so many others
I found fantasy, religion, and Elvis in jail
Alan Berger
West Hollywood, California
Penal Colony
It is another hot day with nothing to do except what I am told to.
A new day beginning
Another night that I can not get through
Mail call comes in a million years
Don’t mean a thing to you know who
There will be nothing for my ears
On my first day I was too scared to be scared
There was also a bit of an adventurous turn-on in the air
Until my kind showed me how I was much I was un-prepared
I was not in the for big three
Drugs, violence, nor The Unforgivable , underage sex crime spree
So, I was left alone with no bad kiddie target on me bones
I was a crook whose weapons were my voice and a phone
Thirty days in my wife decreed it was over
At least for a month she was my hope for an easy starting over
I lost it all, then I lost some more
I was standing and crawling on a bottomless floor
Once in a second or two, and in a good mood ,your mind sets sail
Until you remember, anything at anytime can happen in jail
I looked around and around, I could not figure
What was wrong with this picture, so naked and bare
Of course, it made imperfect sense me being there
It happens to the best of them
I happened to be far from the worst
Out of the evil in here
I would not come in first
There was a movie last night
There was a guy in jail
When the captive audience
Saw his situation
He got a ten-minute standing ovation
There was a film on another night with Dennis Quid
The one where he was gay
I guess he wanted to expand himself
Didn’t matter at this theatre
After the nickel dropped, everyone left
When you look up the sun still heats your face
Still of course, I would be rather grateful
To be some in other space
Don’t or do look now look now
With that dumb look on your face
You did get caught and no, it will not erase
It was a working Men’s prison camp
Run to the letter, here is the stamp, you should have known better
I was an orderly
And it meant the world to me
It was the most sought out job in the joint
And yet I still tired to foil it
You should have seen the warden’s face
When I told her I don’t do toilets
Had to wait on-line forever
A certain hour to use the phone
And then the news is always all bad
What else would you expect from hair, skin, and bone?
Alan Berger
West Hollywood, California
Make It
Here are some words
That I may or may not write someday
When The world I rent in
Evicts me without moving pay
Leaving me speechless
With words that won’t say
Make it not come my way
Till it is all in my sway
Here is a handshake
And a thought
I remember when proud
The sounds that I sought
Were never too loud
Were easily heard and caught
Then I learned in order to cool down
You have to first burn
There was a girl
Who lit the match
Who made it all run
A well-oiled machine
She woke one day with years of instant sense clear and keen
She was spotted last wandering along The Seine
Make it all go away
Or make it rhyme with my say
Sometimes I know, it’s over
Then again and again
I find a five-leaf clover
So when I aske for the check
So I can leave after my fill
I somehow find a few reasons
To extend my stay ‘
I’ll figure it out
In a few days
Without paying the bill
Mike it all go away
Or make I rain everyday
Make up you mind
My Universe
Before we run out of time
Alan Berger
West Hollywood, California
Truly
I went to bed scared
And I woke up in fear
I was sweating off a nightmare
Waiting for me here
My wife was at her sister’s
And I was with the blues
She took the kid the dog and cat
And her favorite pair of shoes
I looked up at the ceiling
Clean thru the sky
And said Lord Baby
I truly want to die
Then from on high
Came this lullaby
Hey you know what what pal?
I’m with you
Down there it ain’t working
And that’s the cold truth
I tried me a flood
Set the Devil free to dance
Turned you into stone
Kept giving you a chance
I am The God forgiveness
The king of The Second Chance
But I think the time has come
For you last stance
Jesus Christ what am I hearing?
And sorry Dear Lord
For all of my cussing
And my pistol and my sword
But I got a wife and kid
Who are better than the best
Why do they have to suffer?
How did they fail the test?
Now I know what you mean
And I know where this is going
But you did some things right
Like Dylan And The Stones
My wife’s hips gliding
My little girl smiling
The Sun and The Sea
And smell of cut grass
Could you might see your way
To to let it loose with one more pass?
Alright already
I’ve heard enough
Here’s a couple of bucks
Just to shut the fuck up
Tell your family you love them
To your kid and the livestock be nice
All of you are skating
On some mighty thin ice.
Now get out of here before I really get mad
I got out of there before He said another word
Told my family I loved them
Even made up with the cat
How about that!
We drove home laughing
Like the way it used to be
I hope it will last
I guess we’ll see
Now did I play The Lord?
Or did The lord play me?
And was I really changed
From the man I used to be?
That’s the end of my tale
And if you have any doubts
Figure it out for Thyself
Over and out
Alan Berger
West Hollywood, California
Everything
We stated out with nothing
But we formed a pact
We started out with nothing
Only smiles
And some clothes on our backs
A bond we knew would never break
A faith and hope a strong wind
Would not and could not shake
We started out with nothing
And for long it stayed that way
But the look in our eyes remained the same
And we stuck it out in our slippery lane
We started out with nothing
In our pockets but not our hearts
In the love story game we both were in
We rose to the occasion
We hit all the bases and we played all the parts
Romeo And Juliette
Would have been jealous
At the brightness of our spark
As we laughed and kissed though all the dark
We stated out with nothing
But we had it all
We were one through the four seasons
We heard no other call
We started out with nothing
Only a love that could not die
After a snap of time
We had a baby with blue eyes
Nothing grew to something
And although we had no money
And every day we walked the plank
We still made it to the bathroom
And before it closed the bank
We started out with nothing
It got rough tough and rocky
In our boat out to sea
The waves got steady and strong
But guess what?
So were we
We started out with nothing
But an equation you could not divide
Anyhow you added up and down
There was a love nothing could deny
We started out with nothing
Not longing for more or less
But in one another
We did bring out the best
We started out with nothing
And it did not fade away
Yet we ended up with everything
Sometimes it goes that way
But what is that magic formula?
