Monthly Archives: August 2017

Glasses by Russell Gordon

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

can’t stand wearing glasses.

locked eyes with you

so securely fastened, rustproof

but it’s the glass that meets your gaze

as does light, wind or dust—I pass through.

a glass roof and ceiling, sealing from the elements

all-seeing eye

of a storm

a distance afar apart away a way around long ago

ignore the past a doorway.

adore the present you threw me into when you

cut me in two after you crawled through the whole and you

made me a spectacle

made me some spectacles

fashionably fashioned from some old bones you

found at a zoo.

I crawl through, shuddering, drawing the shutters

soundproof windows to the soul

shatter.

stand tall and bare faced

a flood of ichor in the veins

dammed

damned

so cold and mortal… no more

please

I,

a trapeze in a glass house’s ceiling

gasping for empty tear-sacs in vain

the trap is the apple…

View original post 51 more words

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New collection forthcoming: ‘broken stories’ by reuben woolley

This is the dust jacket for my new collection, ‘broken stories’, set to appear in the middle of September. Thanks to Rhys Jones for all his hard work at the Press and my most sincere gratitude to Angela FranceMicheál Gallagher and Hamish Montgomery for their fantastic endorsements, which can be see on the jacket. My thanks also to Sonja Benskin Mesher for the central cover image.

It’s a hardback and will cost £9.50. P&P included for the UK and the EU.

broken stories dust jacket

Quiet Prayer by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

It was not a quiet prayer.

When it came, it was

wrenched from him, in anger

or pain, possibly both, but

it was definitely a shout

not a whisper, was certainly

something directed at god,

certainly heartfelt and

demanding, absolutely sure

of its reasons and concerns.

 

It was not a quiet prayer,

it was a scream of grief

ripped out of the night,

pain from hearing the worst.

It was primal and personal,

a shout about being alone

and not knowing what to do,

a request for a compass,

a map and survival rations.

But mostly a demand for love.

 

It was not a quiet prayer

and it whispered its way

around the village, out

into the world. Elsewhere,

on their knees, others

were shocked at the raw

hurt, the need; took prayer

upon themselves, spent time

begging for mercy

and pleading for his soul.

 

It was…

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The Best of Both Worlds by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

The marriage was a write-off from the first night.

After the plumbers, builders and barristers, comes

the most exciting contemporary art show in town.

Images and sounds, and how they go together,

turn out to be an artistic narrative of a wounded

young man with yesterday’s empties on the ground

or abandoned on windowsills. The music scene

is exploding, the best of both worlds, though

less of a bonanza than expected. It’s no surprise

that boys should rebel and break loose, then

cordon off the other. Adolescent transgression

is a richly painted surface that appears to have

some kind of extra dimension. There are quaint

optical effects, professional struggles with

tragedy, and still one last act to come.

Spurt Splat Thwump Splish. Blessed with

an extraordinary ear and new-found prestige

this is less about the past and more about

the future. Performances begin this weekend.

This is music without…

View original post 75 more words

KKK by Susan Jordan

I am not a silent poet

I’d seen them before, the tall pointed hoods

with slits for the eyes, the phalanxes marching –

but that was Spain, all colour and ceremony,

flower-decked Madonnas shuffled along

on huge wooden platforms, the funereal drumbeat,

Christ burdened by the weight of his cross.

This was elsewhere. White-robed, white-hooded,

they triumphed in the street at being given back

the hate they’d had to mask. Behind them I saw

the fiery cross,  the noose tied to a tree, the dragging

feet, the terrified faces. I saw the righteousness

that knew nothing beyond white and black.

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The Game by Michael Peck

I am not a silent poet

We chose to play the game
struggled to become a piece
on the board
knowing inside it wasn’t a game.
 ..
we knew only hunger
we wanted to eat something,
anything to fill our bellies,
feel some respect and dignity
to ease the pain of being empty
we wanted a chance.
 ..
we would play the game
that wasn’t a game
we would carry the bag
go where they told us to go.
 ..
we would run with the bag
if anyone tried to stop us,
if we dropped the bag
the rules of the game
said we were dead.
 ..
maybe the police couldn’t run as fast
as us
maybe if we ran through the streets
they wouldn’t shoot if
there were people in the street.
 ..
so we played the game
knowing we were expendable pieces
on the mean streets
of life’s board game
half starved with frightened…

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Behind the Chimes by Oonah V Joslin

I am not a silent poet

Our government is in hiding
behind a big faced clock of shit.
It works like clockwork, doesn’t it,
chimes with the views of the few,
the nit-picking springs and cogs,
that set up little gods to look up to,
to listen to, to march time to,
time and motion, time and motion,
work’s the key to get us out of poverty.
We are not them. They rule
but are not governed by rules. They
hide behind the machinations of nations,
behind a falsified national pride, riding
the coat tails of of the fascistic mob,
setting worker against worker
for the same no contract job. Their
job is to make wealth by any means
and they have the means. We are deafened
by their loud chimes, too afeared by
their nursery rhymes. They hold the trumps.
Instead of a living tower, you would have
a working clock? You mock us Mrs…

View original post 19 more words