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Living Poets 22

Living Poets 22

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Living Poets
Volume II Number II

Edited by Sean Woodward
First Published June 2005 Era Vulgaris by

Dragonheart Press
11 Menin Road Allestree Derby DE22 2NL England  2005 Dragonheart Presss  2005 Individual Poets All Rights Reserved Worldwide Layout and Graphics By T3KTON EUROPA www.t3kton.com

No part of this electronic journal may be reproduced in anything other than its original form other than for the purposes of review without the permission of the Editor or Publisher.

Lotus Eater Jump-Started Heartbeat Paradise Rumours Steady Gaze A High Protein Affair Each Morning Light The Problem Solver Swallowed By Illusions Credo Himalayan August I – Blocked In Himalayan August II – Photograph Himalayan August III – Morning Tea Himalayan August IV – Ayin Himalayan August V – Market Street Necromancer Riding With Demons Fredericksburg Ioannes Numbers Tattooed On My Wrist A Wedding Toast Terminal Dying Angelic Flight The Cursing Of The Jews As She Puts In Her Face Yesterdays Woman Toay Dreams To Be An Indian Death The Final Charter Loved Ones Merits Of Education Evolution Lies Clothes: Father Time: Dr Charles Frederickson Dr Charles Frederickson Dr Charles Frederickson Dr Charles Frederickson Geoff Stevens Geoff Stevens Pete Lee Gordon Scapens Gordon Scapens Ashok Niyogi Ashok Niyogi Ashok Niyogi Ashok Niyogi Ashok Niyogi Michaela Owsley Sean Woodward Sean Woodward Sean Woodward Ben Wilensky Ben Wilensky Ben Wilensky Ben Wilensky Ben Wilensky Ben Wilensky Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma

Splendid Isolation Offer To Treat Prayer For A Friend Dances Of The Night Betrayal Commitments Words Good-Bye Family Photograph A Girl’s Hair Picture In The Mind Shop Forgive Divorce In Memory Of My Father Travaille Liturgy Rosebud Mysterious Ways Schrodinger’s Other Cat Poor Old Rene Mystic Moon The Way Ripples The World Inside This Wind The Dawn Chorus Valentine The Fly My Love Witch In Memory Of The Untitled Glass Shelves The Temple Of Light Dolphin Tantra The Fisher King Liberty And Justice An Enlightened Maturity Dark Birds Neon Orange Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Reena Sharma Christina L Johnson Christina L Johnson Gillian Bence-Jones Gillian Bence-Jones Gillian Bence-Jones Graham Foster Graham Foster Fergus Hilton Fergus Hilton Fergus Hilton Fergus Hilton D Parrott D Parrott D Parrott James Deeney Nigel Greenslade Nigel Greenslade Nigel Greenslade Nigel Greenslade Mike Deamer Mike Deamer Mike Deamer Mike Deamer Mike Deamer Mike Deamer Bobbi Sinha-Morey Alison Edwards Alison Edwards Alison Edwards Gene A Picotte Gene A Picotte Gene A Picotte Megan Willis .

And The Sky Cease Rubies. Sapphires & Emeralds I Plunged Megan Willis Jennifer Yaros Jennifer Yaros Billy Internicola Jamie Cavanagh Jamie Cavanagh John Binns John Binns Simon P Jones Simon P Jones .Junk Mail A Rapa-Nui Walk Reflections in the Witness Room Used To Be Shy Donne’s Was A Sparser Age A Buzzing Crowds The Sky I.





A High Protein Affair Lovers Butchering each other With sex Each a side of meat Hanging on a look Showing all the ribs Her brain chops one off It contains a kidney He weighs up a breast She wraps testicles Licks a pencil Writes the price for it On a piece of paper Lists liver for the cat A piece of polony Says that big marrow-bone A pound of lard please He gives her tongue Asks for a slice of action A piece of ass Geoff Stevens .

Naked. And after the lonely tide of sleep It is the sunshine finger writing in my sand. It smells of your skin. So that my mind calculates the area beneath the curve Without but a thought And tells me in the darkness That it is you. you are as complex as calculus And yet so easily differentiated Because it is nakedness That I have come to know. It is as warm as your body.Each Morning Light Naked. Geoff Stevens . Statements that I make Are vetted by my love for you Yet prisoner of conscience I am provided with all the comforts Wished from life. Naked. I stroll around it all my island day. It throws its arms around my neck. you are the coast of my intentions My passport to abroad withdrawn My heart confined to house arrest. It is a statement without clothes. you say you love me.

the unhealthy compulsions.The Problem Solver Why do you always end up identifying with the killer in serial killer movies? The brilliant detective after all. the dead child and/or spouse who haunts him or her…? For the same reason (you deduce) you don’t deign to call them “detective movies”there are problems. has problems. Pete Lee . and there are problems. too: the job-related scars.

Illusions wait Like unpaid bills. By the tripwire of his name. By time that’s not owned. It shows in the tiredness Of a big house with drawn blinds.Swallowed By Illusions There’s no doubt he’s a winner. Now he sees its shadow Slinking off to a revised game With rules that pull strings. You can count the cracked cheers In the stories he fills. See doors friends have opened And closed behind him. Peeping through yesterday’s window The prize had an obvious face And swallowed like a whale. By the stubbornness of fists That knock on the door. And he knows he’s still running. Gordon Scapens . Spot the nerves in his eyes That deliver a punch line. How small it is to live on. He knows the road ahead. Craving is a flying signpost With the grace to be tailored.

A cloak that suits me. I’ve learnt the language That absolves steps Made from colleagues. Gordon Scapens . I fit. therefore I am. A uniform tailored By measured intentions. The game is a self orbit That fixes my position In a home-made sky. The end of the path Seeks my name for a trophy. Life has forgiven me The face I wore On the way up.Credo Recruiting my talents To the grand dream.

And enter the interplay Of light and shade. Sheep stewarded By the man and his dog Across the road And up the next incline. I must move on. Wash my face By the mountain stream. Purgatory . Puddles form and run away Between myself and me. Clouds eat up pines. Driving rain. Primordial canopies Of ancient trees. After the last straggler is gone I will be alone.Himalayan August A Series of Five Poems Blocked In Rockslides in front of me Take the road away. Just round a bend I have crossed. Mud and uprooted trees Take the road away. Photograph Nothing between The sun and me. Suspended above a gorge Between river a mile below And sky miles above. Standing just where I am.

Silent plunder Of my peaks in black. In my rose garden Bees have arrived. Morning Tea Sculpted into a wall of ice. Gods of malignant device Blight cherry orchards With early frost. I contemplate This erotic interplay --Wake my dogs. A pencil sketch will not do. Prematurely gray. a famous Russian artist and painter who did a lot of work in the Himalayas. Note: Roerich. You need color for this. This mountain dawn Moves westward Like a locust swarm. Glitter with the morning ray. Heaven Is above the snowline. And sip at tea From porcelain cups. Now hiding in opaque cloud. Nicholas Roerich. And then burn away. .Shaped by a designer God. Now blinding. Drops of dew On blades of grass Await fulfillment Of insatiable lust.

Wind. For they were born Of the Ayin. Sleet and ice. . Cutting terraces Out of mountainsides. Tectonic plates Will recreate. Mountain streams And waterfalls. And humankind Will etch wrinkles On their face. Ravines and rapine. rain. For his one measly crop. I find the concept rudimentarily common with the Hindu philosophy of Advaitavad. The peasant man Will be at work again. which worships an eternal formless entity. Note: Ayin (God) is borrowed from the Kabbalah and literally means ‘nothing’. And I will dig For wriggling worms In lecherous mud. They were born And will be Ayin. Sodomy Will leave quarried stone On post-menopausal Riverbeds.Ayin In ten million years They will approach Middle age.