No man or beast could say
Alan Berger
West Hollywood, California
Ex Files
I got a cat that’s dead
I got a girlfriend instead
Now I got a lumpier bed
An abundant woman
Short of brains and bread
She had a song inside her
No one could play
She had a dragon inside her
No one could slay
If the games you played with her
Did not go her way
She would pick up her marbles
And call it a day
The bills she sent me I would gladly pay
After the tearful thanks
I still could not get her to stay
Sometimes, you are happy just to get what you can
As I realized with her, you’re in a foreign land
Bereft of a passport
In either hand
She thinks, she is a fox
Instead of the toilet
She uses a litter box
When she gets sick
I take her to the Vet
Every other day
She throws away her cigarettes
I appreciate the effort
That she tries to replace my pet
Her being a human
Is my only regret
I already know
I never go with the flow
A drastic situation with nowhere to go
In my head town
All roads lead down
All my aims
Turn into reservations
All the motions That I file
Become hesitations at the bottom of the pile
Standing on the corner
Ringing a bell
The gutters and the sewers know me too well
Ringing that bell till end of my time
My love and charm turn on a dime
Did you know I never reap what I sew?
I thought so
Letting it out
When receiving the word
Sounds like the confessions
Of a Cuckoo bird
Steady as a weathervane
Forthright and uptight
In the wind and rain
It was a dark and stormy night
Letting it known
Wherever I am blown
I inhabit a dead zone
Have you ever had
An original thought?
Maybe a bright idea
And I mean something, anything well lit
And if so
What did ye do with it?
Been in a million hard fistfights
All of them in my soft head
Not a lover nor a fighter
That’s what she said
May take on an imaginary friend
One that would surely make me sing
But the memory of the past
Is usually better than the present real thing
But then again and again
Here is the sting
Who ever knows?
What the future may bring
So, stay faraway, close, loose, and tight
Anything is possible
Anything can take flight
Rock with the punches
Roll with the knocks
Where the fuck, did I put that litter box?
Alan Berger
West Hollywood, California
The Feeling
The feeling came slowly, then, all at once.
The tugging of soft cotton against the fullness of her stomach,
The subtle roundness growing in her cheeks,
The heaviness of her breasts as she walked,
Sometimes it was watching her thighs spread as she laid down to rest
The feeling, it came slowly,
Then… all at once.
At first it would be nothing at all,
Just the small niggling feeling that she was becoming more
She’d stop moving herself,
because when she moved, she could feel the weight of her body beneath her
Next came the generosity in her servings,
Mounds of rice,
Soft chunks of bread,
Cuts of cheese,
She loved to taste,
but this wasn’t that.
This was a sickening insatiability,
She was surrendering,
To herself.
Forced down her throat and pushing past fullness into the space where the tightness of her stomach would begin to emanate a dull ache
At this point intensity of her emotions would flood her eyes and roll down her cheeks, would prickle the back of her throat,
would play a ringing in her ears.
See her taking a glass of water,
Aggressively gulping it down,
A feeble to attempt to forget what had been done.
See her bringing her fingers to her lips.
See her whisper a promise that this was the last time.
But it would,
Tomorrow
Tomorrow
Tomorrow
Until she couldn’t breathe anymore
You see,
The feeling came slowly, then, all at once.
Olumayokun Ogunde
London, England
The Monster You Made
I write this laying on my sick bed,
In the darkness of the midnight hour,
Guided by my pale white eyes
And an itty-bitty ray from my phone.
My heart cries in odium despair
And I Alone do not swim in this boat,
A chain of sorrow rows us abyss -
Sunken deep blue sea staring afloat.
We failed ourselves as a nation,
Hoax into voting for change
And aye! Having had a Goodluck turn bad,
We were headlong over a visionless change.
Five years gone and everything has gone wrong, again,
Alas! His change totes sorrow's company,
His cohorts and leaders lavishing our wealth, yet,
Impervious to our pains, tears, and pleas.
Finally! The youths have risen,
Against the failed system that called us lazy,
Police brutality, extortion, deaths and more having claimed innocent lives.
How can we a nation fear the outfit meant to protect us?
5 for 5 we now demand, and march
The streets in halcyon equalized protest,
Alack! Unarmed citizens manned and dehumanized by the police -
The brutality we walk against is dished back to us,
And he who promised change stares in mocking silence.
I'm tired again and again,
And so are the people, masses woven in wretchedness
Turns to God for hope that never comes,
For our leaders to bring such hope; mocks our very core.
Our lives matter but they do not care,
They tread on us, how would they fear?
But Alas! The monsters you made
Have come back to hunt you,
For oppression isn't ended by silence,
Rather, the outwardness of spoken violence.
(Being they pay us deaf ears and taken for joke)
I fear this protest worsening to an unrest
Yet, an angst I obscurely yearn,
And if this poem be what spurs us on, then so be it
For then, the true democracy we yearn shall truly come to be.
Albrin Junior
Edo State, Nigeria
57
In her first prime
The cradles were no fit -
O, her eager ambitions;
So she jumped off the four wheels
To tread thus two's.
An ambition so fitted sewn
But tailors of broken bond,
...Skirts sewn sweeping sands,
And e'er since that early test of her feet;
Have she fallen 57 times so far.
Albrin Junior
Edo State, Nigeria
Native Call
Mad men in circles chant
Praises to a tin god
Idle and dump, on clay laid
Respect so foolishly paid.
High and low do their drum band,
Voices of hunter’s gland
And their feet sweeping sands;
For leaves to lay and rest till dawn.
It all ends same,
Roads deaf gods take,
Quiet to their native calls,
And soon their callers fall.
Albrin Junior
Edo State, Nigeria
Dry November
Falling leaves rustle
Down the idle brown tree
Blowing all corners near
By the wet wind gone dry.
It’s no time fair,
After the rain’s no more,
When people now scuttle to hide
From the scorching furious sun.
Lovers are no friends, and wait
For dry November to run past,
Their lips crunchy and dry;
Giving their kiss no meaning.
But in this very harshness
Drapers still steal drape coins,
And traders in merry sales,
For sweet December’s just nearby.
Albrin Junior
Edo State, Nigeria
A Letter Of Love
Dear love,
As this year’s runs out;
You should call me foolish
And exceedingly odd
If by next year come
You find me in meters
Near any of your daughters
Who can hold me to ransom?
Dear Albrin,
Your letter stuns me:
I need not call you foolish
For your prior’s odd.
