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


stand tall and bare faced

a flood of ichor in the veins



so cold and mortal… no more



a trapeze in a glass house’s ceiling

gasping for empty tear-sacs in vain

the trap is the apple…

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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…

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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…

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American Noir by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

After Heather Heyer

If I were killed by white power
do not fold a flag for me this black hour
hang it upside down like Jeremiah from Elm
human darkness shall erode the whitest realm.

If you were to mourn the way of my death
you are not rejoicing in the way I drew my breath,
I stood for something, to fall like water into the deep
I fell for something purer, it was more than America fast asleep.

If I was to grow through earth a flower
I’d grow through white weeds and not cower,
an American eagle would swoop down past my shoots
and the blood from its mouth would make strong my roots.

If I was an Eagle I’d fly with displaced birds to roost in the wall
and when we’d soar a mowed down woman would fall.
She stood for something and fell like sunset water,

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Three minutes before when we built Barcelona by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

“The creation continues incessantly through the media of man”
Antoni Gaudi

in the architected shade she once had her breath stolen by Gaudi,
in those yesterday monuments they talked of making an offer on twelve leaf road,
later they shared a crema catalana with two spoons and all was good as spires cut night open.

Girl in floral dress ran down las ramblas like palates against a half-finished painting.
Three nights ago she left her tooth and a fairy in her Father left five euros,
she is running to buy a windmill that will be claimed by the grabbing tide

There is a an old saying that a city comes alive in the darkness and never falls asleep.
In our beautiful wisdoms we are leant to the warm soil and god takes us back,
she reveals herself as a human with colourless skin and her heart is a lamp.


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Scum by Jodie Rose McLoughlin

I am not a silent poet

This is what the so called majority asked for
Demonisation of the poor
Our national assets spunked up the wall
Scapegoating Muslim’s and the unproductive disabled
Calling us traitors, takers and scum

They won’t be happy until we’re all oppressed, at the bottom of the barrel drowning in racially pure, neo-Nazi cum

You mock us and shock us with the vitriol you read
Your silence is compliance in a world of black and white
Absolute morality
Cognitive dissonant closed off little minds
Only when they make you suffer too,
will you ever see the light

Where are you when they starve us?
Your ‘friendship’ was lacking when the medical professional assessor hissed,
in my ear and on paper that I’m unworthy of any money to live on
That my disabilities do not exist –

and that by extension neither should I
It’s a natural conclusion
Work or die

The state…

View original post 678 more words