Fabric stalls With printed flowers. The river is sound Only sound. Electric bulbs Define the hillside town. People walk To the bus-stand Across the bridge. Where is the liquor shop? Ashok Niyogi . Devotees leave Shoes on the doorstep. In descending cold. The evening meal. Temple bells. Teashops.Market Street Market street. Dimly lit In the gathering dusk. Conch shells. Camouflaged by the gloom. Tired vegetables And fruit.

How I laughed at that assumption! That white light had been dulled long before He got his hands around your throat. It was from no other entity that the wind had come from That flung us head first into the pit of misery. The thought of a man snuffing out that flame was preposterous! We both knew it was ourselves that did each other to death.Necromancer Do you remember how we danced together at night? With a sheet opacity between us? Millions saw you as the Ouija queen. Our tiny footprints and blood long congealed. It was us that wiped our bodies clean of handprints past and present. Michaela Owsley . You once asked me from the grave: “How does one register a life when one is already dead?” And I replied: “How does once emulate such brilliance in death. when one is still very much alive?” A morass of misery we never quite figured out. It was us that reclaimed our record at the hospital. Killed by the fair hands of your Ouija king.

I know How they love so to sew themselves Into the skin of a man. drowning body after body Turning on the Wheel Feeling this last moment For the eternity of the Bardo. And the sullen constructs Of Alchemists. Atrocities lying undisturbed In the Sudan. Every man is the same Blinding himself blameless and free. Intelligences. Cutting down the spirit’s tree Blind as only young souls can be To the enormity of their actions To the creaking Dying. Torn and scratched and withering . In control of every situation Have no meaning Are like the screaming never heard.Riding with Demons Having trafficked with demons. In Bosnia. ghouls. Having trafficked with daemons. Chetznia and The whole damned world. Riding with demons. Into the skin of a woman. your punctuated attempts To appear aloof. unaffected.

Sean Woodward .Never quite hiding. Burnt with all that riding All that turning on the Wheel.

Fredericksburg Night comes wet to Virginia. Sliding between worlds Called by the cannon wheels To the land of night Called by the riflemen To the sleep without light. I hear their voices Echoes huddled on the horizon Crouched beneath the trees Hidden now by Interstate By Re-Election campaign pleas Conversing with the Generals of the Fall Those forests of ancient strategy Standing now so proud and tall. Night comes wet to Virginia Carrying with it All these moments That linger. Sean Woodward . Shivering in the Halloween wind They wrap a cloak of golden leaves Around their soaking shoulders And dream of soldiers In the trap of the Rappahanock. The alchemist trees adept At stealing colour From the shiny depths Of every drop.

. The phrases of Eastern Orthodox patriachs Now echo in this universal ark Of prayers and praise And I try to raise myself Above the prejudices of preconceptions Try for one second To learn the lesson of Ioannes’ Sean Woodward.Ioannes Running across St Peter's Square In the depths of obelisk shadow free night I see a single light In a single window Now shuttered tight In anticipation of conclave’s white smoke. In surprise my single tear Screams from a bleary third eye Tries to shout at the injustice of life That folds itself away White Visage Veiled Into the hidden light of mystery.

Numbers do not lie to us. six. Memorial hyperbole. vast hiding places. A Jew is dead. Scratched along the veins in shape and form of a biblical tell. how many threes and fours Enliven us with mystery. little Jews believed the relevancy of numbers. We journeyed on in jellied terror. My meticulous tribe printed me to be a dot on the map. followed by two more Mythical numbers tattooed on my wrist. Forged into an awesome sum of higher meanings. signs of breath. Someone is making fun of me. Kept live. . Computing energies the way an alchemist transmutes dross into gold. Slithering through cul de sacs. mystifying one. Screaming for our mommies.Numbers Tattooed On My Wrist Now cry the seven. nascent. Compressed air oozes from this mausoleum with a hiss of gas. by picking at the tissue of the skin. constant piss. the four. Ordered East to Untermenshentown with other printed Boys and girls clutching dolls and sucking thumbs. They edify. In those centuries long ago. Summoned by the oompah bands and blitzkrieg waltzes. Gamblers call it a “tell”. A speck added on to final solutions. a giveaway. the little deuce. God commissioned me to rub the feet and rub the hands of the still and silent For signs of life. And now we had these new ones to obey. There are no more children on this train. And God has lost a son. I demanded dear God reveal to me why I did not die With all my curly friends from Talmud Torah. I cried. trey with glinting eye. Wee tykes were herded into boxcars heading east To the clickety clackity smack of metal sparking metal Until most of us died of shock. How many constitute the name of god.

The dead were often dirty. camouflaged By rags. Big fish swallowing little fish. and so bones and mangled bodies Were properly aligned. Red. gets used to filthy things. see me shivering in a dead Kraut’s shoes. rope. Beckoning me to plunge into their holes and fructify. Keep me blind. Dear God. Blue cheese. Boy of five. Fumbling in male humiliations. When light sank into the sea. Do not show me daddy doing dirty. Sick under this crawling combat coat. shame. A boy. Stench coming from my crotch worse than all the corpses Piled in front of my face. enclosed by walls of cunts. Or ever helped me finish daily chores. Not a single corpse protested.Scarecrow in an Ike. crotch. I worked in silence. propelled by noxious gases to explode. Squinting into crevices. Gaping in a giant maw. deep black pubic patch. Shooting sperm fifteen cubits high In stubborn copulation. spliced into jigsaw puzzles Fifteen cubits high. Rank. Yearning for a suck of milk. I fantasized what lies below the waist in nudity. they say. this smell of sour rye. I prayed. Pricks of every size and shape. shaped by pieces of string that kept the mass from shimmying. often shards of fat. and so I did. Pussy hair. radiant pink. lice emerged to hack into cavities. grotesqueries impelled by outer forces To erect. stoically. It never goes away. Vulvas squeezing in and out. newborn babies frying in gasoline. My tribe enjoys a felicity of order. and does so quickly. raw. tits. but bearable . The way a butcher’s cord binds and ties the evening roast.

But for the life of me. Call me “Reliquary”. then jugular shit. a chemical boil. pick pick the skin. Say that numbers record my past. Dig. Call me “Jew Antique”. little four. Who will ruminate on my cancerous face. First defecation of a child. A hiss of gas. Until sores concede to pain. and rub my tell.Oddly bearable. paranoic. demanding sanity. Say I do not shine. A flickering film. a bloody justice shall I pursue. pockmarked face? Recall the rasp and racket of a smoker’s cough-catarrh? Wie heist du? What is your namen. say. Soon to faint. Shivering rat slicked with mud. exotic. Bugs were chewing on my testicles. seven. far from photogenic. Wie heist du? Who are you? As if I owned a past. As if one were sniffing the creations of a cell. followed by a few insignificant others. Especially now when cranky. your tribal number? I grind my teeth at night Grind as I await visitations. . Who shook my shoulders. A faint pop of life. I am still a reflecting Jew. dying to sit. Stuttering trey. Ich bin a sieben! Ich bin a vier! Ich bin a drei! There is rage in my old age. A starving corps de ballet. hiss dying away. As if every nodule of my future life could b predicted. such a sullen. my pedigree: six. See me with my caved in chest. barely exist. Only Nazi numbers record my provenance. Trembling under the bright lights of interrogation. my identity. I answered them in the only way I could answer them. crabby. Not a model for the human race. and asked my name In six different languages. held aloft by the gloved white hands of the military police.

