Daily Archives: July 13, 2017

Apocalyptic Annunciation by Rupert M. Loydell

I am not a silent poet

It was a matter of national security,
the President had to be informed.
But he was busy with his grooming regime,
practicing presidential poses in the mirror.
He had all the moves down pat, had almost
memorised the nuclear push button code,
and remembered who he now was.
But who was this blonde woman
who said she had come to debrief him?
Was that an innuendo? Just how
attractive was the power he had?
His money, fame and fortune?
Oh, national security. Homeland alert,
undercover cops and time to dish the dirt.
He stared at Carrie’s earlobes,
tried not to look at her breasts
or ask her if he could have the pleasure,
kept his hands down by his side,
fiddling with the gadget in his pocket.
‘Mr. President, what have you done?’
The world on fire outside went white.

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Panthers by Paul Sutton

I am not a silent poet

Snow on fingers which feel nothing.

Stolen diamonds, apartments open to clouds.

I have lived for sunlight and

coffee in scorched squares.

Four months in an adjacent shop,

asleep in the heat, testing walls.

The gang laughed at my shame.

They got access, dug through –

I had the boss in his office.

There is beauty in deceit, reborn

by checking in and out – warmth

of towelling garments, mini-bars.

I stare at the screens.

Council houses in England.

Who can live like that?



In the politics of shame, I have no stake.

My state a broken playground for addicts.

I class cities by war or never war – all the same for luxury and its fruit.


Unseen cliffs and ravines,

switchback roads and

plunging waterfalls.

“Beauty will get fucked.”

Was it a bad joke or

words from a poem?



The bar behind the bowling alley is where they still meet.

Crashing, rolling, reassuring. Drinkers are desperate now:

“Nuneaton”; “Carlisle”; “Basildon” –…

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The Last Tweet of the Real Donald Trump by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

My scent once killed an outcast house-martin,

come Summer, Africa would have scented its plume.

I heard its last tweet from the vice of a factory cats mouth.

Since childhood I have learnt how migrant beings sing when free.

Sky is the skin of the universe and we are both the illness and the cure,

I used to whistle back to the crow incapable of joy because I saw myself in her.

Should the day ever come when I tweet my heart

I will not need one hundred and sixty characters to do so

I will hit the space bar one hundred and fifty nine times, then a comma –

and this will be my last tweet hoping that my song is all that is left and yet to come.

My Mothers scent once made three healthy boys,

she made a nest of working class heirlooms that stay with me,

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