You have found one
Whom your thought can’t without,
And that’s why you-
Will continue to be, and near
As observed by yours
Yours faithfully
Cupid
Albrin Junior
Edo State, Nigeria
Everything Tender, Everything Not
A dog will always die before its owner,
a sad fact.
But, at the end of the day
I’d probably hit the grave
in my early teens too
if you fed me nothing
but second-hand,
dehydrated
tripe stew.
Tender is the love of the owner unto that which he owns.
Jack Sharp
Halifax, West Yorkshire
Cowards Starve
If I ate a mountain, would I be more mountain than man?
I put it to the test.
I shoved a plastic crag – the size of a strawberry – in my mouth.
It was once part of a scale-model train set.
I have since swallowed, and I know my throat has met its match.
I’d say I have ten seconds or so.
I wonder if I will rot into the ground; or be burnt and scattered into the horizon.
I never did state my preference.
At least my body will undergo the answer to the question.
Even if I am not there to see it.
Jack Sharp
Halifax, West Yorkshire
Shame
No future aged scene where you count my pills,
no marriage bed thrum, giddy days all done,
a melancholic outline of pale hills
witness en route to Courtroom Number One.
We know to expect a normal routine,
no selfish custodial tug-of-war,
no respect for grave vows, what might have been.
Awkward, absurd, we smile, look at the floor,
platitudes inch from tongues, the judge seems bored,
dust motes drift in slant light, hopes gone awry.
Then recall, you young, unbuttoned, adored,
this contrast, paralysis, as dreams die.
We sign papers, shared polite pen trembling.
It’s over, all our wanton dissembling.
Ian C Smith
Sale, Victoria, Australia
Sink Hole
Stagnant water draining away
Very little left
Barely enough filth for a finger tip
Flow scum flow
The sucking sound of a small spiral – laughable
I stand above you now
Watch you plunge into your own sink hole
The last pungent droplets sewer-bound
Three, two, one…
There you go
Graham S. Crosby
Sefton Park, Liverpool
Observations From The Urban River
otter
aqua-greased
chemical plant escapee
oozing down mudbanks, oil
slick
bees
afternoon boozers
staggering from beneath
poppy stamen, cellar-bar
drunkards
swifts
fugacious arcs
on low days
visions from high skies
descenders
crane’s-bill
filigree totem
moon-dew badge
infinitely various, our tribal
emblem
warehouse guard
solitary, confined
another tedious shift
scrutinises the monotonous river
pacer
graffiti artists
rainbow alliance
staging butterfly backdrops
admirals, tortoiseshells, painted ladies
colourists
cormorants
spectral, stygian
water phantoms
rising to high pylons, shadow
wraiths
metal recycling plant
gluttonous, devouring
gigantic steel talons
the dead world’s carrion
feeder
wormwood
fools-silver, spurned
unloved by summer
undeterred, conquers waste ground
defiant
barge
moored, rusting
Styx-sick, corroded
by toxic soul-leakage
abandoned
tufted vetch
prophet-purple, righteous-blue
atop tendril ladders
addressing mortal grasses, exhorting
the word
horse
tethered, grazing
isolated green banks
nutrient-deficient, hungry for contact
starving
stoat
erect, watchful
surveys the kingdom
enthroned on nettle hill
sovereign
deer
vagrants, outcasts
exiled hunger, feeding
on margins, verges, peripheries
untouchables
river
grimy, luminous
high-translucent to
low-opaque, alternating tidal
metaphor
john e.c.
Hull, East Yorkshire
Father
So let’s play judge,
Slamming hammers down on different shadows,
They can’t be happier folding paper while we clink coins,
But we can be if we improve our worth,
Let’s undress anything we envy,
Desperate to spit into tissues to clean our grubby faces,
The projection that we are the laidback and liberal ones,
Handing out beers on arrival, shaking the men’s hands, with their wives wanting their cheeks kissed,
But once the latch is secure the tide comes in,
Permitting a starter and a main, or a main and a desert,
The bus there and back,
Pressing the thumb into their education so that the rights are still there to brag,
Moaning endlessly about her mother but sitting yours next to Mary and Diana,
Taking multi-buys to work to feel you’ve beaten the system by undercutting the vending machine,
At work everyone’s either fat or divorced or drinks to numb the pain of not being you,
Going to the gym once a week to brand fitness to your forehead,
Spying on the neighbours bum cracks while they garden, assembling the whole family at the front window to bear witness to a sixty year old man without a belt,
Taking time off work to reverse the car off the drive and giving the mother two glow sticks to guide you back in,
Sticking your ear through the letter box to make sure the house alarm’s set,
Begrudging the completion of any order but recounting the generosity of favours you’ve bestowed,
Through a process lasting years building up the safety equipment for your ten minute cycle to the train,
Treating finding a seat as one of the many battles that ensured you were born,
Then sitting on the train, as hard-nosed as the next, attempting to stitch a six figure sum into the M&S suit,
No one will ever save as well as you,
The wife’s half hour labour over stoves and grills empties into five minutes of gasping for air and shaking indigestion’s hand,
‘That heating dial isn’t set at a lavish 15 degrees for any bugger to piss it away through open windows and doors’,
Knowing the precise hour the daughter came in but asking her all the same to catch out the deceit,
Of course one of the small victories for part-time Morse,
Polo shirts in summer and shirts in winter, cross trainers all year round just in case the bin needs taking out,
There is a reason for everyone’s misfortune apart from yours,
Big jobs involve painting window frames and getting suitcases from the loft,
If she’s lost something you’ll look in the same places she has, ‘because your mother doesn’t notice things like I do’,
Dreaming up phobias and remedies,
Nuts make you anxious and you haven’t been ill since you’ve had bananas,
Tapping feet to full dance floors,
Your phrases that were dreamed up and died in your hometown are tossed around the house,
We will never know we’re born, especially while you’re around,
But why would I want to?
You’ve raised me through these systems,
Taught me to hate that the world isn’t run out of our living room,
Showed me the crevices of imperfection I’ve previously overlooked,
And so I will gladly take your baton and spread your message without meaning,
Let us feel that it should have been us on the cross,
As I’m not accepting becoming one of the high street’s bobbing heads.