To this day. forgeries. Swallowed by other voices. . my prayers resound with Mother Goose and Grimm configurations. God has lost a son. Somewhere. Sacrificing righteous skills and hard earned monies to back their play. Deprived of grace. I liberate them. and when I pray. I would lose perspective of an incoming death. teeth swim in a jar. Six comes flying. anal heat. far. far away. Imbalanced by my out of body croaking and my gruesome expertise. Otherwise. blue vase containing ashes. Floating in this homeless. A Jew is dead. A five year old me crawls on hands and knees through clouds of smoke. Chattering at the water’s edge. sucked off. Fingers scar.Printed on a piece of paper. should I will it. send them tumbling into space. Jaws slack. leap Into a pot of boiling permutations To be chewed on. names scribbled in a book. In the first light of every waking morning hawk my rising seven. forced to summon up My own epiphanies. they would run away. Uncovering burnt offerings. making jokes in tri-lingual pronunciamento's. crooned To Yankee chicks when born alive and pecking through the outer shell I helped to pick and pierce with formidable beak. these numbers are placed Into the centre of my phylacteries. Right knee jerks in defensive prayer. Mouth dry to tinnitus in my ear. mobility. My dice investigate a possible hope and piece for aynickle. Jew to come. Their new world numerologies. other stutters backwards Into disbelief. For any form of life after death. Rudderless. Squandered sensibilities. a photograph authenticates my lineage. but with strings attached. both knees squealing in banana savagery. birdlike trey. Somewhere. grandchild. a civil service document exposes tri-lingual puns. and tissues burst in flames.

Inhaling women singed by fire. Along with carrots. even now. Into cobwebs trussed with flies. shimmering ghost. lace. chopped apricots. But I do not see their numbers. and put myself to sleep. hokey kitchen fire. momma. This is what abides: Vulgarities abide. Hugs me to her bosom. whiskey. My mother is a full balloon. sentimentalities abide.High above the shtetl spires. And as she holds me to her chest I see the numbers tattooed on her wrist. I see iconic creatures gleaming in the night. If I knew them. Inside the pot is a chicken boiling in its own fat. do not Know their names. illuminated by the blaze of candles. Push through the swinging doors into the past. The moon relights a maiden portrait. cabinets filled with ancient dust. Peppermint. I coax her down. and even in my own collusions. A black pot boils on her kitchen stove. severed from her moorings. . Followed by the k-k-knock of squishing hearts. No sign of daddy anywhere. Do myself a favour. from magic. exploding like a pistol pop. nuts. I need my specs to see This hackneyed Shoah pain. Drunk on wine. come into this hazy. in the finest forgery. There are no more shtetls and no more shtetl Jews. Kike horror in all its duplications. reshape identities. and creative loss. I could recast. spices pressed against the face. no authenticity. And so I make them up. I sniff three ducks sizzling on a spit. Slow descent. cannot identify biographies. Who is making fun of me? I have a child’s vision of what shtetl light should be. Press her fingers to my cheeks and then mercifully. Streaked across her apron are the black tracks of pepper Heading east towards Untermensch shentown. But there is no provenance here. preserve my mother as a saint.

pissing on the sheets. a boy of five. A raging heat drives across aynikle. Now Cry the deuce! Cry the four! Immutable trey! Sing out for Little One! O you Great Six! You Fallen Seven! We are stumbling into space with a toss of the dice. Absolving answers too dim to be of service anywhere. kosher wine. Jew to come. Shattering life after death should I desire it. As clouds part and stars shine.Yiddish clarinets. Dripping on the tracks. Forgiving sins too vile for me to comprehend. this is what abides: Here come Snake eye’s! Here come Boxcars! Here come Craps! Ben Wilensky . Crawls through burning bushes sifting evidence. My memories do not wash! They do not fit! “You Fucking Yids. Piles of teeth. Or remedy. I pick. Jawbones of a golden ass. Hitler should’ve nailed you to the cross!” “This time around we’ll do it right! Verdampte Scheisse!” I woke this morning smelling gas. Piss dripping through the floor boards. I have never given up on comedy. I awoke this morning on my train heading east. An old man. pick pick around the edges Until blood leaks onto my bed. A plum dark. Pissing on my bed.

getting fat. or growing old.A Wedding Toast Millions wed this day and millions more tonight. another war. Forgive amiable gas. they’re good kids. The possibility of marital distress. dutifully. the intimacy Of a lover’s heat. We are here to watch this baby grow and say I remember when history began. Expect a comic. Autos crash. Actually. you there. a fear. You two are going where we have gone before. but you go further. Here to dig foundations in the earth. Feel the awkwardness in a ceremony like this. . Bearing hard core memories of another place. aim straight. muscular. Get the hell up. Married in the millions. losing more. To break the ice. Sing of bitter bread and eccentricities. deadly rite of passage. inhale your neighbour’s scent. family luggage. The usual perversities. trucks spin. We will fortify this house with structured steel and silver mesh. and more so here tonight. mad world. Then artfully. I ask you to rise. When you write of us in years to come. beaming in your tux. God bless all here and those who are not. How we willed you to succeed and how you laughed all the way to the bank Wearing a pair of new shoes. all here Turn right. You who are dying. I held them in my arms when they were born. along with your grinning brats. stretch layers of skin across this universe. Aim high. we jack-knife on the highways out of control. And you who are fit. Spewing greased and fiery rage across the televised mad. Losing hair. Conceiving keys and locks that open onto paradise. Exposing burning wreckage on the eight o’clock news. Like batteries of missiles ploughing through the outer gate.

beer. place.As father of the bride. rabbis. so what! Tonight we pray. God with not. Or horse thieves facing down a hanging jury. are you still there. but this comes later. believing both. You look like old time pioneers and root stock. Knees quake. time. priests. Create mantras and songs of a long dead mother. Oh yes you are! Pickled! Preserved! Etched into the brines of this historical book. Ben Wilensky . It sings of happiness and nothing of the past. poor folks sitting with the rich sequestered at your table. after we’re drunk. and need to be. are we young again? Did all this happen in the blink of an eye? Sweetheart. Pour champagne into flutes. couples Out of joint. love. Smitten with giddy wines and vintage friends. Gift them to bride and groom. those we hate. Make it milk. Voices crack. sonofabitch father. Here come infamous tears Rolling down my face. taunting my composure. anything wet. but this one’s light. Did you think anyone escapes scot free? Lovers. drink And take us on this journey. Because we are. We are ever true believers. my professional grace. Why should I suffer alone? All here are being photographed against communal will. to the point. As simple as that. God in heaven. mingling black with white. One more toast comes after this. something to give the tongue encouragement. Hetero-gay. A racy. Drinking newborn under the table. holding my hand? Draw your whiskey. tomato juice. I wrote this too. Water. Former lover to your mother.

And kiss the sweetness of light. Letting bitterness pass. Memorialize who you loved and so even now. Ben Wilensky . Until you hear the laughter. Who don’t know where to go or what to do in blind confusion. Forgive the living as you forgive the dead.Terminal You who are crippled in cancerous pain. Spirits rise.

Then curse the god damned rain. What we atone and choose to forgive Are memories of insignificant lives revealed as new. Praying when the floods allow me time to pray. Common clay. My own approach to this rising tide Is to swim. Death lumps us into balls of shit And blows us away. fame. Seek comfort in this act of charity. The Great Man’s razor glides across our necks Aborting future. Until the last hissing breath. Digesting clarity. And time ticks on In every temple of the world. Ready when you are ready.Dying Dismissed as cannon fodder. Forgiving failure. kiss it. Ben Wilensky .

sheer gossamer bits of smoke and haze. hissed from heavenly moss. They never ate their children or sacrificed one single feather for their flight. They lacked complexities. crying when we missed deliverance. they lacked vulgarity and wit. they lacked tenacity. or fall. They yearn for the calm embrace of mother love. Believing angels never flame. Staggered in a mosh-pit colliseum. Yet higher and higher they soared without a net. Their brilliance was magically bestowed on them.Angelic Flight Androgynous. Little dicked and baked without clitoris. . Perversities sicked on them by grinning daughters of men. while they. When godly whispers whistled up their wings. Yowling for a suck of human milk. Feathering each other’s tips and toes with unearthly delicacy. Quivering and shaking like teen-aged louts pulling on their sensitivities. Bellowing when smacked. They flew the air swimming leaping with delirious joy. While down below. The strength to steal away from muddy mansions. gobbling roaches in a protein revolution. blind. Swinging out like Samson’s shaven bald. Created from coarse clay and tough red grit. They swirl their wings in sexual confusion. Overwrought. Crafted to be instruments of faith and vessels of light. Licking insects. overdosed by pleasures. We gawked at their muscularity. we persevered Through countless resurrections. deprived of tit. the creation of a spine. Their energy hand delivered on a silver platter. They dream of a hairy mate to make them snort and fart with passion. we slobbered through the craters of a boiling base.

