october 2008

Front Cover: Carolyn - Blue Frame

1. 4. 5. 6. 8. 9. 13. 15. 17. 25. 26. 27. 30. 31. 34. 35. 37.
Syd - Inspire (34)

Hejtejp Chris B (Crispy) Dawn & Marshman Milas Collaboration Jonny Marshman Jessica Dennison Kate Tucker Miguel Moya Adriano L.A Temple Taymaz Valley David Barron Luke Rowett Steff Pete Howitt Aneza Lee Immelman Unservicable.Prophet

I Have A Boring Life A Tailcast Review (Elena) Desire A, B, C Word Game How Can I Be Who I Want To Be A Cajun Tale 18 Hours 18 Years Old London Sunrise Featured Artist Helping Society Through Poetry Holding You Winter Chill Me Without Mine Emerging Butterflies Fresh And New Togetherness (For Tom & Sian) To Touch Mortality Much Ado About Something


Hejtejp - I Have A Boring Life

i want shabby French apartments and pink wine...
and beautiful boys with skinny jeans and skinny legs och fina nyckelben and rave in the neon light and running and not caring and weird pretty clothes and not not not this boring life in north sweden please.

Hejtejp - Fish and Shoes

Elena - Peace Of Mind


A Tailcast Review With Crispy
Hello all! Well, a few peeps have been writing about who and what they love on Tailcast this week, and I thought: what a brilliant idea! So I’ve picked one of my recent fave Tailcasters to share with you all. :) She’s relatively new to Tailcast and has already posted some blindingly stunning work, her name is Elena. Her style is a vibrant fusion of expressionism, abstract and colour field, with a hint of art deco. Fantastic stuff! A flowing, organic structure permeates her work in the form of sweeping, curving, and spiralling lines of exquisite colour harmonies. These add nicely to the overall composition, and the way they interact with other elements suggest a field of fluidity and movement; giving her works a dynamic edge. This is evident in a good number of her recently uploaded pieces, including Empty, Peace of Mind and natural structure. The fantastic swirls in Empty in particular give the impression of depth and also make it feel as if the figure is sitting in some sort of ethereal vapour, i.e. there is something atmospheric going on between you and the figure, and also further back in the picture. Additionally the curls and swirls augment the sensual curves and shape of the subject really well. Elena also makes brilliant use of colour field style areas of colour and these compliment the expressionistic elements perfectly. In Her Eyes and The Lollipop Boy both show this. In, In Her Eyes, the expression of the figure is fantastically presented and you get a sense of real sadness from it, this emotion is added to by the paleness of the face. Elena juxtaposes the melancholy of the subject with lively blocks and shapes of colours that give a lovely contrast to the overall mood of the piece. This is my quick take on some of Elena’s beautiful work, and in short, I urge you to check her out; she’s producing some really extraordinary pieces!


This is a collaborative poem that my better half, Marshman, and I wrote. It was a lot of fun, as it was a “blind” effort, he would write one line then I would add the next... it got a bit steamy!
Moonlight touches the periphery of desire A swatch of passion kindles extent embers, Illumination, revealing a secret shadow Caressing lightly, then awakening, enervating Until it touches the deepest chasms of the soul And renders slowly… wistfully the burning light that awakens A kindled heat passes through their beings Alighting skin, mouths, fingertips, loins Like a storm it drenches all it touches Until rivulets coursing becoming raging torrents Melding two souls that intertwine, soldered Molten skin, flesh, hands, lips feverishly share This lingering moment of enraptured passion … acquiescence Engulfing the loving hearts, and the spirit of desire No longer separate, but a new creation borne of love Nurtured in the heart… enlivened, growing, learning Like a bird in first flight, it glides unsure Until the tender wind uplifts and it soars above the realm of bliss Dawn
Sophie Eggleton - Cybirg 008


Okay, let’s play that game our moms played at baby showers and Tupperware parties. You know, you start with the letter A... An A-noun did some action verb to an A-place and verbed an A-noun. ex: An angry hippo went to Astoria to slap an aardvark. Then B. Then C... Add one sentence at a time. Maybe it will turn out poetic. Maybe it will turn out a really twisted story. Maybe both. Milas
An Asteroid flew over Alison’s house and crushed her Azaleas.

jumping Jack flash crash-landed in Jakhari and jolted his Jawbone


Rosemarie Short Marie Fullerton Marie Fullerton Berry Connell

A Bell rang in Betty’s ear and numbed her Brain.