Paddy Born
Brighton, England
A Reason To Return
The past casts long confusing shadows, the daylight follows the laughing horizon,
From the jagged Red Lantern Hills, we are returning from the sea,
There's a song that I sing on the mountainous trail,
In the quiet of the day or the still of the night,
I call it "Hush." In a land of Hush, a loud voice is King,
We are twenty returning warriors of old, we are bold, we are cold,
Between us no sign of a shoe or a cloak,
And around here no chance of a shelter that boasts of a roof.
And we search for a reason to return,
With nothing to show loved ones for our months away,
A hawk took to the skies, flew off with all our lies,
We are strangled by some unnamed fears, drowning in a pool of tears,
Annie, let the dark skies cry when again we part, but you know you'll always have my heart.
Steve Lodge
living in Singapore
iPhone
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Sent from my iPhone at home alone listening to Carmina Burana on full volume: my wife’s left me, so please excuse typos or punctuation
Sent from my iPhone reflecting upon my unforgivably bestial behaviour, increasingly concerned that my shame shall long outlive my trials & tribulations
Sent from my iPhone presently inside a coffin buried somewhere in SE-England with only 9% of phone battery remaining & perhaps another hour’s oxygen- if I do dig myself out I’ll respond fully tomorrow: but for now- thanks for keeping me au-courant with your debauches. Do please excuse typos, punctuation & brevity etc.
Evan Hay
resident in Britain
How To Be A Real Person
Life
makes no
sense – love it.
Life
hurts a
lot – dodge blows.
Life
picks you
up – smile, laugh.
Life
Knocks you
down – stand tall.
Life
Is good
and bad – real.
Life
up and
down – ride it.
Pamela Scott
Glasgow, Scotland
In My World
The sun always shines,
the rain never falls
people can soar above the clouds
and there’s no such thing as pain.
Everyone’s happy and loved;
we’re all beautiful,
there’s no prejudice
and you can be whatever you want.
There’s no hurt or pain,
you can live forever,
you can soar above the clouds
and everyone’s got exactly what they need.
Every person is free,
you make your own choices,
you control your destiny
and everyone’s lives out their dreams.
Pamela Scott
Glasgow, Scotland
Of Shadows, Of Light
Snow Girl hid in the darkness,
ashamed, shielded her broken
shell from the light
she longed to walk in the light,
feel the sun on her face,
let the wind blow through her hair,
look & act like everyone else
but darkness is her home,
the only place she can be herself,
the only place she feels safe
there’s no place to hide
in the light, no protection,
no way to stop the stares
or the cruel words that cut into her
in the shadows she can relax,
take a few deep breaths,
shed her old, broken skin
it’s easy to hide in the dark,
there’s nothing to shield her in the sun,
shadows protect her, keep her from harm,
light exposes all her greatest fears
Pamela Scott
Glasgow, Scotland
Shapes In A Twisted Mirror
Snow Girl sees the monster inside her
sees the twisted, deformed shape,
the freak who lives inside her, makes her hurt
jeering voices ring in her head, hatred
takes everything about her and deforms it,
she can’t stand the way she looks
their laughter follows her everywhere, haunts her
she smashes the mirror in her room, the door
to the darkness inside her, cuts herself with broken glass
she sees the creature inside her, taunting her,
turning her thoughts black, whispering,
urging her to hurt, draw blood, find release
she feels a great weight pinning her down, suffocating
she slices her flesh, hopes to find the darkness
& cut it out of her, make herself whole/normal
she hides in shadows, covers her ears to drown
the torment out, repeats her safe word over and over,
imagines her heart stopping, a sweet release
Pamela Scott
Glasgow, Scotland
God: In the beginning there was a poem about a God
In His once upon a time was His happy ever after.
Emerging from the chrysalis of His own potentiality
He stood, immaculately conceived, top filled to bright brim with youthful
vigour
Like a March calf amongst the buttercups
At the solid base of His consciousness-
And there He waited, panting with desire, while deep in His
Fiery bowels, time chugged and giggled
Bashful as a firing squad in love, and explodes....
His heart, that vast pumping plant of light and space,
EXPLODED!
Flinging reality spinning outward to its bounded infinity....
Behold!
In the first moments before knowledge of God and Devil, claws and defect,
Before the fall of original incompetence
He stands, insanely beautiful, as bright and brainless as an orgasm,
Blood erecting His crumpled form, the translucent membranes
Of his quadrifid ears stiffening into divine shapes...
They beat the air, and a terrible wind arises,
Billowing through the age of inertia,
Beating clouds of mathematics from His trouser cuffs,
And the sun shines out of His bottom.
He raises His head, His teeth chatter, His toes curl, His tail frisks-
And He speaks!
Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmm, he says,
Clearing His throat of polystyrene and bubble wrap,
Let there be such a thing as a Heap! And a Drawback!
Let there be Fragrances and Destinations! Herbs and Hubs! Inflorescences and Osculation's!
Mountains Fountains Indignations Mice Coronas Hippopotami and- and
Chlamydomonases!
LET THERE BE ME!
With a hop skip and a jump He ascended
Into the primordial haze of the purple skies
Flying for joy.
(Happiness was God's natural element
And today was the beginning of His end).
Aeronautics created He then: the Barrel Roll and the G-Turn
The Scissor the Split S and the Immelmann Manoeuvre
The Jink the Aerlion Roll and the Victory Loop,
And then God turned downwards and from the superfluity of possibility
He created the Out of Control Nosedive.
He saw the base of His consciousness beckoning His descent
And He saw that it was good.
He saw antelopes' gracile scatter over the spilling pampas
The mountains' crumpled satin spines
The wildly beautiful spread of everything
The widening darkness of His own shadow rising to fill
The horizons cup
And it was at this point that He created doubt
And second thoughts
Fear and trembling, disillusionment and despair
Also seemed like good ideas,
Irony, art, metaphysics and religion also occurred to him
Just in time to be too late
As he hit the last line of the poem.