Too stunned to open up their perfumed lips and ratify. Obeisant to command and inured to human pain. We rule the roost. black hairs and make them shake. revelling in fashionable dissent. We are molecules. Still. They primp and come alive. memories. spasming spurt that rockets space. Firing cannons and beating drums. We are veterans of foreign wars and we grip our goddess sluts By their short. . Angels offer us in bonded gratitude the mantle of their radiant robes. Wired in the image of a lusting god. That we cannot slake the inner urge to chew on living life. We do not join delusional farce. red. molecular families of those we eat. a consuming god. because it suits our purposes of play. Put them on. On one solemn knock down day of every century. They march. Swooned to their knees. and make the pigeons squeal for peace. Then sliding up and sliding down voluptuous plumage.They plumed and fluttered in their female finery. Grunting truffles from a load that’s foul. When death diminishes and life’s reborn. We are miners from the diamond dust and piggy shit. It is said we are the greedy. unfurling banners. and seek your destiny. This sums up the nature of original sin. puffy in the face. clenching fists. And dare to replicate. They blow off steam. they say. consider us sexual advisors. Because we must. strut. they dote on us. In a jizzmic. We snag those furry. We smear our shitty bums on their pristine whites. gluttonous offspring of a mother monster. Delivered telegrams of dying compulsively on time. Burst their boundaries and bleed rebellious blood. furry angles by their furry furry necks and squeeze Until they’re red.

The centrepiece of evolution. And learning how to fly. We are top of the heap. Ben Wilensky .They gurgle sobs of shock Slink into obscurity. Technically. The best. Fashioned from god’s heaving breath. We come last.

whiners. Educate the wheezers. While you are rooted in the mud like blind pigs. We are now your “Primal Enemy! Jihad Glue!” Wandering the cities of the earth we prosper and we die everywhere. Nothing is left but “Cunning Rat!” Keeps me fit. Too pissed to comprehend what it is to be “The Demon Jew!” See my “Protocols of Zion!” Hot damn! According to your Holy Writ I murder God! I shave my beard and morph into a Jewess in a slinky dress. liberal lollies. We pass the night in sulphurous sex until he is dead. and fail again. radical queers. . Slithering through the Prophet’s tent and into his bed. dominate the race.The Cursing Of The Jews A Doggerel “Oh You Blood Sucking Hebe!” “You Christ Killing Zhid!” “Mocky! Sheeny! Gutless Kike!” Oy Yoy Yoy! Money Money Money in all my Bolshie banks! “Communist! Capitalist! Ruler of the World!” Curses cut into my weaknesses and whip away the fat. Even the Devil calls me “Slut!” His Demoness!” You propagate this swill until a madness fries your brains. mystical martyrs. combatively alert. Numbed by medieval rot. Exposing meagre sensitivities. Fail. dead. dead. Incapable of choosing style. or wit. Who wants to assimilate? Naturally we run from these unpleasantry's but you pursue. Rise and cross the finish line.

“You Wog! Zog! Dhimmi Dog!” “Poisoner of Wells!” “You God Damned Jew!” Ben Wilensky . “True Believers!” exalted in the brights.Even now you need a Jew to make the world turn left. Turn right. to lead you kindly toward the light. this constant curse. Created by this constant rage. It’s the price we pay for being gifted. We are central to the universe.

Ache for me. The woman cannot be found. I am the women yell her accessories. Yearn for me. Reena Sharma .As She Puts In Her Face Validate me. screams her lipstick. Laughs the mirror. cries her rouge Accept me. The long silky locks of hair protest.

Her self-respect is berated as narcissism. Reena Sharma . Castrated is her reflection. Her masochism is celebrated and revered. actions chained. hair tied. Hands tied. She remains. Abused is her image.Yesterdays Woman Today…. She exists. The explosion is impending.…. The time-bomb is set. Her remains will scatter and sow Seed of a new breeze. Denigrated by conjecture Pusillanimous and timorous. she stands Thoughts chained.

Thoughts wind along the silvery stream. As the night encapsulates. The qualms of the dream.Dreams Her dreams solve the qualms of her day. Silhouettes alter a mirage of shape. Blankets of form. Lie out to graze Reena Sharma .

These are the hallmarks of survival. The acidity and rancidness is Mine if I choose. Reena Sharma . And to where I aspire.undesired. To wither for a principle is. To have and behold. two worlds. Two nations. Yet respectable. is to attempt. The poisons and venom are there. Social self-murder.To Be An Indian – I am the product of two cultures. To kill oneself slowly is torture. Respect for the unworthy. The fruits and rewards are mine. Shameful……. If I don’t. To be an individual. Acceptance of contradiction. Better to be the reflection than Try for the image.

She touches us all with varying degrees of her sweet venom. Her poison spreads until the pain burns through the barrier of control. She comes at will and goes with her work complete. The darkness That follows her like a shadow is hers alone, no mistake can be made As to whom it belongs. No explanations or apologies are given and so no lies or false Promises are made. When injured creatures howl with pain, that pierces not the Ears but the heart, you know that she has left her calling card. To not Believe she exists, is to not believe we exist, her truth is the ultimate Truth.

Reena Sharma

The Filial Charter
To you my child I give my aspirations, I devote my dreams. From you my child I ask for obedience I ask for affections I ask for success For me my child I ask nothing At All!

Reena Sharma

Loved Ones
For the love of a lover For the love of the mother We love to be loved, A deal is struck. Legal tender is negotiated, Invested is calculated. Affection is ladled Measure for measure When the street is walked Tis done for mutual pleasure. Where is the Apocryphal Altruism.

Reena Sharma

Contemplation leads to agitation. If she dares to seek. she must learn. Reena Sharma . This loss is rooted in necessity. Or so is told. And are the rewards of enduring the trial. “by those who know best” To teach herself. she doesn’t possess. If she cogitates. what there is to find. To learn. Unless she contemplates independent thought. The cycle appears unbreakable.Merits of Education Capitulation smell of success Its’ rancid odour proliferates the room Conviction of intellect. she may lose her mind. Freedom from the fear of rejection And emancipation from self-denial Are the tools that will ensure deliverance. she must be taught.

Reena Sharma . Stealthily yet certainly. Abruptly yet firmly. The music of happier times Falls prey to the cacophony of animosity.The Death of a Friendship In the twilight of the journey. the road ends. The road stops. The dulcet tones mutate. At which point. The common ground becomes razed territory. Destruction by contempt ensues. Words strike like hammers. Where they once plucked like strings.

Like beads of water.? A newer one will emerge…………. and change it’s’ stick. Reena Sharma . To do wrong In the name of conformity Does it make it right? Does it negate the misdeed? How can one reconcile the conflict? If genocide and misdemeanour Are not outrightly condemned. Does it automatically make it condoned? If resistance is indicative of non-acceptance And acceptance of non-resistance. They will think and object. They produce a spectrum of grey. Where the agenda no longer applies. The stage is set. for a new society to rise. now gone…………. All hypothesised models collapse. Old peer pressure.Evolution Culture. Where the Black and White merge. Society. The query is easily appeased. Free-thought and thinkers scatter. It shall be the horse. Peer Pressure. Holy ground will be crossed. on an oily plane.. The World. At the expense of tradition. even reject.