Clever Colin conversed with a collaborator.

Kind and clever Kip quipped, “Kicking kickballs courageously takes courtesy” as the kicker of the kickball knelt down after cracking Kens clavical. (that really happened ya’ll)

And Denis denied his description was disjointed.


A leeping lizard licked Kens clavical with Larva

now, if Edith had actually heard the Echo canyon calling her, she would have found each entertaining electrically enhanced ecology quite funny.

David Barron

Mary made a mockery of the whole thing moody, melancholic, miserable, mary.



Francesca found five-hundred fireflies flying from Fantasia and fought them off with flares.

Nobody knew how to play the nose flute til Ned came in, and he nailed it. (All it needed was a little boogie.)


Hyla Levy

Gary Gnu galloped gleefully with a grin on his gob when he got a glimpse of Glenda Gnu bathing in the gnude.

Oscar the ostrich ogled the oreos and then remembered they weren’t called oreos, they were called orioles.


Penelope packed a platypus in her purse for the plane Hysterical hippos harboured hatred for hungry hyenas ride to Pakistan, pursuing Paul her Pennsylvanian having hiccups hastily running along the banks of the lover, who popped the pope in the eye with a river. pineapple pie. (Just don’t ask him why)


Chris Baker (Crispy)

Idiotic Igor, the Inuit, felt inclined to include an internal Quimby quietly quoted quatrains in his quaint quarters after quarreling with the queen. heating system in his Igloo


Klarabella - Fundering


How can I be who I want to be?
How can I be who I want me to be? It’s just one more day of confusion, adding to the journey of which I know the end is near. But how and when will I make the change. Find that courage and force to make me whole? Will I feel better? Will I still be loved? Will that love ever be the same? Only if I act will I ever find out, And while i am held at this deadly, poisoning limbo it will remain an everlasting mystery, but i want to break free of the pain and sadness that grinds at me. However, I’m scared of those who have always been with me. Will I still be the same guy to them? Or some oddity that they don’t know how to deal with at first? Whatever, when i break free, i will at last, honestly be me.


9. “Big Cammerdelle would take anything that ain’t nailed down when he been drinkin’,” was the rejoinder. “You remember the time ole man Dugas’s frog gigs come up missin’? Big Cammerdelle fried him a mess of frog legs on his dock that night. And remember when Bert St. Ann didn’t fix the gate by his crawfish pond and somebody raided it? Somebody seen Big Cammerdelle the next day with scratches all over his arms. Don’t tell me. I know big Cammerdelle! Dats one crazy coonass!” “Big Cammerdelle couldn’t a took dat bateaux, no,” said another man, who sat languidly, waiting his turn in the chair. “He busted up Jib’s place last night. The sheriff got him arrested.” “He coulda done it before he busted up Jib’s.” And so it went. Meanwhile, Dufrene paid a visit to Sheriff Theriot to file an official police report. Now nobody was better than solving a good mystery than the sheriff. After all, he was the one who found Camille LaGarde’s backhoe the time the two Bourgeois boys took it for a joy ride and had it buried so far back in Simoneaux’s Ponds not even old man Simoneaux knew it was there.