(This one)
Evan Hay
resident in Britain
Spoon
in the small room
which he called his sanctuary
she keeps the box on a high shelf
a reliquary of sorts
an unopened packet of GI cigarettes
two Red Cross letters
an all skin and bone convalescent photograph
and a spoon
weighty
six inches long
plain
mass produced
deep oval head
yellowed
without shine
seemingly taking in more light than it gives
she says somehow
he held onto it
through the camps
the marches
eating scraps of anything given
or scratched along the way
he said he ate soup so thin
he could read his tattoo through it
she allows its coldness in my palms
I gently roll the terrible presence of the past
between my fingers
beginning to grasp its denseness
through the leaden spoon
substance relic
trauma object
heavily religious
JKG,
London, England
Thicker, Richer
deluge on the plain, blazes in the wood
down come the torrents and up go the flames
we have our fire as they have their flood
we yelled from the roof the loudest we could
the mailman came sailing, calling our names
deluge on the plain, blazes in the wood
fighting the inferno came to no good
you clothed and fed us, all the same
we have our fire as they have their flood
neighbour, you cared for us, like flesh and blood
and likely as not, you’d do it again
deluge on the plain, blazes in the wood
your truck made it through to where we were stood
never great friends until then, when you came
we have our fire as they have their flood
the river washed away our livelihood
but a thicker and richer soil remains
deluge on the plain, blazes in the wood
we have our fire as they have their flood
Zachary Rogers
Scranton, Pennsylvania USA
Swallows
Early evening, late summer.
Swallows twisting tails above us
As we have our cuppa in the yard.
Her reminiscing. Family history, mostly.
Some of it old, some of it new,
Some of it wrong.
Aunty Sissy had a B&B in Blackpool,
Not Morecambe.
Grandma’s Yorkshire Terrier wasn’t Kitty,
But Candy.
And she didn’t teach dad how to play draughts:
He taught her.
So it goes on
And becomes a game of spot the mistake.
But I don’t contradict her.
There’s no point in that.
Eventually she pauses, takes a sip and notes that
They’ll soon be gone north.
Again, I don’t correct her
But lift my lukewarm cuppa
And take another gulp.
Janice Smithers
Pontefract, West Yorkshire
I want to be a renaissance man, but she won’t let me!
For years I’ve felt trapped in my hum drum life,
Working int’ foundry to earn brass for the wife;
So she could stay home looking after her Mother,
Her budgie, her whippet and even her brother!
For years I have been at her beck and call,
Fitting her kitchens, rewiring the hall;
So now after years of toeing the line,
I want to do something that I can call mine!
In moments of solitude while sipping a brew,
I’ve studied - improving my mind on the loo;
“What are you doing? The dog needs a walk!”
I obey commands now, we no longer talk.
She smiles and laughs when I try to protest,
As I stand covered in grime, stripped down to my vest;
Trying to discuss the beauty of art,
All I frequently get is: “Don’t you start!”
In the public library reading book after book,
Devouring poetry till my whole being shook:
But my wife isn’t interested in the learning of verse,
Her responses to me are becoming more terse.
I bought a violin and learned notes of the stave,
Of studying concertos I became quite a slave;
But she snorts her disgust and loudly she sneers,
And goes back to her CDs of Britney Spears.
On sculpture and form I could hold seminars,
I can carve stone and granite and even weld bars;
But my efforts are met with disdain and pure mockery,
As she throws my statuary onto her rockery.
Michelangelo’s art work puts fire in my soul,
His use of a brush has long been my goal:
But my efforts at painting have long met with hate,
Unless I am glossing the front garden gate!
I think I have now reached a point in my life,
When I have to appraise the cause of my strife;
She’ll have to go! I’ve got to break free!
I want to be a renaissance man, but she won’t let me!
Melmoth
Whitby, North Yorkshire
Personal Soundtrack
big bro is
hardstep
hip-hop
psychobilly
death rock
epic doom in every room
crust punk
for sure
that’s right little bro
big bro is
garage
grime
post grunge
freak folk
cross-over thrash my ass forever
that crunkcore mother
agree there bros
big bro is
industrial emo
make that screamo
cybergrind
born unkind
black metal
drill
in for the kill
well that’s enough of your noise
you three
I don’t hear that at all
no
not me
only feel his trembling
the vibrations
and I only have
ringing in my head
unless you come and calm me
mother always said
your whisper
was the only music I ever heard
sister
Zachary Rogers
Scranton, Pennsylvania USA
A Single Fly
Sometimes the presence
Thirst quenched from fountains on Liberty Square.
Swallows writing summer in freehand,
high above the palace.
in a prison
River kissing banks
below the suspension bridge.
Lovers lock and release, lock and release.
of a single fly
Warm breeze blowing flyers
into the blackened windows of vehicles.
Lines of birches dancing in Havel Park;
leaves holding firm.
stirs into life
Through gates onto open fields,
butterflies, wild flowers and waving grass.
Smiling faces coming forwards,
arms raised.
a thousand illusions.
Arundhati Lahiri
Dollis Hill, London
Bouncing Back
Losing all my shine, now patchy and bald.
Neglected in a puddle by the bin
Then kicked on all sides by the lads again.
Getting tough to bounce back. Deflating, old.
Stood and sat upon. Booted through the dirt.
And always subjected to mockery:
‘Hey, look at me, I’m having a baby!’
Shout boys who stuff me up their bulging shirts.
Soon for the skip, no doubt; but I’ll arise!
Thrown with intent, I’ll mark their young faces
And strike them hard in their tender places.
A clouted nose will bring tears to their eyes.
I, ball aimed straight and true into the balls,
Will bring me sweet revenge on one and all!
L.Vikram Piggin
Hampole, South Yorkshire
I, This
I hardly think before I speak
The words I learned from others.
But hear this: I was born on a day not of my own choosing.
.
Earth gave me weight.
Light coloured my eyes;
And now when I close them
It is sleep which fills my hollow head;
Dreams come from the night,
Warm, like your lips on my cold ones.
Love is not my invention;
You are teaching it me. Thank you.
If only I could sing to you
A song of my own making;
But I cannot, for I am this.
Arundhati Lahiri
Dollis Hill, London
Love At Bay
I heard the secret call of the unambiguous,
Like framing the story of an untaken chance
I get then handed over.