I shall always tell the truth As the wind carries my words As the birds sing my tune..Lies In the name of the truth. I shall always tell the truth Even when I lie. through my Very honest teeth…. Reena Sharma . I tell this lie.

divide and rule. Clothing becomes a weapon of modern day war.Clothes: Hide a multitude of sins………. just bodies…. Under the allure and pretence of clothes Bodies become ugly. Reena Sharma . The human form shrouded in cloth Loses its equality and natural form. bodies become beautiful.. for all. The stitches and yarns of fabric. Yet brazenly make sinners of us all. But the display and it’s strength’s. No longer is the honour and modesty of form at stake. Yet in essence they are all but.

Good deeds it records alongside the bad. Can and will occur. physical and spiritual altruism Within society. Time does not wait nor does it race ahead. Reena Sharma . A true example of mental. caught up in it’s Own ambitions. genocide is recorded Alongside martyrdom. simply an obsession With chronology. Its’ presence is unwielding and it’s effect staggering. This witness cannot be prejudiced and is not judgmental. Time has no sense of correctness or tact. Just simply a bystander.Father Time: Time is the ultimate and true witness of all events that have. Time is the ultimate identity of existence.

Passers by stop and enjoy. The sympathisers shake their. Of one to ten. Sympathetic heads. the Dissimilation of the soul. flesh blackens. others laugh. Your solitary cry is echoed.. When you cry. burnt. Spectators rate the show on a scale. Only by the indifferent skies. As the charred. you………………….Splended Isolation When the soul cries for the heart. Upon pale pink flesh. Reena Sharma . When you laugh. The cry is solitary. The tears of anguish fall like coals. The world looks on. you cry……………. All the while.

Divert yourself from such travail. from my garden. Support my loss of faculties Explain away the mediocrity Help devolve the citrus heart Free it from. internal conjecture.Offer to Treat Fuse me with your thoughts Lose me in your maze Engulf my meandering form Give it shape. give it structure. Reena Sharma . If you find this work too tasking If you find the agenda to full Take leave of me.

Prayer for a Friend Having lost you. Reena Sharma . Memories of days gone. Through your affections. When my eyes swell with tears. I have lived Through my inhibitions. Having known you. Your love has humbled. I have lost. I have met myself. I pray for a change in your kismet. May the crop of time. break their fall. reap you love. I have realised you. my assertions Your dignity has defined a beacon.

Rhythms of rejections co-mingle with. Follows by the rumba of lost loves. Her tears glide smoothly to the beats. A waltz of failed aspirations. Pulses of sweet emotional nectar. Each step carries a separate torch. Her demons begin their dance. the heart pounds.Dances of the Night As the blanket of night falls. The pace quickens. Reena Sharma . Each dance bears its’ own memory.

And distorted beyond repair. Even the old seasoned drinkers’. Blazes the trail of sedition.Betrayal From the depths of the heart. As the shock takes its’ hold. The music of many sweet times Resonates along barren planes. The pain grows in proportions. Shallow graves of confidence rest. The aftermath litters the street. Denial and anger amalgamate A potent cocktail for pleasure. The melody sounds distant. Abstains from the intemperance. Reena Sharma . Not a mere sketch nor drama. The ignorance worse than the crime.

Reena Sharma . Mould yourself to a model of Categoric demand and supply.Commitments Give yourself to your duty Fulfil the prophecy of function Allow your world to be seen Through the eyes of necessity. Independence is reckless and Any such execution is selfish.

I tried getting you the moon But when I went to grasp it. I wanted to capture it And send it to you. Softly calling your name. I wanted to give it to you But I couldn’t reach its middle Or even find its end. And when the sunset came. I had it signed and sealed But I didn’t send it.Words I saw a rainbow yesterday. Instead. Christina L. I threw it into the fire And watched its words flutter like wings And when the dawn came. The man in the moon Just looked at me and laughed. But it slipped through my fingers And faded into darkness. So I wrote you a letter last night. I could hear them Singing in the trees. Johnson .

Good-Bye When the leaves begin to fall Please don’t look for me For I’ll be flying South on the ocean breeze Chasing the autumn sun So don’t search Behind the tall elms and twisted oaks That surround my vacant house For I’ll have disappeared With the last robin’s song Waning like memories Of warm summer days Vanishing like your gentle August love Christina L. Johnson .

Wide straw hats protecting them From sun. Gillian Bence-Jones . And the throbbing sparkling Ballroom turned to a tapping Blackout while one nursed The other drove a canteen Under the roving aeroplanes. Guarded girls. to say goodbye To my mother. One married well And both rode well to hounds.Family Photograph Two girls in a goat cart. Long ago in that green garden time For Kenya Colony. Two girls in a goat cart. My mother and my aunt Near Eldoret. Though the stairs were high. Not long ago my crippled aunt Dragged herself upstairs. One fair. Protecting spell of wealth. Privilege guards but not enough. Two girls in a goat cart Never far apart. one dark. There is so saving spell but love. dying from cancer.

Haloed with her silken. Dragon fire bright. starry Hair: An amber door. Ears of corn growing above Poppies. Gillian Bence-Jones . Yellow broom of a great birch Is this girl of Maelor. If we let it down All glowing She’ll wear a gown Of fine gold hair.A Girl’s Hair He who wins the girl I love Will win a grove of light.

Picture In The Mind Shop Some images Like radishes Become part of you: Always there On the shelves Of the mind shop. The man in the berry Who killed men For love of men. The place looking over the river Where we sat and talked. The coiffed girl On the chequered floor Cutting up carrots. The family On the balcony After the war. The little girl. burning. The Dome of the Rock In it’s vast Court. The hay wain Coming out of the wade. The Parthenon That was ‘Our Lady of Satines’ In Outremer Baroque Petria. The Mona Lisa Smiling sideways. Gillian Bence-Jones . We all Have our own. A hugh black butterfly Blazoned with wet-shine blue.

Calls the tormentors to swarm It’s me that’s stoking! You want me to forgive you? I’ve had a change of heart. you have your rights. To watch you wallow in shame and Deny the chance for a fresh start! You must be joking! Graham Foster . my bitter rage. When all I seek is calm. And doubting there could be someone Who I could ever trust again? You must be joking! Why should I forgive you? You haven’t thought of me! I recall the ways you’ve put me down. But not to stamp on me! You’ve got me choking! How can I not forgive you? It only brings me harm! And traps me in a self-made cage. Of wondering if I’m sane. Thinking you’ll take all the blame when I know I played my part. You’ve been too blind to see. This turmoil storm. You’ve stood your ground.Forgive You want me to forgive you? You’ll have to think again! After all the pain you’ve put me through.

I’m uncertain of your love for others. I face division and enmity. Graham Foster . How quickly they’ve slipped away. That isn’t right from a brother. The hurt of letting you go. And that is where my pain lies. But should I begin to question. You seem so willing to let them go. Am I an outsider today? Our declaration of Unity Is fine while we agree. Distrust and anger now spring up Where our love used to grow. How could things become so hostile? What have you got to hide? What makes you certain? That right is on your side? I’m not questioning God’s love for you. We were bound together as brothers.Divorce The cords of love have shaken loose.

in the psychiatric ward. such beautiful people. That stand by the fountain. And mountains and oceans. To the truth of the lord. but I somehow survive. And we all will revive the feelings of bliss. For the cracked glass windows and lonely old widows And the priest and the thief and the Christian belief In the factory and the canyon. and the tadpoles swimming. let’s make the world rock. let good ones be big ones. I get higher and higher up the ladder I get bad and get badder. Down pints of beer. and bumble bees. the twelve misty mountains So come on and sing. Dear madam. the Shepard and farmer. let tomorrow begin To the girls and the women. In the meadows and fields. On heavens door let’s knock. the men of great means. Where he patients make chains from daisies remains. And the knight in his armour. I light the fire. their loved ones so near. dear miss.In Memory Of My Father Rivers and trees. goodbye I must go Fergus Hilton . And down in Orleans. the buttercup yields. that offer devotion To the planet of people.

behind a hedge. on the road to Long Rock. One man takes a slash. They hold on to giant vibrators. flint cascade Pelt the thin Perspex of the tractor’s windshield.Travaille Flint dusty in the canyons. Fergus Hilton . has turned into “Trago Services” And now only a handful of men. They are digging the roads Outside Penzance.C. Where do these men come from? Where do they go? They’ve been there forever. And attack the tarmac with pick-axe and sledge.C. Their orange plastic jackets marked “Cornwall County Council”. A last outpost of employment. Like others before them. Work the once crowded mine. Men like black bears steering their bodies Through the dust drenched atmosphere. They are working men. The C. Steamroller chugging.