a cajun
Dufrene’s Missing Bateaux


Paradis is one of those little Cajun towns along Louisiana Highway 90 where outsiders don’t speed, and if you know one resident, everyone else also knows you Dufrene was standing before Sheriff Theriot, his blue plaid short-sleeved shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a pair -- at least by face. of dungarees held up by black suspenders, wringing his calloused hands, the crow’s feet at his darkly tanned It is a town full of hard working people -- skilled temples deep with worry. craftsmen, fishermen, offshore workers, boat builders, merchants, all living a wholesome life. They “What did the boat look like?” asked the Sheriff. are a simple living people whose cou ntenance does not begin to belie a keen intellect that serves them well. “It’s a bateaux, sheriff . It’s an aluminum flatboat – 14 Most are bi-lingual in that they speak both English and foot long with a 25 horse Yamaha motor. It’s green. It’s Cajun French. got rivets, so it ain’t welded. It is also the kind of town which thrives on a good local “Listen, sheriff, I got to have my boat tonight,” he added, mystery. his narrow face still clammy from the noonday sun. “I So when Alrid Dufrene’s bateaux came up missing, the still got to run dem trot lines, yeah.” whole town was abuzz. “Now look, son,” the sheriff began, “police work ain’t At Melancon’s Barber Shop, not more than an hour after miracles. Those catfish can wait for now. I am gonna Dufrene noticed his little bateaux missing from its usual have the deputy file this here report and I will start asking around and see what I can come up with. And mooring across from Matherne’s Marsh Tours, most had a theory about who might have taken the little boat. don’t say start with big Cammerdelle because he is still in my jail from last night after bustin’ up Jib’s Juke Joint, “I tell ya, it was big Cammerdelle who took it,” said one or haven’t you heard?” man. Dufrene left, his gray eyes squinting in the July sun as he headed for his old Ford pickup. “How you say,” said another. “big Cammerdelle is so big he would sink Dufrene’s little bateaux. No way he coulda took it. I think it was dem Bourgeois boys.”

Sheriff Theriot prided himself on solving local mysteries and the case of Dufrene’s missing bateaux he was taking seriously. Twenty years he had held the office of Sheriff of St. Charles Parish and he rarely came up empty on a case. He started breaking down the case in his head no sooner than Dufrene hit the door. The facts as he knew them were: Dufrene’s bateaux was tied up at Matherne’s along Bayou Gauche last night after he ran his trot lines. When he arrived the next morning to go check the lines, the boat was gone. Not much to go on, he thought, but he had just as little the time he found Deloronde LaFourche’s big barrel-smoker in a ditch along the river road. There had to be more. And there was. He would start at the scene of the crime. Taking his Stetson off the chair, he headed out to his cruiser and started for Matherne’s. The drive down Bayou Gauche to Billy Matherne’s Marsh Tours was a winding one, following the bayou on the right. Bayou Gauche, being part of a labyrinth of bayous, canals, trenesses and bays that are part of the Barataria-Terrebonne Estuary, is a murky little stream, or rigollette as the Cajuns are apt to call it, rimmed with foliage and modest homes and camps. Sheriff Theriot loved his work and loved where he lived, never taking anything for granted. So it was with great pride that he watched the bayou pass by en route to his destination. His smile revealed the crags in his face as he saw the bull tongue growing along the water’s edge, the hyacinth drifting along the bayou in flotons and even chuckled at a derelict boat at the water’s edge, partially sunken and filled with water and the waxy leaves and purple flowers of the hyacinth, remembering Matherne calling this a “coonass flower pot” for the benefit of his tourists. Coonass was once a derogatory term for Cajuns, but one most readily have adopted these days. Some proudly display a sticker on the rear windows of their trucks that reads RCA for Registered Coon Ass. Even Sheriff Theriot had one on his personal truck. Arriving at Matherne’s small cottage, the sheriff pulled the cruiser into the yard and walked across the street to the dock to inspect the area where Dufrene had tied his boat. All that was left was a line dangling in the water attached to a cleat on the dock. He walked back across the street to Matherne’s house. The entrance to the gallery was lined with wisteria climbing a pair of trellises, the purple flowers dangling