It is the colour of hands tried and tied,
Feel of a walking-stick, always a step ahead,
And love means water for its flow goes so chary
Its flow just a metaphor that is so real as we live.
So, framing a story means a war is a war
A war in the beginning looks like a stone
Pieces and pebbles, made for some good, and curious better
Pebbles need the beach, to keep lovers at bay
Pieces are shared like partners swapped,
I got the call, my turn then over
It is as simple as warring sets,
You have me reminding and I have a chance,
Random is a cuss-word, secret of war
Something is relevant, you call it dream
Jayanta Bhaumik
Kolkata, India
Do You Take Your Coffee Black?
I catch your eye
as your Rothmans haze clear-
you smile and twist a curl
of long blond dishevelled hair
around your index finger,
an unspoken invitation
to whisper sweetly,
through dangled earrings,
into gently nibbled ears.
In the twilight of sobriety,
you flitter with butterfly wings,
I’m open to your seduction,
and I promise I’ll try
to satisfy your silver dancing.
And when the moment comes
its beauty is distorted
even more than your face
which has moved far beyond
any resemblance to death.
I’m still thinking on this
when you offer a cigarette
and light up yourself.
I’m blowing curls of smoke
when you break the silence:
“I’ve run out of milk-
do you take your coffee black?”
Keith Davison
Ex-Gateshead, England
Kerosene
Fire is eternal; the sun fuels our dream.
The conflagration comes; comes and is near.
Prepared, we baptise babes in kerosene.
Raising kindling altars; think it obscene?
In tinderbox land there’s little else here.
Fire is eternal; the sun fuels our dream.
Fear not the flames; holy men do not scream;
But quietly prophesise, ear to ear.
Prepared, we baptise babes in kerosene.
Water colours earth; paints serene greens, for
Hours or days or weeks or months or years, yet
Fire is eternal; the sun fuels our dream.
A phoenix, her plasmatic wings agleam,
Ignites our sleep: torched from the photosphere.
Prepared, we baptise babes in kerosene.
Pyriscent seeds rest; patient for extremes.
Infants of the scorched plain will reappear.
Fire is eternal; the sun fuels our dream.
Prepared, we baptise babes in kerosene.
The Baron Aargh!
Newcastle, England
Unusual Professions And Their Sine Qua Nons
Anarchist: endless pointless meetings
Bacteriologist: dirty kitchen
Cat groomer: scowly Persian red
Donkey man: beach
Elf: Christmas
Fingerprinter: ink, accused
Gigolo: erection
Hedgefund CEO: supreme greed and arrogance
Illusionist: politician
Jacob Rees-Mogg: hubris
Kite maker: wind or good farts
Looter: riots in urban areas
Mountaineer: knowing which way is up
Nobody: excessive masochism
Orangutan: forest
Pantomime horse: partner (front or back)
Queer: excellent grooming
Reveller: parties
Simpleton: Facebook
Time traveller: watch
Undertaker: botox
Vampire: decent fangs
Writer: delusions of bestsellers
Xylophonist: wood
Youth: touching faith
Zeroist: nothing
Cross reference as desired or required
Attempt these professions at your own peril
Perstimmons
Huddersfield, West Yorkshire
Spinning Hands
Time rides the tide onto migrant shores;
Washes sand through his tiny mouth and nose.
A decade marches a family up the Metzgerstrasse to the tick-tock rhythm
Of soldiers’ boots; her little arms outstretched at 10 to 2.
Long minutes on the paediatric ward.
Flowers at the school gates draws a gathering of hours.
Intensive moments: what to do with her photographs, his toys, their clothes?
A vacated cloakroom peg brings a century to a close.
Canals, dykes and slurry pits; a millennium clocked
By the spinning hands of drowning boys.
Mother hardly spoke again: choked on the year of your missing.
Father’s singing voice reduced to a low whistle
From the day your heart gave way - as did ours -
Between the passing of two small seconds.
john e.c
Hull, East Yorkshire
And You Who Never
Shrouds of rain over St. John’s Lane.
Archipelago of faith; puddles, an island church.
Candles flicking shadows across the nave,
Making gargoyles of the Boy’s Brigade.
Communicants circle as Sunday drains to its dry centre.
Clem the Organ holding out damp palms in anticipation;
The vicar heating the wafer to softness on her tongue.
Lightning on the windows of the dripping saints;
Thunder rolling across the drenched parish;
The restless wind rattling the knocker.
Weather-veined, the Clements turning their backs on the draught;
Miss Joan finding the chalice warm between her lips;
Wine, fire-red,
Trickling down the throat of Thirsty Bob.
Geoff Tracey
Otterburn, Northumbria
Micah
and all we hear is Micah says this and Micah says that
you and your remnant of naysayers from Moresheth-Gath of all places
that toilet on the Shephelah
more of a shit-hole than Elmsall
on and on in mixed-messages:
'fake-news loop-holes'
'zero-hours landlords'
'minimum-wage bankers'
blah blah blah
spreading your poison from Grimethorpe to Zaanam
Orgreave to Adullam
the land of sour milk and honey
eh?
and blaming it all on us
here in the big smoke
listen
haven’t all our prophecies come true?
the city’s never looked so flush
The Temple’s in spanking nick
Jerusalem’s just one big pie, enough to fatten all them that want to get on
food banks for them that won’t help themselves
so don’t speak to us of our ‘incredible capacity for wishful thinking’
and ‘nights without vision’
anyway,
who wants to hear
quote: ‘I’m no hireling prophet.