Up on smoke and bone. Doped streaked eyes like lead. Freemason up and latent give. Babied through it all. Sequestered planet plantation. Memory from mothercare. Plankton itching in their curleas. Tomorrow howls in my drawer. Living in the rich quick of something. Fergus Hilton .Liturgy Liturgy Italic Dialectic. Psychiatrist approaching. Shit in the spent brow.

There are no outside forces. The internal dialogue never switches off. Fergus Hilton . The water sips from the singing trees.Rosebud The internal dialogue never switches off. Barrel and thong rusted open by the open grass. But when it comes to it. Offers me ice-cream. What do they know of madness who only madness knows? Trees that grow from the root. potable Trout fresh water stream. There is nobody home Just sub-personalities. Match the simplicity of water. In the branches spilling the ancient blood of chestnuts. Distant metaphors hum breaking the shadows under the cold mustard sun. Descending daisy banks to the pure. She invites me to the door. Leaf birds flutter like newspaper. The grass sings from the hymns.

they sang: To you. Om. Omnipresent. And beyond the wire Die heilige Nacht. am the sun & the moon. I am the son. am the one. I am the male one. I am the ying & the yang. I. schone Gotterfunken. Omniscient. And when the camp guards were taken To their cells. Tochter aus Elysium. Lord. Omnipotent.Mysterious Ways I. Lord? The yiddisher screams. The yiddisher prayers. Why did you let it happen. dein Heiligtum!’ ‘All men shall be kindred brothers where you spread your gentle wings…’ The yiddisher screams: . Lord. Wir betreten feuertrunken Himmlische. Omni. The going up & the coming down. Lord. They sang. ‘Freude.

D. Parrott . To you.To you. Lord. Om.

A moment of freedom In which I made the first choice.Schrodinger’s Other Cat And my cat stares at me And the evening is fine Silhouetting trees Against a darkening sky. Merging the world about me With the world inside me. Though the moon shines from a sable sky And my at has gone seeking death In the rustling night. Other selves in other worlds. Nor Schrödinger’s box Will protect it. And neither Tavener’s ‘Veil’. It is dark now. D. Discovering myself. A moment of decision Leading to a chain of choice. Parrott . Making experimental worlds To link freedom with creativity. Values are found to cherish Which give life to old concepts: I create my world and the world of others. Allowing other decisions. Plucking reality from possibility.

Grey socks And a hint of flesh in between. D. In intense suffering The world disappears And each is alone With himself. Erotic ambiguity: His wife In the shadow of his mistress Feeling not thought Determines whether we are.Poor Old Rene Not even the corner Of the newspaper turned down Revealed her face. Parrott . He felt Therefore he was. There were just the bent knees In a tracksuit bottom.

Mystic Moon The moon’s silver light Floods the dark night Is it stone. mystery’s maid. By moonlight shadows – the TrinityMystic joined to Self-infinity. Blessed by heaven. In the universe none so pure. Moon that hides behind clouds demure. goddess of night. All trapped by her shine. Heroes in her radiant spell. (As Diana. Auspicious sin made man blind. queen of shades. No sound on the moon at all. cursed by hell. Lucina. Persephone. is she divine. Romans prayed) Triune goddess. James Deeney . of ancient days. Magna mater. Present throughout humankind. Godlike in her ghostly light. For God goes by with white footfall.

The Way Your velvet touch Your answers Fledgling love Your italics Your winter-lake eyes Cold as the night And twice as wise. Nigel Greenslade . Where vacant stars share visions Of the way we really are. Your harmonious voice Gold empassioned embrace Warm as sapphire summer rain Soft as evening’s whisper.

I wave to an invisible crowd.Ripples Captured in oceans of wind Long grasses ripple. Nigel Greenslade . Young solar winds Take the earth to task With promises and goodbyes. Ripples through you. Your heart beats amid the waves. But see only you Gypsy blonde hair And dancing there With oceans of meaning. No harm shall come to your dreams.

The world inside you is discovery. In the ruins of an endless sea Trees twist into enemy blue. Oversee the calmness of the skies. We share the sleep of our children’s dreams. Where once was rubble now stands dignity. Nigel Greenslade .The World Inside And the night stretches.

I froze. a problem In the growing gloom. Every day I talk to you.This Wind In this wind I breathe success. Nigel Greenslade . Together we stand In this unbroken wind. Emotions we both knew. A voice in the arctic. A song. For long summer hours.

Dancing my way along your bones. I hold the door for bad and good. Watched by trees and sacred stones. Waking your world with cloak ‘n’ hood. Bringing the birth before the birds.The Dawn Chorus Drawn to earth by ancient words. Mike Deamer .

You are my love. You are the light Shining above. Mike Deamer . You are my life. You are the dream And one I miss.Valentine You are the sunshine: The only kiss.

and tied with rope. and giddy with love. I cling to hope. I struggle against the web. Drowning. Mike Deamer . And the eventual ebb. Helpless.The Fly Caught in the black night.

Bright stars they shine Down in delight For the hour is nine As I hold you tight. Your skin is warm The sky is clear I feel the storm As you move. And the sleeping earth As I kiss your lips Turns on its axis And topples And tips. near.My Love You are a moonbeam Soft and blue And in this dream I am touching you. Mike Deamer .

From the woodside I wave and cry: “Against the moon you must fly!” and turning round she screams to me: “For every wish there is a fee!” Mike Deamer .Witch There is a witch I have always seen In yonder woods Dark and mean. In the black sky She sweeps and falls She creeps around And sometimes calls.

his wings are spread To Bosnia. Mike Deamer . and the thousands dead. And roaring salute. To fly across a country wide. And the eagle dares to spread his wings. Waving a pen for ministers in motion.In Memory of the Untitled The yellow eagle challenges the ocean. Where the devil in a mud hut waits To stand by his side.

Swirled pink and white mints in an ivory dish.Glass Shelves Behind the glass silk roses are in a golden tray. apricot halves crystallized in sugar a petite ring while the light of a prism captures the gleam of a violet sky on a dusky evening. Bobbi Sinha-Morey . an onyx egg sliced in half revealing its orange red core. a circle of star fire revolves in the lense of a kaleidoscope.

A deer can follow an angel from beyond The two worlds of darkness and light. To a holy place where a hazel wand Will find the centre. the majestic towers. shinning white There serenity dwells and the miracle Is a pattern of quality. Of telluric spirals beautifully wound. Has a formula and a rhythm. One spiral within another. The body heals. The halls and courts. new beginnings relate. through the mind. Faith will heal and faith will bind. to the power that empowers. In dedication beneath the ground. Alison Edwards . Turn inwards then. As original energies in their spirals revolve.The Temple of Light In a holy instant. the centre remains. a spectacle. Seasons re-balance. As in the flow of creation all is forgiven. The quiet centre where love gains Meaning. For the indwelling spirit to pursue it’s fate And touch the frequency of light to evolve.

Soul rhythm. With your innocent spontaneity. Deep in Atlantis. Sung to the universe in the records of time. the sunken city. Are voices of stars. Gentle spirit of the new creation Bring to us the light vibration. verses of rhyme. the pattern and weave. Alison Edwards . That sank in great calamity. Plunge and leap in the spray of the ocean. blues of the sea. Being of air. Let the dolphin be your guide. To let the waves release emotion.Dolphin Tantra Breathe to the rhythm of chi. The manna of life. teach us to breathe. Feel the lunar pull of the tide. You are the essence of integrity.