in the bright sun, smelling sweet despite the thickness of the summer air. On the gallery were canvas chairs around a spool table that once served to coil cable. His boots hit the wooden gallery decking loudly and before he could knock on the door Matherne appeared, inviting him inside. The sheriff complimented Matherne on his wife Winnie’s flowers and Matherne just nodded. “I guess you here to acks about Dufrene’s bateaux,” said the squat and swarthy Matherne. “Well, I seen him tie it up last night when I was takin’ the last of these here buster crabs to molt.” The sheriff looked in the vats inside the big front room and watched the molting soft-shelled crabs for a moment, scuttling slowly in the clear water. “Oooooooweeeee, Matherne, you got some fat busters in there,” the Sheriff noted. The locals call the soft-shells “busters” because when they catch them they are beginning to bust out of their shells. After they are caught they must be molted in watery vats so they completely shed their hard outer shell, exposing the new tender one that makes the crab entirely edible, shell and all, except for the lungs, called “dead man claws.” The lungs are removed and the crab is deep fried until they are crisp. If you don’t remove them from the molting vat at the right time, the other grabs will eat them once the shells are shed, or the shell will begin to harden. Hence, the vats must me monitored and checked every few hours. Soft shells bring top dollar at local markets. “Sheriff, why don’t you take a couple of dem busters home wit you, make you a nice po-boy sammich tonight,” said Matherne, who was often in trouble with the neighbors because of the great noise his air boats made flying up and down the bayou. He figured a little goodwill might keep the sheriff off his back. “Well, now Billy, I don’t think dat would be a good idea, cher, me bein’ the sheriff and all. Sure wouldn’t look right me taken dese here busters and not payin’ nothin’ for ‘em.” “Well sheriff, it wouldn’t be no favor I was lookin’ for, no,” said Matherne. “I was just tryin’ to be neighborly.” “Well now,” said the sheriff, “as long as you put it dat way, I might pick me out two of dese here busters and stop at the Gator Stop on my way home for some French bread.”

The sheriff was no fool. Just then the phone rang and Matherne answered it. A potential customer was trying to book a marsh tour and Matherne slipped effortlessly into a very heavy Cajun accent. The sheriff busied himself, picking up the local paper from a cluttered desk while Matherne handled his business. He had the Sports Section in his hand and flipped it to the back page where the weather was forecast. His grandaughter’s birthday was this weekend and he had rented one of those big blowup castles for the kids to bounce around in. He was hoping no rain was forecast. Then something caught his eye. He looked at the Tide Tables and noted that there was a very high tide this past night associated with the Full Moon. The range in tide was 2.7 feet, with the crest coming just after midnight. Slowly, a thought came into his head, remembering the partially sunken “coonass flower pot” along the bayou. He waited, amused, for Matherne to get off the phone. After booking a twilight tour, Matherne returned his focus to the sheriff. “Now Billy, did you talk to Dufrene last night?” “Mais yeah, me and him talked about the dance at the juke joint last night, the one big Cammerdelle busted up.” “What did you talk about?”

“You know he was, sheriff. He peeled outta here so fast he shot gravel all up against dat airboat on the trailer next to the house. I liked to tore out after him for it, too.” “Could he have tied his bateaux off on a short line in his hurry?” “Why sure. I done it a few times myself, yeah.” “Let’s go have a look see, I got me an idea, cher.” So, the Sheriff and Matherne crossed the street to the dock. The sheriff walked right up to the line to Dufrene’s bateaux that seemed to dangle loosely into the murky bayou and gave it a tug. “Just as I thought,” the Sheriff said. “He tied his bateaux on a short line, when the tide rose the boat gunwale hit the top of the dock and couldn’t rise up no more. The water poured into the boat and sunk it right here. “Dis here is where Dufrene’s bateaux is,” said the sheriff, pointing into the murky depths, chuckling softly. “Mais, well I never,” said Matherne, scratching his head. “Dat fool. Wait till everybody at the barbershop hears about dis!” Three days later, after Dufrene raised his bateaux and had the motor dried and primed, he arose one morning to go run his trot lines and someone had scrawled unevenly just below the gunwale at the bow: TITANICK

“Well, Dufrene said he had a date with Aggie Cantrelle,” At the barber shop that afternoon big Cammerdell got Matherne said, holding cupped hands in front of him blamed for the deed, only because everybody in Paradis knows he can’t spell. But this was one case insinuating large breasts. Sheriff Theriot was going to stay out of. “Mais, he musta been in a big rush, yeah.”


