Stab, by Math Jones

I am not a silent poet

like i’m angry
but it fits in my pocket
can’t have the disrespect
got the mind got the man
enough to mean it
don’t have the discipline
not to use it though

carry it like i mean it
wear it inside, like a sabre
bring it out, let it flash
light will make them run
step back step up like
i’m showing them something to run onto
like they’re going to get their’s out anyway

’cause of fear of a flash of silver
it’s a spill and you can’t catch it
in your hands can’t control it
in their hand can’t dodge it
too quick can’t feel it
like spit but sharp
reflex stab

and now i’m open
and my hands can’t catch me
my clothes are soaking me up
and cold blows in
floor falling
all the screams
mum

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When you knife someone to death, by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

There are only two blood types –
one a midwife wipes from you at birth
secondly the one a paramedic uses to stem the knife wound.

There are only two types of lives –
the one two people make through an act of love
and the one a pack takes through an act of hating everything.

When you knife someone to death
a gaping hole appears in the mouth of a victim’s Mother
she will want to save her child like the first time he or she fell over.

He, or she will not be getting up from this one and neither shall you.

There are several types of love –
the one given to the lucky and the one denied
if you decide to stab someone you are denying what is denied to you.

There is only one bad decision
the one where you plunge into blood and the…

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These are the Madnesses, by Barry Patterson

I am not a silent poet

These are the Madnesses:

The blast furnace, the foundry
An industrial city on the iridescent bank of a brown river
Smoking air; the robot hammers & anvils of
Automatic forges supervised by children.

The suit that cost an arm & a leg
His shiny shoes
His tie, the papers that he reads; his house, his car
His entitlements, his freedoms.

Their lungs, their hands, their faces
Their rights, their fears
Families queueing in the mall; someone, somewhere
Got a taste of power.

The spreadsheet, the spreadsheet
Profit & loss
The trade tariff, the pay off; a gross net of shipping lanes from Asia
Carried containers stuffed with death.

The docket signed off
The docks departed
The box ticked; duty of duties paid
The lorry, the sliproad, the crawler lane, a pallet.

The shouting, the shouting
The self hatred & hopelessness
The imagined sneer, Dad’s temper, Gran’s cancer; getting out of…

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The Testimony of the Skaters and the Transcript on the Rink by Emily Martin, reviewed by Clara B. Jones

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Emily Martin
The Testimony of the Skaters and the Transcript on the Rink
2019
Gauss PDF
http://dl.gauss-pdf.com/GPDF275-EM-TTOTSATTOTR.pdf

Unpaginated (16 pp)

Crosshind
Hinging outward and then turning in
Is it not a return to order
I will turn toward
I will not be able to help it
Passive voice as dream logic
Exaltation

Emily Martin (2019)

Many articles and books have been written in an attempt to describe and define “experimental” poetry. Victor Shklovsky’s 1917 manifesto, “Art as Technique,” remains one of the most influential statements on the subject. In his brief essay, the Russian Formalist stated, “The technique of art is to make objects ‘unfamiliar,’ to make forms difficult….” Emily Martin’s long-form “collage” poem, The Testimony of the Skaters and the Transcript on the Rink, is a worthy example of Shklovsky’s ideal. This young writer and teacher, living in Brooklyn, employs words, phrases, and sentences in juxtaposition to one…

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Whitewashed, by Kimberly Peterson

I am not a silent poet

Mrs. Sechrist, wife of Jacob Sechrist, a farmer living a few miles north of this city, fell from a box upon which she was standing while engaged in white-washing the ceiling of a room, broke her neck and died. (Weekly Wisconsin: Milwaukee, Saturday, December 1, 1888)

 

She said:

Jacob, can you bring in a box from the barn,:
I need to whitewash the ceiling.

He said:

I only kicked the box.
Clearly, she decided to fall.

She said:

He was constantly hugging me, telling
me to wear tighter tops “to show off my
tits”. He reached his arm around me to stroked
my breast with his fingertips. When I recoiled,
he laughed. “Lighten up, its just a friendly hug.”

The CEO came into my office to introduce
a new Board member. That member grabbed
my shoulders and kissed me roughly. My boss
just laughed. I went to HR but…

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Chilhood Parties, by Liz Mills

I am not a silent poet

I remember a party when I lived in Scarborough.
It stopped for the Shipping Forecast.
We all sat reverently, children of fishermen or lifeboatmen.
I knew this mattered.

Another in Liverpool came to a halt
to watch Bill Shankly on TV,
knowing that football was more important
than a party, life or death.

But I’ve never been to a cutting party,
where little girls in new clothes
wait excitedly for their turn
to go into the next room and become a woman.

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