The loathly lady foretells The freedom of the voices of the wells. And as the wasteland heals. The hideous will transform. Within the halls within the wheel In the courts of joy we shall sing. The revolving wheels. Press on. So this desolation is not repeated. For truth needs no disguise. The wounds of eternity will heal. Who will be your guide Alison Edwards . And our grievance overcome. And a link between earth and soul. knowing the need. Enchantment has lain the land to waste. And healing can begin. And lift the golden cup to taste. Nature is the beauty of the whole. When you relinquish your mask.The Fisher King There is a dark moat before the castle gate. Though your fingers may bleed. For the reclamation of our sovereign king. Become free and wise. So search for where the lovely damsel is seated. The darkest hour is before the dawn. Enchantment must be undone. The quest will set the task. sharp and ornate. The moon in shadows is feminine. Declare the sovereign bride. Cross the perilous bridge.

And uninvolved with which of us Is cursed or favoured with the power or impotence. and honestly. yet. And everything and everyone Designedly are equally committed To insufferable inequality. If the dealer. most commonly. Still. if we give. there is certain fairness When capriciousness is at The very root of actuality. Like princes of old Naples. displaying No concern for us as individuals. without malice. We die. or A spate better if fate. Begot through random fortune that Contains no shade of justice. surrounded by our loves. Ironclad uncertainty and . Then each of us perforce. Should play whatever hand we’re dealt. has picked old Rockefeller As our paternal grandsire.Liberty and Justice The One who flung this ball And all the other balls of earth and fire and dirty ice Out into the void Elects to stand away. Receiving no part of the Scripture’s Promise. And only take. the arbitrary Ringmaster. Indifferent to our pain and pleasure. We are told. Casually throws a full and honest deck Into the air and lets it tumble Haphazardly around the table. God loves a happy giver. The plenitude or poverty. we stand as good a chance As any other of dying in a bed Of wealth. and if we do not give. Nonlinearity and insecurity.

But if he Serpent overwhelms And swallows us. be forever lost. he granted our petition. no triumph Could be called our own. god has proved his love of us. Thus. And they are answerable only to themselves? At any rate. except that of The Chooser? That only gods are free. Gene A. Out here among the strewn stars. alive and free.Unpredictability of future things Are the sure foundation of that Libertarian autonomy for which we begged The father on the first day of creation. Did we realize no justice can exist Where freedom is. Thus. he did unpin us from That awful garden where no prizes Could be won. Picotte . no creation. At long last answering our rebellious prayer To know and choose between the evil and the good. In victory we shall be glorified. When we made that supplication. alone. He stranded us.

Hospitals and rest homes Are full of affable. Parks and moneyed towers. If that could ever be. Common sense says and knows A bastard getting old Becomes an old bastard. Now it is far too late To set right any wrong. unruffled oldsters Who lead halcyonian Pre-death existences Repenting. will not warp And slobber platitudes.An Enlightened Maturity Age unassailable Hobbles my nimbleness But does not dull the sharp. Disagreeable thorns Of my disposition. Time now for mellowness? Should I opt to mutate. redressing Rude and unimportant Little offensive lives. Picotte . I’ll have no part of that Malarkey. Now time and adventure Are stretched out long behind And tersely short before. To soften and assuage. Gene A. Whatever folks may say. Dispense judiciousness And kind sagacity? Folk wisdom has it that The streets and highways. Benign and sweet-tempered Reformed.

Herding me? Guarding? What? Turn to look at them and They are gone. Yet as I drive ahead Come back and fly my flanks Always.Dark Birds Dark birds fly with me Across life. Gene A. Hanging right and left With whispering wings Just behind my vision’s edges. Picotte .

Quick from adrenaline-fueled nerves: Brakes both four wheel and four artery.Neon Orange First it's heard. Then it's felt. Then it's smelt. Megan Willis . moron! Then it's seen. Shock on morning-dulled eyes: Striking as spots on poison frog backs. Afterflavor of already-chewed toast: Buttered with annoyance and slow recovery. Then it's tasted. Scorching up long-burned tar: Murdered rubber seeping into the sinuses. Screaming out law-enforced obscenities: How dare you! Watch the road.

Until it is impossible to distinguish The harvest from the hydra. a monster. Hissing its hideous song: Loans! Drugs! Male enhancement! Severing its writhing necks in vain Now double. an ugly joke! A quick click of the scythe kills it.Junk Mail Slithering discretely out of normality In the wheat-stalks. triple. A serpent. But then˜two more! Twice as big. tall and brown Where a harvest of chatter awaits. Megan Willis . quadrupled.

A Rapa-Nui Walk
I walk the rim of the earth’s navel, awake and in my dreams, alone and in a quiet hush of swaying palms, the swelling tide. Gazing out to meet spirits that once wrestled azure waves, I bend to kiss the loam and destiny settled beneath my feet: landscape chiseled by the divine. Lips taste of eucalyptus and an ancient rain cloud, granting a spectrum to the hungry sky. I find shelter as the ground erupts into mystery, so lost, misunderstood by those viewing from the surrounding sea. I approach, allowing my hand to float over fallen stone, and imagine the moai, soaked with wind, using mana to make it feel like breath on my neck, when I roam in the backdrop that is home deep in my waking and nighttime sleep.

Jennifer Yaros

Reflection in the Witness Room
She walks into the witness room, accompanied by her certainty that vanity will mask all sin. Circling a bleak, synthetic table, running her hand along the frigid surface, absorbing the institutional shock and smell of the barren room, she declines a seat and retells her tale to those listening in the here and after. Confidence propels her to pause before dark, mirrored glass, just like the people on popular television shows. Inspecting her razor straight platinum hair and posture, checking the seams of her makeup, pressing moist lips together to replenish crimson, her right hand middle finger skims across glossed lips, first the top, then the bottom, smoothing the already even shine. Flashing pearly whites, a room is exposed behind the reflection, space that is empty to her. She doesn’t see the sallow eyes peering from the other side. She doesn’t see the bodies working sheets of malleable plastic, shaping it to fit faces that have cracked, concealing yellowed, dingy skin, teeth broken and stained, casting smiles because they resonate beauty once again. Naturally satisfied, she continues, narrating her story to the Man at hand, the witness. He takes notes knowing that the desolate room echoes her soul. He listens, knowing that, only maybe, when the Frankenstein screws pop from her forehead, stitching unravels, and once tight skin sags and blinds, will she depart, alone, and embody her true semblance.

Jennifer Yaros

Used To Be Shy
We didn’t let our feet hang over the edge of the dock. They didn’t cool off in the water as we stared into nothing, slyly sitting Indian style. There was mist and the gaudy lights of the passing tourist boats allowed us brief Van Gogh-glimpses through the dark. Something flew by us. We heard funny noises. You said “I think those are bats”. The warm giddy joy of a rare summer night off The way your face got more pink as you kept laughing The two dollar photo booth and the noisy arcade (you beat me at every game). Later, you and that night would seem to me like the fast beating of tiny webbed wings, dryly racing less than an inch above a midnight lake. You said it first, but I, with my heart wrapped up and tamed of its usual fervor, am staring back into those waters, trying to stop wondering if those really could have been bats.

Billy Internicola

I could use the space. Jamie Cavanagh . Just do it. roll The towel against the door. Outside the window Some kind off gull Stands by the pond Waiting for a hint of movement. Don’t stop to write a poem About ending it all. Sharpen the blade. And quiet. It means nothing to me. Besides. Outside my window Stands a pond Where it’s said God’s come to bathe. All the moaners are moaning again It’s a hell of a life.Donne’s Was A Sparser Age The age of tolling bells has passed. Gather the pills.