Elena - Hurricane


18 hours 18 years old
I see the garbage everywhere The blur of unfamiliar faces staring me down Like I’m the impostor, Like I’m out of place Beer cans and bottles Cigarette buds lining the hall way Filling the stairs I’m awkward in my own home Smells of cheap cigarettes, weed, and beer Kissing here Laughing there Screaming, cussing Break ups that break up the sound barrier I cant complain My brothers 18 He deserves a bash But it seems like the entire 12th grade has piled in The living room The bathroom My bedroom’s a hide-out for lovers I open my door and see panic in blurred faces Looking up from they’re kiss They stare me down Like I’m the impostor Like I’m out of place Little do they know they’ve invaded my space Jessica Dennison

Steff - Just Plain Nasty


Here on this steel bridge balcony I wait Cross-Legged Humbled amongst the metal Jubilee triangles Silently un-knotting my thought tangles Just me with my Themes Watching the streetlights splatter Like notes across its liquid score We loll… Waiting to watch, The Evaporating, The night escaping Blacktime fleeting Lighttime creeping I like to catch the time - split When the world goes into The Gray The pregnancy of day A Mesopotamia The land between two rivers The river Yesterday Drip drying with the drunken hum Of London’s party town The river Tomorrow Soaked in the postnatal depression of rush hour pressure But right now the sterling Arroyo is here “The Grey” A dormant Londonium Still Stone Skeletal Here I can pretend This is a ghost town A tracing Right now In this over peopled city I am alone In the luna tinsel of this pale vent Arrogant Indulging in nothingness I am here to hear my heart beat

Jonny - From the top of the Barbican Tower 2

De-dum-de-dum-de-dum My private pentameter I like to honour De-dum-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum Then a bird tweet! The feather warning “here comes morning” The fire extinguisher explodes With day flame spray Putting out The Gray Casting red crayon scars across the sky Dipping the Themes in aureate Tie-dye The tan flakes glory glisten Blushing coral -pink in corner coves Crimson plating the snaggle toothed skyline Amber citrus flushing in London’s yellow, sallow a m Branding The clouds bust into boudoir lanterns Mimicking The heaving Sun circle The Great Sphere Who is gay- golden with gloats Rolling with ruby laugh folds The Bulging Bully Who shames the electric dot spots (that click out in embarrassment) Beam laddering holes in night’s tights And banishing the shadows into exile The Gray, now, seems, so, vile The cerulean cracks Appear As Apollo slinks upwards I watch this conductor Wake up the London orchestra! The life Master I am nothing now So….. I watch…. Microscoped In my smallness I find Hope. Kate Tucker - London Sunrise


Miguel Moya Adriano
Miguel Moya Adriano - Bullfight

I was born in Madrid (1963). At the moment I live and work in Madrid. I’m an artist, painter, writer and sculptor. I use oil paints; I make my own oil with the mixture of pigment and linnaza oil and paint on canvas and some woods, the majority of my work focuses on deep human feeling and thought. I’m putting the brush down to my writing, experience, feelings and thoughts.

Auxiliary of Draughts-man, Formación Profesional, Torrejón de ardoz, Madrid, ( 1979 ) -National vocational Certificate Level 2 ( NCVA )2 Awards, County Sligo Vocational Education Committee, Sligo, Ireland (2003/4) -Bachelor of Arts in Art & design, with Degree ordinary in the field of Paint, in Cluain Mhuire Art Campus, Galway, Ireland ( 2007 )

Collaborate with the popular Sligo festival, with few paints of the ancestors from Satlhill, Co. Sligo, Ireland ( 2004 ) -Cluain Mhuire Art & Design Exhibition, Galway, Ireland ( 2007 ) -Exhibition Individual, Café Virginia, Torrejon De Ardoz, Madrid, Spain ( 2007 ) -Exhibition and Competition of Bullfight Draws of the Domingo Ortega La Torre Esteban Hambran, Toledo. Spain ( 2008 )