It’s not my function to comfort, encourage and uplift’?
cheer up, misery guts
liken us to Ichabod all you want but He won’t turn his back on us
why?
because we’ve never had it so good
all He wants is His people’s happiness
simple as
so take it from those in the know
Tyke
best to keep your trap well shut if you know what’s good for you
got that?
all that ‘call-centre poverty’ and ‘tax justice contracts’ nonsense
cut it, understand?
you fetid-goat-balled-God-botherer
Moresheth-Gath indeed
L.Vikram Piggin
Hampole, South Yorkshire
Murmuring
We watch them on their rooftop
Gentle in their secret joy
Naked smiles
Mouthing prayers
Not of our instruction
See her
Eyes closed
The one with the silken hair
A babe at her breast
And her sister
The darker one
Daring to bare her neck
As she bows her head
Often
When they bathe the young ones
They sing
Hymns we have not taught them
Quietly
In the evening
And when the sun goes down
They kneel
Hips and thighs
Framed by moonlight
Murmuring
Furtive female praise
Alien to our ears
The brothers
Listening
From the tops of houses
Arundhati Lahiri
Dollis Hill, London
2016
torching eir botts en orr arborr
slaughter te lot of em
even te women
dunt want no moor of eir blodd infecting orrs
burning tat dammdid bokk
crushing eir wheat underfott
domping te gifted weepons en te sea
weve sticks n stonns n plenty of em
what use for eir cloth
meats n radd wine
we go naked agen
grobbing for roots
lapping from clear polls
te young desporr
self harming som of em
hiding en caves
scaping oonly t droon
hating os
te old te wise
but em will know te island
as we knew it
bleeding for te gods
sacrificing eir yoth for ere
orr om
not eirs from te big island
orrs
Kye Conlan
Leeds, West Yorkshire
Laughter
What disturbed him the most was our laughter
Not the screaming
Profanities
Hair tearing
Raging from room to room
The usual
But our not crying from behind the door
First it was you
Then it was me
Then together
Bedlam style
How we laughed at the comedy
Of our temper fit
Disappointment performed to perfection
And when the knock came
We laughed some more
Infectious
Laughing at never having laughed this way
Oh sister we wish you could have laughed with us
When he asked
Are you alright in there
Zoe Marklew
Distington, Cumbria
Pool Closure
Butterfly, backstroke.
Speedos on slow blokes.
I love the smell of chlorine in the morning.
Don’t worry cocker,
here’s some change for a locker.
Can’t you two read? We don’t allow petting!
We swam outdoors at Grantchester.
Yes Sir, halcyon days, but this is Manchester.
We share shampoo.
She first swam at eighty-two.
Sons plunge deep and dive for daughters.
Sixty-four lengths equals one mile.
Lie me down on green tiles;
lead me beside municipal waters.
You’re Simmonds and I’ll be Wilkie
and later hot chocolate, all sweet and milky.
Gosh, what a laugh,
how we say ‘barths’ and they say ‘bafths’.
Byron swam the Hellespont, Caesar in the Nile;
Webb trained at Lambeth, length on length.
Olympic legacy? Give me strength.
Screw-kick, arms flail, let’s all do the free-style!
Lost your pink goggles, let me see…
He kissed me in the deep end, back in fifty-three.
A springboard plop;
belly laughs for belly flops.
All of the fatties are lighter than feathers.
Lady friends, short and stout,
swim in tandem and gas about
husbands and ailments and kids and weather.
Three private to one public: So?
Oh, how we weep when we remember the lido.
Pool, sprite-bright;
synchronised with dancing light;
sometimes warm and sometimes freezing.
Look, it’s gone and shrunk;
I’ve lost all feeling in my trunks!
Pushing us under, their rhymes and reasons.
Armbands and floats, deflated, still;
England, closing down, drowns her own for want of skill.
Opened in forty-seven
By Atlee, or was it Bevan?
These lanes forget more than we remember.
Mother taught me how to swim
or maybe it was Uncle Jim.
We close at nine and then in September.
No tucks, no turns; will our limbs sleep
and cease to draw circles on the face of the deep?
Billy Unwin
Salford, Manchester
Home Time
From her habitual high chair
She asks again
How long have I been here?
Not being sure, we shrug;
Though time for us is measured
In her repeated questions,
Our not varied answers
and the silences between.
The tempo slows further
With the stroking of hands,
The sipping of tea
And the coming and going of carers.
The TV flickers then flickers some more.
It is windy outside
And leaves brush the window
As a jazz drummer might a snare
To offset the beat.
But inside
All is regular.
Fine dust hangs in trapped sunlight,
Neither falling nor rising.
The pulse of the afternoon steadies
As the elderly take their nap;
Breathing in unison:
In, out, in, out.
She too succumbs to the hypnotism
And as we leave I ask
How long have we been here?
But you shrug,
Not being sure.
Beryl Ashman
Normanton, West Yorkshire
Mid-Set
The call of nature followed you into the men’s room;
Caught you with your zip and mouth wide open.
His great sax split you several heads:
Skee-sa-woo-eek-swork! Swee-sa-kroo-ork-eeeeee!
Blew your fuckin’ mind, you said.
Graham S.Crosby
Sefton Park, Liverpool
Other Towns
It’s usually on a Sunday
when we leave them at the bus terminal
or at the railway station.
Sometimes we take them to other towns;
we unload their stuff, take a stroll,
have a sausage roll, a cup of tea,
kiss them and go.
It’s usually on a Sunday
when we collect them from the bus terminal
or the railway station.
Sometimes we pick them up from other towns;
we kiss them, take a stroll, have a sausage roll, a cup of tea,
heave their stuff into the car
and go.
Sometimes we leave them.
Sometimes we collect them.
It’s usually on a Sunday.
Andrea Birch
Bridlington, East Yorkshire
Zvyagintsev’s Leviathan
Vodka falls as rain; drains from the hills;
Seeps along the skeleton coast into the livers of the damned.
Beached, they reach for cigarettes.
Smoke drifts from their mouths;
From the court house, over the gaol, onto the church
And back again as incense.
Blackened windows; rifles in the boot; on your knees:
The gutturals of gunfire mark their speech.
Sex is the cold, hard grip on a Kalashnikov.
The orthodoxy of a venal creed
Begets orphans; drowned wives; Job imprisoned.
From Moscow to Pribrezhny and all stops in-between,
Hell is corruption;
Framed within the carcass of a once living whale.