Demands the money up front. Here where the ribs poke through. Here where the wallpaper peels From the paper beneath. Girl child makes her nightly walk. Here where every step is measured. Jamie Cavanagh . Hands clutch and unclutch. The life of success no longer lures. In unbreakable code writes the dawn. The ambulance is a garbage truck And the air bursts busy with flies. Restless darkness presses its weight Into the creases of ritual. The air sags laden withb wings. Here. Gateless hopes rust cinderblocked. And waxed identities Parked next to next. All the gods are deaf as time Here down in the dimness Where the road ends. down in the dimness. Here where silence is precious. Streetlamps grow scabs on their eyes. Leeches bleed light from the stars. Masks peel from masks beneath. The road narrows Like the eyes of the mean Eternally suspicious. Knows everything of promises.A Buzzing Crowds The Sky Once boulevard With carnival lights In every window.

well I am high On cider and love Still I.I. John Binns . And The Sky I. and the sky Have one thing alike We ride up on no bike.

oh by the way. (Drop down dead. So cease to cry out For succour You bitch With no brain John Binns . And leave us alone. Ted!).Cease Well.

sapphires and emeralds. Or you wish you could fly away. So. Like the blackbird and sparrow. Than a label that doesn’t contain any positivity. And as precious to God. Even those who hate their lives so far. Hold your horses. when you feel that your pride is getting too hard to swallow. And you wish you could fall through the floor. And weary of all those painful frowns. sit back and take a look around. on her way to Asda. Simon P Jones . Like rubies. Feeling at war with their own minds. You are as beautiful as the Morning Star. Because you are so much more. Even those who don’t love anyone. To beg and pick up dimps. Even that junkie that you are so wary of. We are all worthy of compliments.Rubies. Even you. Sapphires & Emeralds We are all enigmas and veseels of importance. Who sits on the back of the 53. or whomever you look for. who feels so allergic to love. And walk around this grey old town.

I walked. At the silver leaves. So let love rule and be careless of the fool. That populate this crystal pool.I Plunged I plunged. head-long through this concrete jungle. But careful of the hearts of the wise. They play pool and try and make some coin They talk about God’s Kingdom on Earth.. if only a little. head-first into a crystal pool. reminiscent of the sticklebacks. Preoccupied with forever I was And interested in the souls of the so-called lost. Life is all about learning. I looked out of the window.. And was amazed with the things I saw.. peace and painless happiness. I plunged . While expressing their love. Simon P Jones .

15 in East Europe and Russia and the CIS. Ashok Niyogi was born in Calcutta in 1955. Pete Lee works as an office manager in a geographically isolated town in the high desert. He has travelled to 206 countries. Acid Angel and the Daily Express.Biographies Dr Charles Frederickson is a pragmatic idealist and a longtime resident of Thailand. Student Accademy Awards and New York Awards Judge. His poetry has previously appeared in Cresote. He has been published extensively on line and in print in the USA.'Tentatively' (iUniverse). Russia and India. Michaela Owsley has previously appeared in The Rialto. federal intelligence operations specialist. Ashok has two books of poetry in India 'Crossroads' and 'Reflections in the Dark' (both from A-4 Publications) and one book of poems from the USA . Ashok spent 30 years in the world of International Commerce. but does have a timber plantation in Goa. His qualifications include PhD (Loylola). Score and Wind. Australia and Canada in magazines and Anthologies ( search engines like google or yahoo should give a reasonably updated list of on line work. not including work accepted but not yet published). private investigator and newspaper reporter. UK.\ Gordon Scapens lives in Preston. New Zealand. . He was schooled all over India in Irish Christian Brothers' Schools and graduated with Honors in Economics from Presidency College. CLIO. MENSA. His work has taken him all over the world and he now divides his time between California where his two daughters live. His latest collection is The Phrenology of Anaglypta from Bluechrome Publishing. Geoff Stevens is the long time editor of Purple Patch poetry magazine (29 years). International EMMY. Post-Doctoral Visiting Scholar (Columbia). India. SAG. Other Voices. He is currently unemployed because writing poetry is not considered gainful employment. the UK. His previous occupations include US Army sergeant/counterintelligence agent.

Graham Foster lives in Walsall. Scars and The Piedmont Literary Review. with a strong feminist influence and flavour of ethnicity that she believes to be lacking in the poetry sector. USA and Far East. a selected spoken works audio anthology on CD and an exhibition of his abstract acrylic on canvas paintings. UK. photographer. painter. “To A Girl’s Hair” is based on a 15th Century Welsh poem translated by Glynn Williams. The Plowman. 1999.dragonheartpress. 2002 and The Psalms of a Sailor Jew. Mellen Press.com. UK. Ben Wilensky has been a merchant seaman. new reporter. 2005 sees the publication of the latest volume of his Collected Works (Dervish Days. Canadian and British poetry magazines including The Parnasus Literary Review. His recent publications include Shipwrecked Off The Coast of Malta. He splits his time between the UK. Dragonheart Press). James Deeney lives in Ireland.com . Dragonheart Press www. UK. publisher and musician. The Argonne House Press (Washington DC). t3kton. UK and is a winning entrant of the 2002 Dragonheart Press Poetry Competition. Nigel Greenslade has published over 60 poems in magazines and a local newspaper. soldier. Further details can be found at seanwoodward.Sean Woodward has been described as a New Renaissance Man and is a poet. Reena Sharma presents the perspective of a young British woman of Asian descent. Tale Spinners. . Fergus Hilton lives in Dawlish. radio announcer and arft teacher. Christina L Johnson has been published in over 56 American. Interests include fine wine and scotch. Feelings. D Parrott lives in Wiltshire.com and at T3KTON Europa. When not writing and work she likes to spend time travelling through the United States and Canada. Gillian Bence-Jones lives in Ipswich.

Gene A Picotte is an Attorney At Law in the United States. UK. UK. Illumen. Snowbirds in Cloud Hands. Tears Of Light. Billy Internicola is a 27 year old married schoolteacher. She lives in Southern California. Simon P Jones lives in Manchester.net. Aoife's Kiss. His latest book of poetry. She has only recently begun to write poetry and find it educational. self-expression and outlet for awkward emotions. Nexus. and a poet. Recent publications include Edgz. . She spends her time creating animation and comics. Shemom. You can see his poetry in places such as Isis Rising. Portals. and Beyond Centauri. His poetry has been published in MidWifery Today. He began writing at 19 and many years later has found it to be a powerful form of therapy. Megan Willis is approaching her 21st birthday. Bobbi Sinha-Morey is an archivist. Obsessed With Pipework (UK) and Boookpress. Fire (UK). River King. secretary. The Pipe Smoker's Ephemeris. John Binns lives in Leeds.Mick Deamer lives in Shepshed. Her main interests include writing. Capital District Poetry and Chrongram. drawing and a combination of the two. Alison Edwards lives in Glastonbury. can be seen at ebooksonthe. Jamie Cavanagh remarked that “comments will not be entirely ignored”. UK. living in upstate New York. Poesy. where the weather is (usually) wonderful and the rent terrible ! Jennifer Yaros has been continually moved by life to write poetry and has recently received an honorable mention in ByLines Autumn Poem and Winter Poem contests. Red River Review. UK. among others.

His Dark Materials. without who there would be no poetry. Finally made manifest by virtue of Aaron’s invaluable assistance. Angela. Slovenia. distracted and made invisible for an aeon by Black Label Society (London Chapter). Mighty ReArranger. Winsor & Newton. Dedicated to my muse. Star Wars Battlegrounds. Nikon Coolpix 5200. . Ankor Wat.Colophon This issue was waylaid. OSX Tiger and the Ghost of a Crow come knocking at my grave. Red Bull. New Captain Scarlet. Xcalibur and The Heart of Gold ship. Jack Daniels. Hard Rock Café Hotel (Pattaya). Battlestar Galactica. Dr Who’s 9th Incarnation. Rammstein. Sabriel. Jim Beam. Samsung .

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