Miguel Moya Adriano - Earth


N0isebl0ke - Zaanse Skyscrape


Fingercheese - Matthew at Sunset


Bean - 4.00 Sun, Sepia


Pete - Tarifa Trees


Anna Lewis - Beach Sketches



I want to make society feel guilty for not knowing anything swallowing the swill on the TV but no one will listen to me because I’m a pretentious writer of poetry
never mind I’ll just write ‘bout the love of my life that’ll help thank goodness for me I’ll sleep well knowing I can rhyme ‘time’ with ‘mine’ and other tripe my structure needs work admittedly but they’ll definitely publish this spiel although if they do I feel it’ll be out of sympathy because I just died from a terrible disease or suchlike and society will be worse off for it but I’ll be making some sort of postmodern point which means I win hurrah! thank goodness for liberalism (and postmodernism) obviously L.A Temple
Murray John Summerville - Charlies Home Town

helping society through poetry


I feel your breath on my neck. The gentle inhale cooling me; Then the rushing warm exhale Feels like a summer breeze.
I dare not take a breath. I’ve held in the air in my lungs, Just watching you Swimming in depth of dreams. Your peaceful features Produce a sanguine effect On my sunburned, Melancholic face.

My heart is beating, Rhyming with yours. My delirium palpable, My passion pulsing. Am I asleep or awake? I’m not sure, You’re on my mind Whether asleep or awake. I cannot hold my breath anymore, I can feel my veins throbbing. And a whisper bursts out of my body: ‘I adore you.’

Carolyn - Knots

holding you

Taymaz Valley


David Barron - Winter Chill

The cold chill of winter, runs ragged through my coat, Trudging through thick mud, I do my rounds, Looking up into a star lit sky, I feel awed, minute, of no great worth, Is this how one feels looking on the face of god.
Walking with measured pace, I check the site, There are lots to watch over, and I’m here on the frontier, Oh the thought that one day, trouble will appear, from out the dark, Is this how one feels when the dread night comes creeping in.

Ick - January Winter Reflector

All is quiet and still here, I but where is here, Shut off by high fences, The world passes by, No thought of what’s behind the lines, Oh a blessing and a curse, Is this how one feels, when you wont be missed come mornings light. Ah to dwell on things that fill the head with fantasy, The cold wind gnaws at my aching bones, Time to go in out of the chilling night, and sit by the fire, Is this how one feels, when the glow and warmth hugs your very soul. The waiting hours pass slowly, I talk to the walls, From defrosted thoughts, the paper fills with clearer view, This prod for the reader, which wakes the conscience of a fellow, Is this how one feels, when a word conquers the bitter and brings the sweet.

Crazydiamond - Gulls at Twilight


Me without mine - Luke Rowett
This is the dusk light as the sand and dust kite as high as your waist or higher at times. The view of my feet and over the street seem unfinished without detail. But, proving me wrong, There’s that same axiom Deftly dealt and placed Laying waste to silence. Must you do this all the time? You keep your words, Leave me without mine.


Steff - Emerging Butterflies Fresh And New

meander through the farm. Off come our shoes. We lay them beside the well by the ditch to be collected later. For now it’s a barefoot journey. The soft dirt is scorching hot beneath our feet and we run in and out of the water filled ditch to relieve the sting. One thing leads to another and a mud fight ensues. We may be fifteen but we still horse play like we did when we were nine. My grandfather allows Portuguese herdsman to graze We don’t let up until both of us fall exhausted to the their sheep in the east section and the older lambs are full of spunk and dart back and forth in a frisky game of ground in a twisted mass of arms and legs. It’s good to challenge. The herding dogs are working hard to keep share laughter without conversation. Now we have no choice, we have to walk past the edge the lamb’s rambunctious play within their comfort zone and chasing after any that stray too far. There is a boy of Perry’s farm to get down to my grandfather’s creek to wash up. Old Man Perry always has several making his way towards me. He has dark hair, deep marauding dogs guarding his property. We pick up our tanned skin and his eyes are a mix of sparkling bronze pace until we are racing, digging in hard to gain traction and olive green. I’ve had a crush on him since I was in the powdery dirt. Hot sand flies behind our heels like nine years old and every summer since I anticipate his return and sulk for a month after he’s gone. He speaks plumes from a geyser. In the distance we can hear the broken English but we understand each other perfectly. terrible high pitched yelping of Perry’s dogs swiftly moving up to the edge of the fence line but we are He waves to his uncle and father who are visiting with already past the point where they won’t pass. my grandfather. They too speak very little English. I My grandfather has the bones of the last dog to cross don’t know the story behind the friendship these three men have, I just know it goes somewhere back to a war. the property line hanging from barb wire as a warning of what happens if you chase down one of his grandkids. He greets me with a radiant smile, eyes sparking in Redwing Blackbirds display their bright scarlet crested the summer rays. Together we walk the dirt roads that

