Daily Archives: May 10, 2018

Sunday Matinee, by David Chorlton

I am not a silent poet

The lady was a reckless rider
in the light rail car,
standing up to shake her hips
with the beer in her plastic cup
washing up the sides and threatening
to spill over upon
those of us just minding
our own businesses, which she
appropriated for herself
and campaigned for an end
to being miserable: an apt
description for how it felt
to be in her intoxicated shadow
while the smoothly running
wheels carried us along
our route to baseball
or ballet.
……………….The program
was all Balanchine, with its
angular grace and depictions
of sin and redemption, the struggle
to be human, and a jealous
woman’s vanity
leading to a fine finale with
her erstwhile suitor lying dead
to a knife wound in the chest.
Meanwhile, outdoors
………………………………..the temperature
was rising, and a certain
melancholy overflowed
the bars whose doors were open
and upon whose television screens

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things men have said to me (a found poem), by Amy Kinsman

I am not a silent poet

you can be so delightfully cold sometimes.
cold. literally and figuratively.
you’re much cooler than i thought you were.
you have amazing breasts.
that isn’t making you feel attractive to the world?

i know what i’d like to do tonight.
i didn’t think english girls had asses like that.
if you stay, i’m going to ask to fuck you.
people won’t be taking drugs
………and having sex in the street yet anyway.
i bet you’d also like to see my coffee table.
………to be honest i have a much nicer bed.
you have beautiful thighs.
am i coming home with you, then?
don’t fall in love with me.

do you mind if i go?
i was holding on to my testicles the whole time.
big, sweaty, meaty balls.
taking you outside alone was a weird thing to do
……..but for some reason i thought that was right.

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A Long Weekend In The Woods Can’t Solve Every Problem¹, by Clara B, Jones

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

for Lucie Brock-Broido (d. 2018)

Lucie needed to get away./a state of awakened consciousness/Her silver Honda owned the dirt road./a tradition of powerful females/animals with beaks hopping, hoping for fat grasshoppers grey in morning light./every outer atrocity is an inner one/A picnic basket domestic as her platinum ring, hand heavy with meaning changing day by day,/the language of the oppressor/no doubts as she traveled far from Route 40,/how we dread what we desire/topographic map displayed latitude,/an altered symbolism/Appalachia never looked so green in morning, or birds so hungry,/language is revisionist/feathered forms startled insects from grass, chased others back into the forest where she was going./a woman with “a man’s mind”/This was her Jurassic Park,/a nightmare/her green time gone, declension of love’s fault lines beyond repair,/her deepest self/like their shed at…

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The Sadness of Things, by Rupert M. Loydell

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

The sarcasm of birds:
two crows bickering on the empty bird table.

The disappointment of biscuits:
too sweet and crumbly for middle-age.

The distraction of other things:
screens flickering, new music demanding attention.

The disintegration of light:
darkness reflected in a discoloured mirror.

The enigma of memory:
what I remember, what I choose to forget.

The destruction of history:
ancient monuments deliberately reduced to dust.

The seduction of the unknown
rather than what we should care for and love.

The impossibility of calm
and quiet and order, of making a perfect home.

The absence of speech:
words unrecognisable, books left out in the rain.

The elusiveness of meaning:
playful disjunction is not the same as synchronicity.

The sarcasm of birds,
their caws and cries waking me up too soon.

The drawn-out day:
silences, pauses, worry and dismay.

The fickleness of language,
refusing to mean what I want to say.

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The Spare Parts Shop, by Steven Waling

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Shadows carry parcels blown valves whistling
teenager in gang torture ordeal branded
forties & fifties ghosts & obsessions

post war world after midnight consensus
it’s crunch time for United’s deal
rusting engines won’t buy it new

hands reach out for gadgets retreads
your 24 page guide to the week
austerity no blacks no Irish demob suits

back of drawer tuned to
shooting victim offered bribe news
Radio Moscow Hilversum a touch he

says of this and elbow grease
with hot iron and sexually assaulted
behind some dusty window frequency defunct

dust collectors long since junked
a friend dropping in full story
in back room sofas polishing their

passion for machines that never work
the new New Order city life
come in Saturday with oilskin bags

say let’s make this woodwork gleam
the boy’s horrific injuries page 7
at the back of their heads

our shopkeeper serves in low light

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Live at the Poet Manqué, by Steven Waling

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

I would like to see your smiling face*
in this corridor of long words, tired explanations
the leased words of Romeo Anschilo

In a corner of the snug George scribbles
his epic The Pubiad. Brown Windsor
and Iambic Pentameter
playing tonight at the Purple Moccasin

Collage of wires tubes monitors
old men surrounded by prose
the lisped words of Rosine Macoolh

Two girls wander in looking for the Greek
His liver’s evacuated to the country
where death is just shortage of breath
from a dropped incendiary

                        trawling old notebooks
                        for new words

Days and nights in the coffin factory
switch electric connections off in the brain
the lapsed words of Alsonso Moriche

Waiting for Just Published Tam
and his 30 variations on Spleen
………………the eternal present puts a pen in my hand
no-one will read…

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David I’m Only, by Steven Waling

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

dancing you dancing?     horror flicks
waltz through out childhood     learning
to feel the fear     chance
a for instance     do it
David     I’m wearing all my

masks again     in clown make-up
looking like a lyric eye
in a maxi dress     dancing
with my dodgy knee     throbs
in the harsh Berlin night

by the Brandenburg Gate     kissing
the Western Canon disintegrates into
constituent parts     you little heathen
you     the night’s still I
stars in its own galaxy

shining bright     Big Momma Thornton’s
special toffee     boys keep singing
we learn so much from
television     Omnibus bottle floating in
the dark sea     later I

strung out in heathen heat
change into the lounge suit
on Cosy Avenue     the temperature’s
always corporate     turn to face
the word     come out of

your dens woodland denizens     but
it’s snowing in white space
and David     today I’m tearing
that little black number     in
memory of my rebels     crows

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