F. Pat Quigley
East Dulwich, London
Brenhilda
due north from Butt of Ness
meridian bearing
holding Polaris tween halyard and spar
Brenhilda riding
jabblies
clutters
whaleback waves
to Sula Sgeir
not for you North Rona
Sula’s green sister
your brother’s safe keeper
but here
where bore holing Atlantic
crashes over peak jagged black
earwig plagued
fasting
prayer
song
acrid guga
gelid lungs
Palled salt air
freezing mists
westerlies squeezing innards
like sea-battered timbers of Sgoth Niseach
navagatio
apprentice to signs
strangeness
reading phosphorescent swells
as wonderful book
understanding high cries
of returning petrels
attentive to own time
place
blasted scene
of thy resurrection
Guga men
finding ribcage housing shags
taking skull for kist
rounding dark gneiss prow of headland
mulling over
arcing kittiwakes
cormorants cruciform on high rocks
drying outstretched wings
Enoch McManus
Killiecrankie, Perth & Kinross
Roundel
Around and around, around and around –
The holding of hands, a circle of feet –
Inward we go with the world at our backs.
Off with the shoes and a leap from the ground –
Dropping the rhythm, one step off the beat –
Around and around, around and around –
The holding of hands, a circle of feet.
Oh! Singing in tongues, our voices are found –
The hole in the ring is more than complete –
Left of the centre, now turn and repeat!
Around and around, around and around –
The holding of hands, a circle of feet –
Inward we go with the world at our backs.
Jerri Spears
Garforth, West Yorkshire
Grapefruit
Snap time.
Dirty fingers divide jam, ham and corn beef sarneys.
Flasks shared between seven parched mouths.
And I am dessert.
They grab me in the tail gate.
Wedge my feet between strut and ceiling.
Hang me like a bat.
Use me as a punch bag.
Paint my face with sandstone.
Down my nose goes water
And out through my mouth.
Snuff forced up my nostrils burns the eyes.
I am sugar and they are sour.
They taste my fear on the tips of their tongues.
I grin and bear it.
Want to be seen to be laughing it off.
Don’t want dad
Being shown up in The Empire.
Then it’s over.
Released
And it’s off to work they’ll go;
But not before Tooly, the chief torturer,
Offers me a piece of grapefruit.
Usually so bitter;
This delicious segment:
As sweet as it comes.
Arthur Axe
Armthorpe, South Yorkshire
Thin Lizzy
chasing their careers along the lonesome trail
these boys just got back today and mean business
if they want to play we better let ‘em
and anyway we’re not gettin’ any younger
so if you’re ready Phil
we’re ready
all hell breaks loose
we love to hear the bass and drums come roaring
we’re on the floor shakin’ what we got
a certain female dancin’ steamin’
Molly wants more Irish in her
do you know what she’s talkin’ about
blastin’ out our favourite songs
without ‘em we cannot leave
we’ll fall to pieces
caught in the spotlight
hair sweat heels swagger
coyote guitars wail in the howlin’ wind
rollin’ us over turnin’ us around keep us spinnin’ ‘til we hit the ground
the gang break out from the encore
ride out at sundown
disappear without a trace
we’re left on the street again still in a trance
and this a tribute band thirty-five years later
sha la la
Jean Renard
Trim, County Meath, Ireland
To Easington
Turning right through Patrington.
Soul-vapour lifting from white fields.
Welwick, Weeton then Skeffling; gearing down for that bend, that hill.
Sunrise transforming the distant gas terminal
Into a celestial city: our destination.
Aurous dawn, red-feathered sky;
The new sun blazing through skeletal hedgerows, flecking the bonnet golden.
Daybreak resplendent upon turbines, churches, barns.
Farm house windows flash by us some diurnal code.
Blind to fly-tipping and road-kill;
Our eyes only mirror the one-light of morning.
Atop the crest, entering the village and alchemy:
Look! To our left a songbird, vocalising our stunned silence;
Gilded on the wing, flicking sunlight from its tail; an auric rising.
Anne-Marie Silver
Ottringham, East Yorkshire
At His Work
Worn magazines, hard seats, the faded floor
The waiting silence neither warm nor cold
Your turn in the chair
His voice friendly, not friendly
How would you like it today, Sir?
As if you have a choice
Scissoring without haste but regular
Clipping, snipping, ticking along with that clock
No conversation, only concentration
Young eyes behind an old pair of glasses
Pausing, staring, squaring your head
Yellow fingers upon each temple
Not gentle, not rough: firm
Your hair falling to his feet
Waiting for his broom, the sweeping
15 minutes: no more, no less
The uniform cut
Ready now for your wedding or funeral
Pay and tip
Not too much, not too little
Never a thank you in return
A polite nod, a thin smile, no goodbyes
Already at his work as you leave the door bell ringing
Streets later, cold air around the ears
Imagining the eyes of the world upon you
Checking yourself in a shop window
Seeing his face looking back
His fingers still gripping your skull
Turning your head this way and that
Jimmy Swain
Bunny, Nottinghamshire
Steeplejacks
careful near that ladder lad
another step back and it’s
half a day out with the bloke in black
one slight slip and it’s flip-flop
over the top oh aye
these chimney tops are death traps
but that’s okey-dokey it’s all the
clap-trap that’ll be the death of me
have you ever fallen off mister
is the usual crap
honestly people’s heads these days
are like these bricks we’re rendering
thick and soft as cheese
all common sense got cleared out
with that goody-goody clean air act
you won’t remember black hankies and hands
from breathing and sneezing carbon and sulphur
air then tasted fuller than a young lass’s lips son
lovely and acrid like these un-tipped chokers
kept your top boiler stocked soundly it did
them old timers were more honest than daft
hard graft never did them any harm
dark satanic mills my arse
this place lit up at night like a greek palace
my sleep’s still powered by pulleys and pistons
I peer in my dreams through great arched windows
at giant flywheels and gleaming housed engines
and everywhere smoke and steam smoke and steam
no kidding you kidda
I swear on this fag’s last drag
some afternoons when I’ve had a few
and this blue view’s more grandly murky
I can see right through all them
ticky-tacky egg box houses
right into the nineteenth century
and touch it with my less-shaky hand
anyhows curly talking of pop we’ll be tip-top
for some chips and a couple of glasses
a laugh with them lasses will serve us for later
careful young un on that first wrung
you’d rather be up here this aft
than down there with the undertaker
Franky Pallett
Blackrod, Lancashire