The sun blazes across oceans of alfalfa, green and lush, ready for cutting. It sways in the hot summer breeze spreading it’s sweetness over acres of farmland.

Mary - Sunbathing Fields

shoulders in the mid day sun. They banter back and forth in an almost orchestrated symphony of song. Bullfrogs groan and splash “kerplop” under water in the holding pond as we round the corner. All that is left to see are their big eyes bulging and bobbing on the water’s surface. A horned toad scampers from his watch post upon a stump and skitters off rustling the dry brush. Not much further and we’ll be there. Breathless and beat we cross over the levee to the full flowing creek. I don’t know why they call it creek, this time of year it runs more like a small river. It sparkles and splashes as it move along its journey, inviting all to enter its cool, refreshing waters. Its banks are lined in ribbons of green amidst the dry harsh levee baked in summer’s oven. We dive in washing away all the mud, caked and dried on like cocoons. We bob to the surface like emerging butterflies fresh and new. His eyes met mine and for a brief moment I was unsure of my tomboyish self. He placed his hands gently about my head and pulled me close. His full wet lips pressed mine and it sent a rush of feelings I’d never known before spreading through every inch of my body. It was magical. My first kiss. I stood in the water, my toes dug deep into the muddy bottom for what seemed like an eternity of sweetness. A horn blared in the distance and plumes of dust flew out from behind my grandfather’s old pickup as he rounded the holding pond. He’d come to collect us. We quickly distanced ourselves and climbed the bank to

greet him. “Nice afternoon for a swim”, he said with a sheepish grin on his face. The boy climbed into the bed of the truck and I in the cab with my grandfather. I was feeling a little sheepish myself. “First kiss?” my grandfather asked as we bounced down the dirt road. All I could manage in my embarrassment was a slight nod as I stared out the passenger window. Grandfather chuckled softly. We dropped him off with his family and headed to the house. The next morning I found my shoes resting on the front porch with a bouquet of purple thistles and golden yellow sunflowers. I ran to the side of the barn looking for my friend. He was nowhere to be seen. The east alfalfa field was void. No bouncing white lambs frolicking, nothing but a quiet, lifeless expanse of green. My grandfather said they had come in the wee hours of the morning to thank him and say goodbye before moving on. I’d missed them, him, dreaming right through it all. I would never spend another summer with the boy I had grown to love. My grandparents sold the farm and moved to the city to retire gracefully. My heart was shattered. I have grown since then and come to understand the harsh realities of life. But I keep in my heart the memory of that first kiss from my first love in my beloved creek on a sun soaked summer afternoon.

Mary - Ways

Oliver Day - Togetherness



(for Tom & Sian)
Write me a poem about being together…
One wonders where to rhyme it with weather Or whether to say ‘Weathering the storms’ altogether Yet like relationships The best lines of a poem Are not made to be a perfect fit In poetry & life we must aim For a richer deeper vein And always try to ascertain The hidden rhythm and rhyme That connects our lives Ladies & gentleman We are gathered here to day to see A brave and almost foolhardy thing Two people’s lives have intersected such That they are willing to try To complete the imperfect circle From time to time They may see eye to eye On this or that Yet to uncover the meaning of today They here agree To agree to disagree In the long intervals in between I have heard said, and read, That love is like two trees Intermingling to become one That type of poem may do For the feeble and the young It appears to me that love Is much stronger than that For what tree ever argued with itself? A better image to imagine would be Two trees in an orchard contentedly Separate in space and in time And knowing they can never be As one Leaves fall and summers breeze The rain & wind Shakes the boughs & the trees stay rooted & strong Gazing at each other through the years Until at last one winter too many falls One might say How sad to be a tree Condemned to be alone. But we should say happy trees! You shared so much together And knew each other better Than you knew yourselves It is the space between us That defines us & our love for each other The space we allow each other To breathe & grow So if you must spend your lives Trying to be together Remember The test is not how close you are But how you live with The distance between you May you spend your Lives exploring and guarding The space around you `Who knows what may grow in the ground between?’

