Monthly Archives: October 2016

Historical Boomerangs by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

I am not a silent poet

We conjure atoms. Power over unenforceable formidable atoms because. We are afraid. Hiroshima saved many lives reports western history books…well. Tell that to. I am thinking of. A woman still angered over the heat. The radioactive earth and flesh. Why’s she still pissed people would ask as they ask about childhood’s ravage. I did nothing I wasn’t entitled to do. Said the security officer unbuckling uniforms over his daughter. Fear is. What it is. A boomerang. An industry built upon toy handcuffs sadomasochism. An industry. How many lives they say. Say. Epidermal peeling people molting. Chameleons. Say.

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300,000,000 and counting by Nick Cooke

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

if i had known

if i had only known

that when i met you

you were already in

the final decade

and had only

three hundred million seconds

before the noose

i would have filled those

few million we shared

with something other than

exposing your flaws

and calling you a child

who refused the adult state

like i was the nation’s

biggest grownup

if i had realised

if i had only guessed

that it was no cry for help

no throwing of the toys

but a grave marker

at my feet as we walked

and there’s another one

but i never saw it

i’d have done what

it took no matter what you needed

beyond the scream of duty

just as now i’d do anything

to jam my boot in time’s door

and claw another chance

to haul you out

of wherever you were

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Opposition by Nick Cooke

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

  1. Friendship

 

Painful for

you to look so

deep

at your own image

in the water.

Painful for

me to push

you so near

the edge of the

pond you might fall

in, though if you

did  there would be no

more tortuous

reflection, only

the darkness,

your friend.

  1. Enmity

 

Having ruined

my life with

an unfair mark,

she bore the seepage

of opprobrium

in my own mind, along

the Plan B path

I finally saw as

preferable

to the yellowing groves

she spared me.

She died this week,

long forgiven.

(The devil’s

job to

forgive myself.)

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Sweeney on Brighton Pier, 2015 by Nick Cooke

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Bored mums of the future, carry on

swigging cola and not wearing Armani –

more like crimson lurex

or velour jumpsuits –

  taking a threesome selfie

your stick a liability

to floss-munching strollers,

and so ‘big-boned’ you hardly

squeeze in the frame

but smiling, stretching your mugs

at some unheard ribaldry

and ah bah nuvva snapfa luck?

this slategrey October Saturday

where the carousel blindly rotates

the organ whirls on to nightmare

the gulls cawcawcaw and glare as though

we’re all of us nothing more or less

than future carrion

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Doing the duck dance by Johanna Mack

I am not a silent poet

Retiré – – –

pace, pace, pace and de-mi-rond.

Duck!

Keep your head down.

Now up and

click!

Catch this

click

and clickclickclick

next breakfasttablespitypic

shock is short – set aside. Pass the butter.

Continuez

Oops! –

There goes another hack

whose shoulder cam was no bazooka

but can you tell in fog?

Click!

Repetez

Have HD-seen all that

have seen too much

for da da da

da-duck

apocalypse is now

reality copies celluloid

but car doors ignorant

don’t block projectiles

Fouetté! – – –

Pas de boucher

 

Thanks,

but yet

no barbecue for me

don’t show me fire

can’t see no smoke

since Sirte blossomed

spectacular roses

invading the sky

when earth is Jahannam

don’t bother to duck

grill ain’t grill

but flesh is flesh, served

to no god

flash-eyelenseye

no one to see

Now, traversez!

cross the sea

saluez

(sauté! sauté! sauté!)

nobody intends to build a…

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Laughter Epidemic by Jonathan Taylor

I am not a silent poet

It all started with besuited newsreaders

sniggering while reporting a massacre:

anchors passed it on to correspondents

who passed it on to interviewees

who infected millions of viewers.

A neurologist compared it to the plague

in Tanganyika, ’62, but was crying before

he could finish. His po-faced colleague

diagnosed mass psychogenic illness

but farted before she’d finished too,

as if hysteria had to escape somehow.

No one could stop themselves:

the Chancellor couldn’t take his cuts

seriously; the PM declared war

as if he were inviting everyone to a party;

brass bands snorted at the cenotaph,

historians and students at history;

Alzheimer’s and cancer were side-splitting

for untreated patients and their families.

Refugees turned back, scared of contagion.

Parliament dissolved for the election

in fits of posh giggles. There were reports

of voters dying, their hearts exhausted

by comic speeches, promises like jokes,

an outbreak of national hilarity

as unending…

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