Pete Howitt


To touch mortality, to explore it with splayed fingers and to find it lacking.
How can this be? In the darkest corner of night, there in the place where shines no hope and no light, I find that I must tread and face eerie dread. I thought a goddess I would be, ‘til the knocking at the door of my mortality shook my dreams from me. I am but a witch born, a healer, a dreamer of delusions grand, a footprint fated to fade in the sand. How can this be? Power pulses in my fingertips, words of grace fall from my supple lips and yet I have not the wielded strength to thwart the march of time. I struggle to forsake the ridiculous and to embrace the sublime. How can this be? Crashing thunder and burning skies, still the great mother dances in place, a blue jewel in a dark sea, for what must seem to her, an eternity. Not so lucky, you, me, not so blessed are we. We are the dust upon her hem, the spangled stars upon her crown, the wilting blooms that decorate her hair, some lovely, some wrought from despair. Do you see? So I now dry my tears with frayed lace as I reach to caress your weathered face. I know now that we are not meant to last an eternity. Though starry bright we may be, we are more akin to blossoms upon the vine, than stars that twinkle in the vaults of the Divine.

Aneza Lee Immelman - To Touch Mortality

Amy Jane Rose Z - Look Towards The Sun


unserviceable.prophet - Much Ado About Something

“What’s shakin’, baby!” “Do you have to say that?” “Ok then, how about, what’s shakin’ Shakespeare!?” “Oh, fuck off Mozart”
My name is Will Shakespeare and I’m twenty-three. I have a degree in English literature, and about twenty grand left of loan to pay off. For the past two years, I’ve had this sneaking feeling I’ve just been paying off the interest rate. I work in a coffee shop that pays next to nothing but I don’t have to do much work and I can show up stoned without getting fired, so it’s not that bad. I like to think I’m a writer, and the huge stack of rejection letters on the coffee table only confirm my suspicions. The last thing I put on was in my last year of university, it was a modern adaptation of the old musical “West Side Story”, except instead of Americans verses Puerto-Ricans, I made it chavs against indie hipsters. I think it went down pretty well, I called it Romeo (after David Beckham’s son) and Juliette (after Juliette Lewis and the Licks). It went down ok, I guess. At the moment, I’m trying to write a sitcom, and I should probably finish that teen rom-com I was writing (tentatively titled “A midsummer nights wet-dream”), but my last girlfriend said it was too much like “Get Over It” (I chucked her for comparing it to “Get Over It”, and also owning it on DVD) I have a huge list of things that put me off of my writing. My old flatmate was a French guy called Baudelaire, who used to spend all of his time either rapping over “The Cure” records, or whinging about his hay fever. My current flatmate Mozart spends most his time playing his electric guitar too loud and complaining about electro music (Personally, I prefer my music live, and acoustic). There’s a lot of background noise because the black guy in the flat below us is having a fight with his girlfriend (Whose got lovely green eyes, but is otherwise a bit of a monster) because she slept with his best friend or something like that. Mozart reckons my writing is pretty good, but I’m not sure if he’s just saying that to keep on my good side. I wrote a few poems and he mumbled something about lyrics once, but it wont go anywhere. He’s trying to write a concept album or something at the moment, but he’ll never finish it.
Murray John Summerville - Robert Sterdum Sketches

Chris B (Crispy) - A Crowd Of People Stood And Stared

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Lippenbekenntnisse - Mary
Ein Moment, scheint tagelang, es brennt, gefangen. Will’s erlangen - Erlös! ...nervös, fühl es pochen. Ein Augenblick - ein kleines Stück. Endlich. Sanft. Süss. Ein Moment.

ManDartin - Waiting For A Fight

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